Volume 1 Chapter 6 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
For the first half-mile after crossing the Colne, the thoughts of the young courtier had been given exclusively to his cousin. He recalled the old time—that scene in the silent dell—the kiss among the wild flowers—that proved her partiality for him. He remembered all these occurrences with a strong confidence in Lora’s loyalty.
His fanciful reflections were suddenly, and somewhat rudely, interrupted.
On arriving at an inn that stood by the roadside, a spectacle was presented to his eyes which turned his thoughts into a different channel.
In a wide open space in front of the hostelry was a troop of horsemen. By their armour and equipments, Walter knew them to be cuirassiers, in the service of the king.
There were about fifty in the troop; and from the movements of the men, and the condition of their horses—still smoking from the march—it was evident they had come to a halt only a few minutes before.
The troopers had dismounted. Some of them were still occupied with their horses, helping them to provender; while others, who had already performed this duty, were seated under a huge old elm tree—joyously, as well as noisily, regaling themselves with such cheer as the hostelry afforded.
A glance at these roisterers told the young cavalier who and what they were:—a troop of the returned army from the north, that had been lately, and somewhat clandestinely, brought southward by the king.
This corps had originally been recruited in the Low Countries, and among them were several foreigners. Indeed, the smaller number were Englishmen; while there were many countenances of the true Gallic type, and a still larger proportion of those famed hirelings—who figured so largely in the wars of the time—the Walloons.
Amid the clamour of voices, with which the ears of the young courtier were assailed, he could hear French and Flemish commingled with his native tongue; while the oaths peculiar to all three nations, thickly interlarding the conversation, told him that he was in the presence of a remnant of that army that “swore so terribly in Flanders.”
A crowd of the neighbouring rustics had collected around the inn; and stood with mouths agape, and countenances expressing unlimited astonishment at the sayings and doings of the strange steel-clad cavaliers who had dismounted in their midst.
To Walter Wade there was nothing either new or surprising in the spectacle. He had seen the like in London; and often of late. He had been expecting such a sight—partly from having heard, in passing through Uxbridge, that a troop of horse was before him; and partly from having observed their tracks along the dusty road upon which he had been travelling.
He did not know why they were going down into Buckinghamshire; but that was the king’s business, not his. In all likelihood they were on their way to Oxford, or some garrison town in the west; and were making their night halt at the inn.
Giving but a moment’s thought to some such conjecture, the young courtier was about riding past—without taking notice of the coarse jests flung towards him by the rough troopers under the tree—when a voice of very different intonation, issuing from the door of the hostelry, commanded him to halt.
Almost simultaneous with the command, two cavaliers stepped forth out of the inn; and one of them, having advanced a few paces towards him, repeated the command.
Partly taken by surprise at this rude summons—and partly believing it to proceed from some old Court acquaintance—Walter drew bridle, and stopped.
It was easy to tell that the two men, who had so brusquely brought themselves under his notice, were the officers in command of the troop. Their silken doublets—only partially concealed by the steel armour—their elegant Spanish leather boots, with lace ruffles at the tops; the gold spun upon their heels; the white ostrich plumes waving above their helmets; and the richly-chased scabbards of their swords—all indicated rank and authority. This was further made manifest, by the tone of command in which they had spoken, and their bearing in presence of the troopers.
The latter, on seeing them come forth from the house, desisted from their jargon; and, though they continued to pass their beer cans, it was in a constrained and respectful silence.
The two officers wore their helmets; but the visors of both were open; and Walter could see their faces distinctly.
He now perceived that neither of them was known to him; though one of them he thought he had seen before, a few days before—only for a moment, and in conference with the queen!
This was the older of the two, and evidently the senior in rank—the captain of the troop. He was a man of thirty, or thereabouts; with a face of dark complexion, and not unhandsome; but with that rakish expression that drink, and the indulgence of evil passions, will imprint upon the noblest features. His had once been of the noblest—and still were they such that a gentleman need not have been ashamed of—had it not been for a cast half-cynical, half-sinister, that could be detected in his eyes, sadly detracting from a face otherwise well favoured. Altogether it was a countenance of that changing kind, that, smiling, might captivate the heart, but scowling could inspire it with fear.
The younger man—who from the insignia on his shoulder was a cornet—presented a very different type of physiognomy. Though still only a youth, his countenance was repulsive in the extreme. There was no need to scan it closely, to arrive at this conclusion. In that reddish round face, shaded by a scant thatch of straight hay-coloured hair, you beheld at a glance a kindred compound of the stupid, the vulgar, and the brutal.
Walter Wade had never looked on that countenance before. It inspired him with no wish to cultivate the acquaintance of its owner. If left to his own inclinations, the young courtier would not have desired ever to look upon it again.
“Your wish?” demanded he, rising proudly up in his stirrups, and confronting the officer who had addressed him. “You have summoned me to stop—your wish?”
“No offence, I hope, young gallant?” replied the cuirassier captain. “None meant, I assure you. By the sweat upon your horse—not a bad-looking brute, by the way. A good nag. Isn’t he, Stubbs?”
“If sound,” laconically rejoined the cornet.
“Oh! sound enough, no doubt, you incorrigible jockey! Well, youngster; as I was saying, the sweat upon your horse proves that you have ridden fast and far. Both you and he stand in need of refreshment. We called to you, merely to offer the hospitality of the inn.”
“Thanks for your kindness,” replied Walter, in a tone that sufficiently expressed his true appreciation of the offer; “but I must decline availing myself of it. I am not in need of any refreshment; and as for my horse, a short five miles will bring him to a stable, where he will be well cared for.”
“Oh! you are near the end of your journey, then?”
“By riding five miles further I shall reach it.”
“A visit to some country acquaintance, where you can enjoy the balmy atmosphere of the beech forests—have new-laid eggs every morning for breakfast, and new-pulled turnips along with your bacon for dinner, eh?”
The choler of the high-bred youth had been gradually mounting upward, and might soon have found vent in angry words. But Walter Wade was one of those happy spirits who enjoy a joke—even at their own expense—and, perceiving that his new acquaintances meant no further mischief, than the indulgence in a little idle badinage, he repressed his incipient spleen; and replied in the same jocular and satirical strain.
After a sharp passage of words—in which the young courtier was far from being worsted—he was on the point of riding onward; when the captain of the cuirassiers again proffered the hospitality of the inn—by inviting him to partake of a cup of burnt sack, which the landlord had just brought forth from the house.
The offer was made with an air of studied politeness; and Walter, not caring to appear churlish, accepted it.
He was about raising the goblet to his lips, when his entertainers called for a toast.
“What would you?” asked the young courtier.
“Anything, my gallant! Whatever is uppermost in your mind. Your mistress, I presume?”
“Of course,” chimed in the cornet. “His mistress, of course.”
“My mistress, then!” said Walter, tasting the wine, and returning the cup to the hand from which he had received it.
“Some pretty shepherdess of the Chilterns—some sweet wood nymph, no doubt? Well, here’s to her! And now,” continued the officer, without lowering the goblet from his lips, “since I’ve drunk to your mistress, you’ll not refuse the same compliment to my master—the King. You won’t object to that toast, will you?”
“By no means,” replied Walter, “I drink it willingly; though the king and I have not parted the best of friends.”
“Ha! ha! ha! friends with the king! His Majesty has the honour of your acquaintance, eh?”
“I have been nearly three years in his service.”
“A courtier?”
“I have been page to the queen.”
“Indeed! Perhaps you have no objection to favour us with your name?”
“Not the slightest. My name is Wade—Walter Wade.”
“Son of Sir Marmaduke, of Bulstrode Park?”
“I am.”
“Ho! ho!” muttered the questioner, in a significant tone, and with a thoughtful glance at the young courtier.
“I thought so,” stammered the cornet, exchanging a look of intelligence with his superior officer.
“Son to Sir Marmaduke, indeed!” continued the latter, “In that case, Master Wade, we are likely to meet again; and perhaps you will some day favour me with an introduction to your sweet shepherdess. Ha! ha! ha! Now for the toast of every true Englishman—‘The King!’”
Walter responded; though with no great willingness: for the tone of the challenger, as well as his words, had produced upon him an unpleasant impression. But the toast was one, that, at the time, it was not safe to decline drinking; and partly on this account, and partly because the young courtier had no particular reason for declining, he raised the goblet once more to his lips, as he did so, repeating the Words—“to the king.”
The cornet, drinking from a cup of his own, echoed the sentiment; and the troopers under the tree, clinking their beer measures together, vociferated in loud acclaim:—“the king—the king!”