Volume 1 Chapter 12 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
The robber had not long to wait for his victim. The necessary preparations for receiving the latter occupied some time—enough for the slow-paced traveller to get forward upon the ground; which he succeeded in doing, just as Gregory Garth had secured himself an ambush, within the shadow of the hovel. There stood he, in the attitude of a hound in leash, straining upon the spring.
When the horseman, emerging from under the arcade of the trees, rode out into the open ground, and the moonlight fell upon him and his horse, the footpad was slightly taken by surprise. Instead of a farmer, fuddled with cheap tipple obtained at the “Saracen’s Head,” Garth saw before him an elegant cavalier, mounted upon a smoking but handsome steed, and dressed in a full suit of shining satin!
Though surprised, Gregory was neither dismayed, nor disconcerted. On the contrary, he was all the better satisfied at seeing—in the place of a drunken clod-hopper, perchance with an empty wallet—a gentleman whose appearance gave every promise of a plethoric purse; and one also, whose aspect declared to the practised eye of the footpad, that compelling him to part with it, would be an achievement neither difficult nor dangerous.
Without losing an instant, after making this observation, the robber rushed out from under the shadow of the hut; and, just as he had hailed the two horsemen half-an-hour before, did he salute the satin-clad cavalier.
Very different however was the response which he now received in return to the stereotyped demand, “Stand and deliver!” Such travellers as the black horseman were rare upon the road; and he of the smoking steed, and satin vestments, instead of drawing a pistol from his holsters, or a sword from its sheath, threw up both hands in token of surrender; and, in a trembling voice, piteously appealed for mercy.
“Hang it, Master!” cried Garth, still keeping his pike pointed at the breast of the frightened traveller. “Doant be so skeeart! They woant hurt ye, man. Nee’r a one o’ ’em’s goin’ to lay a finger on ye—that be, if ye doant make a fool o’ yerself by showin’ resistance. Keep yeer ground, boys! The gentleman han’t no intention to gie trouble.”
“No—I assure you, no!” eagerly ejaculated the traveller. “I mean no harm to anybody. Believe me, friends! I don’t, indeed. You’re welcome to what money I’ve got. It isn’t much: I’m only a poor messenger of the king.”
“A messenger of the king!” echoed the captain of the robbers, showing a new interest in the announcement.
“And, if I may ask the question,” proceeded he, drawing nearer to the traveller, and rudely clutching hold of his bridle-rein, “Whither be ye bound, good Master?”
“O sir,” replied the trembling courtier, “I am glad I’ve met with some one who, perhaps, can tell me the way. I am the bearer of a message from his gracious Majesty to Captain Scarthe, of the King’s Cuirassiers; who is, or should be, by this time, quartered with Sir Marmaduke Wade, of Bulstrode Park—somewhere in this part of the county of Buckingham.”
“Ho, ho!” muttered Gregory Garth, speaking to himself, “message from his Majesty to Captain Scarthe!—Sir Marmaduke Wade! Bulstrode Park! What the ole Nick be all this about?”
“You know Sir Marmaduke Wade, do you not, good friend?”
“Well, Master Silk-and-Satin,” scornfully drawled the footpad, “without havin’ the pleasure o’ knowin’ you, or the honour o’ bein’ your good friend eyther, I think as how I mout say, that I does know somethin’ o’ that very gentleman, Sir Marmaduke Wade; though it be news to me that theer be such a individable as Captain Scarthe, either in the county o’ Bucks, or in the kingdom o’ England—to say nothin’ o’ a troop o’ King’s Kewrasseers being quartered at Bulstrode Park. All o’ that there be Greek to Greg’ry Garth.”
“Good friend! I assure you it’s nothing but the truth. Captain Scarthe and his troop have certainly arrived at Bulstrode Park by this time; and if you will only conduct me thither—”
“Bah! that arn’t my bizness. Conduct yerself. Bulstrode Park aint a step from here. As to Captain Scarthe, or the King’s Kewrasseers, I shud n’t know eyther one nor t’other from a side o’ sole leather. If ye’ve got e’er a message, ye can hand it over to me, an’ along wi’ it whatever loose cash ye be carryin’ on your fine-clad carcass. Fork out!”
“Oh! sir; to my money you’re welcome—my watch also and the chain. But as you love our good king, let me ride on upon the errand, on which he has despatched me!”
“Maybe I don’t love ‘our good King,’ so much as ye think for, ye spangled flunkey! Come! out wi’ all ye’ve got, or these fellows’ll strip ye to the skin. Ne’er mind, boys! Keep yer ground; he an’t a-goin’ to be troublesome.”
“No, no, good friends. I promise you I shall not. I yield up everything. Here’s my purse. For your sakes I’m sorry there’s not more in it. Here’s my watch. I had it a present from our most gracious Queen. You see, sir, it’s very valuable?”
The footpad eagerly clutched at the timepiece; and, holding it between his great horny fingers, examined it under the light of the moon.
“It must be valleyable,” said he, turning it over and over. “It appears to be kivered all over wi’ preecious stones. A present from the Queen, ye say?”
“I had it from her majesty’s own hands.”
“Dang her for a French—. This be the way she spends our English money. She be a bigger robber than Greg’ry Garth—that she be—and ye can tell her I sayed so, the next time you ha’ the chance o’ palaverin’ to her. Go on! Emp’y your pockets o’ everything.”
“I’ve only this penknife; these tablets, and pencil—that’s all, I assure you.”
“What’s that glitterin’ thing,” asked the footpad, pointing to something the courtier appeared anxious to conceal, “as hangs about yer neck? Let’s have a squint at it?”
“That, sir,—that is a—a—a locket.”
“A locket; what be that?”
“Well, it’s—it’s—”
“It be wonderful like a bit o’ a watch. What be inside o’ it?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothin’. Then, what do you carry it for?”
“Oh, there is something inside; nothing of value, however; it’s only a lock of hair.”
“Only hair. A love-lock, I s’pose? Well, that arn’t o’ much valley sure enough—leastwise to me it arn’t—and yer may keep the hair. But I’ll trouble you for the case. It look like it mout pawn for somethin’. Quick, off wi’ it!”
The terrified courtier instantly complied with the demand—in his fright not even taking advantage of the permission granted him to preserve the precious love token; but delivering both lock and locket into the outstretched fingers of the footpad.
“O sir,” said he, in a supplicating tone, “that is everything—everything!”
“No it arn’t,” gruffly returned the robber, “you’ve got a niceish doublet thear—satin spick-span—trunks to match; boots an’ spurs o’ the first quality; a tidyish hat and feathers; an’ a sharpish toad-sticker by yer side. I doant partickler want any o’ these things for myself; but I’ve got a relation that I’d like to make ’em a present to. So, strip!”
“What, sir! would you send me naked on my errand? You forget that I’m the bearer of a message from the king?”
“No, daang me if I do; and daang the king, too! That ere’s potery for ye. I’ve heerd ye be fond o’ it at Court. I like prose better; and my prose be, dismount an’ strip.”
Notwithstanding the tone of raillery in which the footpad was pleased to express himself, the unfortunate courtier saw that he was all the while in serious earnest, and that there would be danger in resisting his demands.
Spite of his reluctance therefore, he was compelled to slide down from his saddle, and disrobe himself in the middle of the road.
Not until he stood stark naked, did the relentless robber suffer him to desist—leaving to him little else than his shirt and stockings!
“O sir! you will not mount me thus?” said the wretched man, appealing with upheld hands to the footpad. “Surely you will not send me in this guise—the bearer of a royal message? What a figure I should cut on horseback, without my boots—without my hat or doublet—without—”
“Stash yer palaver!” cried Garth, who was busied making the cast-off clothes into a bundle. “Who said ye war goin’ to cut a figger a-horseback? Whar’s yer horse, I sh’d like to know?”
The courtier gave a doubting nod towards the steed.
“Oh!” responded the footpad, coolly continuing his task, “moat a been your horse ten minutes agone. He be myen now. I’ve been a-foot long enough, while you an’ yours ha’ been ridin’. It be my time to mount for a bit. That’s only fair turn an’ turn, ar’nt it?”
The dismounted messenger made no reply. Though surprise and terror had by this time well-nigh deprived him of his senses, he had enough left to admonish him, that all remonstrance would be idle. He said nothing, therefore; but stood with shivering frame and teeth chattering like castanets: for it chanced to be one of those chill autumnal nights, when the cold is felt almost as sensibly as in December.
The footpad took no further notice of him, until he had completed the binding of the bundle. Then straightening himself up, face to face with his victim, he surveyed him from head to foot with a half-quizzical, half serious look.
The latter at length predominated—as if some suspicious thought had come uppermost in his mind.
“Cowardly as ye be, ye king’s minion,” said he, addressing the trembling messenger in a tone of scornful bitterness, “thear mout be cunnin’ an’ mischief in ye. I’ll take care that ye doant go furder this night. Come along into the house here! Ye woant object to that—seein’ as ye’re so starved-like outside. Come along!”
And without waiting for either the assent or refusal of the individual thus solicited, the robber seized him by the wrist; and half led, half dragged, him over the threshold of the hovel.
Once inside the ruin, he proceeded to bind his unresisting victim with cords, which he had taken in along with him. He had plenty of light for his purpose: for a portion of the roof had fallen in, and the moonlight shone brightly upon the thatch-strewn floor.
Expert in the handling of ropes, his task was soon performed; and in a few minutes the King’s messenger stood with his arms bound behind his back, and his ankles lashed as tightly together, as if he had been a dangerous felon!
“Now,” said the robber, after securing the last loop, apparently to his satisfaction, “you woant come loose till somebody lets ye; and that arnt goin’ to be me. I ha’nt no wish to be cruel to ye—tho’ ye are a king’s flunkey—an’ as ye’ll be easier lyin’ down than stannin’ up, I’ll put you in that position.”
As he said this, he let go his hold, and permitted the unfortunate man to fall heavily upon the floor.
“Lie thear, Master Messenger, till somebody lifts ye. I’ll see to the deliverin’ o’ yer message. Good-night!”
And with a mocking laugh Gregory Garth strode back over the threshold—leaving the astounded traveller to reflections that were neither very lucid nor very pleasant.
After passing out of the hut, the footpad hastened to take his departure from the spot.
He led the steed of the messenger out into the middle of the road, and tied the bridle he had made to the cantle of the saddle. He then glided up to the near side of the horse; and caught hold of the withers—as if about to mount.
Something, however, caused him to hesitate; and an interval elapsed, without his making any effort to get into the saddle.
“Daangit, old partners!” cried he, at length—addressing himself to his band of dummies, whom he had been for sometime neglecting—“’twon’t do for us to part this fashion. If Greg’ry Garth are promoted to be a highwayman, he arn’t goin’ to look down on his pals o’ the path. No! Ye shall go long wi’ me, one an’ all. Though the hul o’ ye put thegither arnt worth this shinin’ ticker I’ve got in my fob, for all that I can make better use o’ ye, than leavin’ ye here to scare the crows o’ Jarret’s Heath. Come along, my boys! I’se boun’, this stout charger from the royal mews be able to carry the hul on us, an’ not think it much o’ a looad neyther. I’ll find room for all o’ ye—some on the crupper, and the rest on the withers. Come along then!”
Without waiting for any reply to his proposal, he glided around the edge of the opening: and, rapidly dismantling the dummies one after the other, he returned towards the horse with their ravished vestments.
Hanging the “old clo’” across both croup and withers—and there attaching them by strings—he at length climbed into the saddle lately occupied by the king’s messenger, and rode gleefully away.
Just as he cleared the crossing of the roads, the clock of Chalfont Saint Peter’s tolled the hour of midnight.
“Exact twelve!” exclaimed he, in a tone of congratulation. “Well! ’twur a close shave; but I’ve kep’ my word to Master Henry! If I had broke that, I could niver a looked him in the face again. Ha! Hear them old church bells! How sweet they sound on the air o’ the night! They mind me o’ the time, when I wur innocent child. Ring on! ring on! ye bells o’ Peter’s Chaffont! Ring on, an’ tell the world that Greg’ry Garth is biddin’ good-bye to the road!”