Volume 1 Chapter 20 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
It was a terrible sight for the soft eye of woman to look upon. The timid Lora Lovelace would not stay; but ran off towards the house, followed by many others. Dorothy Dayrell called after them, jeering at their cowardice!
Marion remained. She could not drag herself from the approaching spectacle, though dreading to behold it. She stood under the dark shadow of a tree; but its darkness could not conceal the wild look of apprehension, with which she regarded the two mailed horsemen moving from opposite sides of the camp, and frowningly approaching one another.
Out rang the clear notes of the cavalry bugle, sounding the “charge.” The horses themselves understood the signal, and needed no spurring to prompt their advance.
Both appeared to know the purpose for which they had been brought forth. At the first note, they sprang towards one another—snorting mutual defiance—as if they, like their riders, were closing in mortal combat!
It was altogether a duello with swords. The sword, at that time, was the only weapon of the cuirassier cavalry, excepting their pistols; but by mutual agreement these last were not to be used.
With blades bare, the duellists dashed in full gallop towards each other, Scarthe crying out: “For the King;” while Holtspur, with equal energy raised the antagonistic cry: “For the People!”
At their first meeting, no wound was given or received. As the steeds swept past each other, the ring of steel could be heard—sword-blades glinting against cuirass and corslet—but neither of the combatants appeared to have obtained any advantage.
Both wheeled almost at the same instant; and again advanced to the charge.
This time the horses came into collision. That of the cuirassier was seen to stagger at the shock; but although, during the momentary suspension of the gallop, the sword-blades of the combatants were busy in mutual cut and thrust, they separated as before, apparently without injury on either side.
The collision, however, had roused the ire both of horses and riders; and, as they met for the third time, the spectators could note in the eyes of the latter the earnest anger of deadly strife.
Again rushed the horses together in a charging gallop, and met with a terrific crash—both weapons and defensive armour colliding at the same instant. The steed of the cuirassier recoiled from the impetus of his more powerful adversary. The black horse swept on unscathed; but as he passed to the rear, the hat of Holtspur was lifted upon the breeze; and fell behind him upon the grass.
Trifling as was the incident, it looked ominous. It was the first that had the appearance of a triumph; and elicited a cheer from the partisans of the cuirassier captain.
It had scarce reached its climax, ere it was drowned by the more sonorous counter-cheer that hailed the performance of the black horseman.
Having wheeled his horse with the rapidity of thought, he rode back; and, spitting his beaver upon the point of his sword, he raised it up from the ground, and once more set it firmly upon his head!
All this was accomplished, before his antagonist could turn to attack him; and the sang froid exhibited in the act, along with the graceful equitation, completely restored the confidence of his supporters.
The fourth encounter was final—the last in which the combatants met face to face.
They closed at full gallop; thrust at each other; and then passed on as before.
But Holtspur had now discovered the point in which he was superior to his adversary; and determined to take advantage of it.
The steeds had scarce cleared one another, when that of the cavalier was seen suddenly to stop—reined backward, until his tail lay spread upon the grass. Then turning upon his hind hoofs, as on a pivot, he sprang out in full gallop after the horse of the cuirassier.
The black horseman, waving his sword in the air, gave out a shout of triumph—such as he had erst often uttered in the ears of Indian foemen—while the horse himself, as if conscious of the advantage thus gained, sent forth a shrill neigh, that resembled the scream of a jaguar.
With a glance over his shoulder, Scarthe perceived the approaching danger. By attempting to turn, he would expose himself sideways to the thrust of his adversary’s sword.
There was no chance to turn just then. He must make distance to obtain an opportunity. His only hope lay in the fleetness of his steed; and, trusting to this, he sank the spurs deeply, and galloped on.
This new and unexpected manoeuvre had all the appearance of a retreat; and the camp rang with cries of:—“Coward!” “He is conquered!”
“Huzza for the black horseman!”
For a moment Marion Wade forgot her fears. For a moment proud pleasant thoughts swept through her breast. Her bosom rose and fell under the influence of triumphant emotions. Was he not a hero—a conqueror—worthy of that heart she had wholly given him?
She watched every spring of the two steeds. She longed to see the pursuer overtake the pursued. She was not cruel; but she wished it to be over: for the suspense was terrible to endure.
Marion was not to be tortured much longer. The climax was close at hand.
On starting on that tail-on-end chase, the cuirassier Captain had full confidence in his steed. He was a true Arab, possessing all the strength and swiftness of his race.
But one of the same race was after him, stronger and swifter than he. Like an arrow from its bow the steed of the cuirassier shot across the sward. Like another arrow, but one sent with stronger nerve, swept the sable charger in pursuit. Across the camp—out through the cleared causeway—over the open pasture of the park—galloped the two horsemen, as if riding a race. But their blazing armour, outstretched shining blades, angry looks and earnest attitudes—all told of a different intent.
Scarthe had been for some time endeavouring to gain distance, in order to have an opportunity of turning face to his antagonist. With the latter clinging closely behind him, he knew the manoeuvre to be dangerous, if not impossible—without subjecting himself to the thrust of Holtspur’s sword. He soon began to perceive another danger—that of being overtaken.
The spectators had discontinued their shouts; and once more a profound silence reigned throughout the camp. It was like the silence that precedes some expected catastrophe—some crisis inevitable.
From the beginning his pursuer had kept constantly gaining upon him. The fore hoofs of the sable charger now appeared at every bound to overlap the hind heels of his own horse. Should the chase continue but a minute longer, he must certainly be overtaken; for the blade of the cavalier was gleaming scarce ten feet behind his back. The climax was near.
“Surrender, or yield up your life!” demanded Holtspur in a determined voice.
“Never!” was the equally determined reply. “Richard Scarthe never surrenders—least of all to—”
“Your blood on your own head, then!” cried the black horseman, at the same instant urging his horse to a final burst of speed.
The latter gave a long leap forward, bringing him side by side with the steed of the cuirassier. At the same instant Holtspur’s sword was seen thrust horizontally outwards.
A cry went up from the crowd, who expected next moment to see the cuirassier captain impaled upon that shining blade. The cuirass of the time consisted only of the breast-plate; and the back of the wearer was left unprotected.
Undoubtedly in another instant Scarthe would have received his death wound, but for an accident that saved him. As Holtspur’s horse leaped forward the hind heels of the other struck against his off fore leg causing him slightly to swerve, and thus changing the direction of the sword-thrust. It saved the life of Scarthe, though not his limbs: for the blade of his antagonist entering his right arm, just under the shoulder, passed clear through—striking against the steel rear-brace in front, and sending his own sword shivering into the air.
The cuirassier captain, dismounted by the shock, in another instant lay sprawling upon the grass; while his horse, with trailing bridle, continued his onward gallop, wildly neighing as he went.
“Cry quarter, or die!” shouted the cavalier, flinging himself from his saddle, and with his left hand grasping the cuirassier by the gorget, while in his right he held the threatening blade. “Cry quarter, or die!”
“Hold!” exclaimed Scarthe. “Hold!” he repeated, with the addition of a bitter oath. “This time the chance has been yours. I take quarter.”
“Enough,” said Holtspur, as he restored his sword to its sheath. Then turning his back upon his vanquished antagonist, he walked silently away.
The spectators descended from their elevated position; and, clustering around the conqueror, vociferated their cheers and congratulations. A girl in a crimson cloak ran up, and kneeling in front, presented him with a bunch of flowers. It was the insulted maiden, who thus gracefully acknowledged her gratitude.
There were two pairs of eyes that witnessed this last episode, with an expression that spoke of pain: the blue eyes of Marion Wade, and the green ones of Will Walford—the representative of England’s outlaw. The original Robin could never have been more jealous of the original Maid Marian.
Marion Wade witnessed the presentation of the flowers, and their reception. She saw that the gift was acknowledged by a bow and a smile—both apparently gracious. It never occurred to her to ask herself the question: whether the recipient, under the circumstances, could have acted otherwise?
She stayed not to witness more; but, with brain distraught, and bosom filled with fell fancies, she glided across the glacis of the old encampment, and in hurried steps sought the sacred shelter of her father’s roof.
Though hors de combat, Scarthe was not fatally hurt. He had received only the one thrust—which, passing through his right arm, had disabled him for the time; but was not likely to do him any permanent injury.
He was worse damaged in spirit than in person; and the purple gloom that overshadowed his countenance, told his followers, and others who had gathered around him, that no expression either of sympathy, or congratulation, would be welcome.
In silence, therefore, assistance was extended to him, and in silence was it received.
As soon as the braces had been stripped from his wounded arm, and the semi-surgeon of his troop having stemmed its bleeding, had placed it in a sling, he forsook the spot where he had fallen; and walked direct towards the place occupied by Sir Marmaduke and his friends.
The ladies had already taken their departure—the sanguinary incident having robbed them of all zest for the enjoyment of any further sports.
The knight had remained upon the ground—chiefly for the purpose of discovering the object of Captain Scarthe’s presence in his park.
He was determined no longer to remain in ignorance as to the cause of the intrusion; and was about starting out to question the intruder himself, when the approach of the latter admonished him to keep his place.
From Scarthe’s looks, as he came forward, it was evident that an éclaircissement was at hand.
Sir Marmaduke remained silent—leaving the stranger to commence the colloquy, which was now inevitable.
As soon as Scarthe had got within speaking distance, he demanded, in an authoritative tone, whether Sir Marmaduke Wade was present upon the ground.
The interrogatory was addressed to the rustics standing upon the sward below.
They, perceiving that Sir Marmaduke had himself heard it, kept silence—not knowing whether their host might desire an affirmative answer to be given.
The tone of impertinence prevented Sir Marmaduke from replying; and the interrogatory was repeated.
Sir Marmaduke could no longer preserve silence.
“He is present,” said he, without qualifying his answer by any title, or salutation. “I am Sir Marmaduke Wade.”
“I am glad of it, good sir. I want to speak a word with you. Shall it be private? I perceive you are in company.”
“I can hold no private conversation with strangers,” replied the knight, drawing himself proudly up. “Whatever you have to say, sir, may be spoken aloud.”
“As you wish, Sir Marmaduke,” acquiesced Scarthe, in a tone of mock courtesy. “But if, to my misfortune, you and I have been hitherto strangers to each other, I live in hope that this unpleasant condition of things will soon come to an end; and that henceforth we shall be better acquainted.”
“What mean you, sir? Why are you here?”
“I am here, Sir Marmaduke, to claim the hospitality of your house. By the way, a very handsome park, and apparently a commodious mansion. Room enough for all my people, I should think? It would scarce be courtesy between us, if eating, drinking, and sleeping under the same roof, we should remain strangers to one another?”
“Eating, drinking, and sleeping under the the same roof! You are merry, sir!”
“With the prospect of such pleasant quarters, could you expect me to be otherwise, Sir Marmaduke?”
“After the lesson you have just received,” replied the knight, returning irony for irony, “one might expect to find you in a more serious frame of spirit.”
“Captain Scarthe can show too many scars to trouble himself about such a trifle as that you allude to. But we are wasting time, Sir Marmaduke. I am hungry: so are my troopers; and thirsty. We feel inclined to eat and drink.”
“You are welcome to do both one and the other. You will find an inn three miles farther up the road.”
“Nearer than that,” rejoined Scarthe, with an insulting laugh, “that’s our inn.”
And as he said this, he pointed to the mansion of Sir Marmaduke, standing proud and conspicuous on the crest of the opposite hill.
“Come, sir!” said the knight, losing patience, “speak no longer in enigmas. Declare openly, and at once, what you are driving at!”
“I am only too desirous to oblige you, Sir Marmaduke. Standing in need of refreshments as I do, I can assure you I have no wish to procrastinate this unseemly interview. Cornet Stubbs!” he continued, turning to his subaltern; “if I’m not mistaken, you carry a piece of royal parchment in your pocket. Please draw it forth; and do this worthy gentleman the favour to make him acquainted with its contents.”
The cornet, who had re-encased himself in his suit of steel, inserted his fingers under the breast-piece of his cuirass; and presently produced a folded parchment, upon which a large red seal was conspicuous. Unfolding it, he read aloud:—
“The King to Sir Marmaduke Wade.
“His Majesty hearing by good report, of ye loyalty of Sir Marmaduke Wade, of Bulstrode Park, in ye shire of Buckingham, doth hereby entrust to him ye keep and maintenance of ye Captain Scarthe and his troop of horse till such time as his Majesty may need ye same for ye service of his kingdom; and, furthermore, his Majestie do recommend ye said Captain Scarthe to ye hospitality of Sir Marmaduke as a worthy and gallant officer and gentleman, who has done good service to his country and king.
“Given under ye great seal of his Majestie, at Whitehall Palace, this 15th day of October, Anno Domini, 1640.
“Carolus Rex.”