Volume 2 Chapter 13 - The White Gauntlet by Mayne Reid
On the departure of his fellow conspirators—patriots we should rather call them—Holtspur, as we have already said, had passed the remainder of the night engaged at his writing table.
The time was spent in the performance of a duty, entrusted to him by his friends, Pym and Hampden; with whom, and a few others, he had held secret conference beyond the hours allotted to the more public business of the meeting. It was a duty no less important, than the drawing up of a charge of attainder against Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford.
It was one which Holtspur could perform with all the ardour of a zealous enthusiasm—springing from his natural indignation against this gigantic wrongdoer.
A true hater of kings, he felt triumphant. His republican sentiments, uttered in the assembly just separated—so loudly applauded by those who listened to them—could not fail to find echo in every honest English heart; and the patriot felt that the time was nigh, when such sentiments need be no longer spoken in the conclave of a secret conference, but boldly and openly in the tribune of a nation.
The king had been once more compelled to call his “Commons” together. In a few days the Parliament was to meet—that splendid Parliament afterwards known as the “Long”—and, from the election returns already received, Holtspur knew the character of most of the statesmen who were to compose it. With such men as Pym and Hampden at its head—with Hollis, Hazlerig, Vane, Martin, Cromwell, and a host of other popular patriots, taking part in its councils—it would be strange if something should not be effected, to stem the tide of tyranny, so long flowing over the land—submerging under its infamous waves every landmark of English liberty.
Swayed by thoughts like these, did Henry Holtspur enter upon the task assigned him.
For over an hour had he been occupied in its performance—with scarce a moment’s intermission; and then only, when the soft dream of love, stealing over his spirit, chased from it the sterner thoughts of statecraft and war, which had been the habitual themes of his later life.
He had well-nigh finished his work, when interrupted by the entrance of the Indian.
“Eh, Oriole?” demanded he, in some surprise, as, glancing up from his papers, he remarked the agitated mien of his attendant. “Anything the matter? You look as if something was amiss. I hope that you and Garth have not been quarrelling over your perquisites?”
The Indian made sign of a negative to this imputation—which he knew was only spoken in jest.
“Nothing about him, then? What is it, my brave?”
This question was answered by Oriole raising one of his feet—with the sole turned upwards, at the same time glancing to the ground with an angry ejaculation.
“Ha!” said Holtspur, who read those signs as easily as if they had been a written language—“An enemy upon the trail?”
Oriole held up three of his fingers—pointing perpendicularly towards the ceiling of the room.
“Three instead of one! and three men! Well, perhaps they will be easier to deal with than if it was a trio of women.”
The cavalier, as he made this half-jesting remark, seemed to give way for a moment to some reflection, altogether unconnected with the intelligence conveyed by his attendant.
“What is it, Oriole? What have you seen?” asked he, returning to the subject of the Indian’s communication.
Oriole’s answer to this was a sign for his master to follow him. At the same time, turning on his heel, he led the way out of the apartment, out of the front door, and round by the left wing of the house. Thither he was followed by Holtspur and Gregory Garth, when all three commenced re-examining the tracks.
These were again traced in a backward direction to the side doorway.
It could not be doubted that two of the men who made them had issued thence. The third—he who wore the hobnailed shoes—had met these on their coming out; and afterwards walked along with them to the front—where the footmarks were lost among the hoof-prints of the horses.
There were no tracks leading towards the side entrance; but, as there was no other way by which the room could have been entered—except by the glass door, and that had certainly not been unclosed—it was evident that the two men who had come out by the side passage must have gone in by it.
The absence of any footmarks leading inward had a signification of another kind. It proved that they, who had so intruded, must have passed inside before the coming on of the rain-storm, and gone out, after it had ceased. In other words, two men must have tenanted that chamber during most, if not all, of the time that the conference continued.
Other signs pointed out by the Indian—the disturbance of the dust upon the floor, and the removal of the cerements from the glass—left no doubt as to the object of their presence in the unused apartment. Spies, to a certainty!
Holtspur’s countenance became clouded, as this conviction forced itself upon him.
The hobnails told who was the traitor that had guided them thither. There were plenty of like tracks on the other side of the house, leading to the stable yard. Oriole easily identified the footmarks as made by Will Walford.
“It but crowns my suspicions of the knave,” said Holtspur, as with gloom upon his brow he walked back into the house.
“Dang seize the white-livered loon!” cried the ex-footpad. “He shall answer for this night’s dirty doin’s. That shall be sureish sartin, or my name arn’t Gregory Garth.”
On re-entering the library, Holtspur did not resume his seat; but commenced pacing the floor with quick, excited steps.
What had arisen was matter to make him serious. Spies had been present—he could not doubt it—and the fact was full of significance. It concerned not only his own safety, but that of many others—gentlemen of rank and position in the county, with several Members of Parliament from other counties: among them Pym, Hollis, Hazlerig, Henry Martin, and the younger Sir Harry Vane.
Sir Marmaduke Wade, too, must have been seen by the spies!
In regard to the latter, Holtspur felt a special apprehension. It was by invitation—his own—that Sir Marmaduke had been present at the meeting; and Holtspur knew that the knight would now be compromised beyond redemption—even to the danger of losing his life.
Whoever had occupied that antechamber must have overheard not only all that had been spoken, but have seen each speaker in turn—in short, every individual present, and under a light clear enough to have rendered sure their identification.
It needed very little reflection to point out who had been the chief spy. The despatch, taken by Garth from the king’s messenger, rendered it easy to tell that Richard Scarthe had been in that chamber—either in person, or by deputy.
All this knowledge flashed upon the mind of the patriot conspirator, with a distinctness painfully vivid.
Unfortunately, the course, proper for him to pursue, was far from being so clear; and for some minutes he remained in a state of indecision as to how he should act.
With such evidence as Scarthe possessed against him, he felt keenly conscious of danger—a danger threatening not only his liberty, but his life.
If taken before the Star Chamber—after what he had that night said and done—he could not expect any other verdict than a conviction; and his would not be the first head, during that weak tyrant’s reign, that had tumbled untimely from the block.
It was of no use upbraiding himself, with the negligence that had led to the unfortunate situation. Nor was there any time to indulge in self-reproach: for the longer he reflected, the more proximate would be the danger he had to dread.
Henry Holtspur was a man of ready determination. A life partly spent amidst dangers of flood and field—under the shadows of primeval American forests—on the war-path of the hostile Mohawk—had habituated him to the forming of quick resolves, and as quickly carrying them into execution.
But no man is gifted with omniscience; and there are occasions when the wisest in thought, and quickest in action, may be overtaken.
It was so in Holtspur’s case at this particular crisis. He felt that he had been outwitted. In the fair field of fight he had defeated an adversary, who, in the dark diplomacy of intrigue, was likely to triumph over him.
There was not much time to be lost. Was there any? They, who had made that stealthy visit to Stone Dean, would be sure to repeat it; and soon—not secretly as before, but openly, and in force.
Why had they not returned already? This was the only question that appeared difficult to answer.
Why the arrest had not been made at once—a wholesale capture of the conspirators—could be more easily answered. The spies might not have been prepared for a coup so sudden, or extensive.
But since there had been time—
“By Heaven!” exclaimed the cavalier, suddenly interrupting the train of his conjectures; “there’s no time to be lost! I must from here, and at once. Garth!”
“Master Henry?”
“Saddle my horse, on the instant! Oriole!”
The Indian stood before him.
“Are my pistols loaded?”
Oriole made sign in the affirmative—pointing to the pistols that lay on the oaken mantelshelf.
“Enough! I may need them ere long. Place them in the holsters.”
“And now, Oriole,” continued his master, after a reflective pause, and regarding his attendant with some sadness; “I am going upon a journey. I may be absent for some time. You cannot accompany me. You must stay here—till I either return, or send for you.”
The Indian listened, his countenance clouding over with an expression of disquietude.
“Don’t be downhearted, my brave!” pursued Holtspur. “We shall not be separated for long—no longer than I can help.”
Oriole asked by a gesture why he was to be left behind; adding in a pantomime equally intelligible to Holtspur, that he was ready to follow him to the death—to die for him.
“I know all that, faithful boy,” responded his patron and protector; “right well do I know it: since you’ve given proof of it once before. But your prowess, that might avail me in the pathless coverts of your native forest, and against enemies of your own colour, would be of little service here. The foe I have now to fear is not a naked savage with club and tomahawk; but a king with sword and sceptre. Ah! my brave Oriole, your single arm would be idle to shield me, where a whole host are to be my adversaries. Come, faithful friend! I lose time—too much have I lost already. Quick with my valise. Pack and strap it to the croup. Put these papers into it. The rest may remain as they are. Quick, good Oriole! Hubert should be saddled by this time. Garth, what is it?”
Garth stood in the doorway—breathless, ghastly pale.
“Ho! what’s that? I need not ask. Too well do I understand those sounds!”
“Lor’, O lor’! Master Henry! The house be surrounded wi’ horsemen. They be the kewreseers from Bulstrode.”
“Ha! Scarthe has been quick and cunning! I’m too late, I fear!”
Saying this, the cavalier snatched up his pistols—at the same time grasping his sword—as if with the intention of making an attempt to defend himself.
The ex-footpad also armed himself with his terrible pike—which chanced to be standing in the hall; while Oriole’s weapon was a tomahawk, habitually worn about his person.
Drawing his blade from its scabbard, Holtspur rushed towards the front entrance—close followed by Garth and the Indian.
On reaching the door, which was still standing open, the conspirator saw at a glance, that resistance would be worse than idle: since it could only end in the sacrifice of his own life, and perhaps the lives of his faithful followers.
In front of the house was ranged a row of steel-clad cuirassiers—each with his arquebus ready to deliver its fire; while the trampling of hoofs, the clanking of armour, and the voices of men resounding from the rear of the dwelling, told that the circumvallation was complete.
“Who are you? What is your business?” demanded Holtspur of one, who from his attitude and gestures appeared to act as the leader—but whose face was hidden behind the closed visor of his helmet.
The demand was mechanical—a mere matter of form. He who made it knew—without the necessity of asking—to whom he was addressing himself, as well as the business that had brought him there.
He had not encountered that cavalier in the field of fight—and conquered him too—without leaving a souvenir by which he could be recognised.
But it needed not the wounded arm—still carried in its sling—to enable Henry Holtspur to recognise Richard Scarthe, his adversary in the equestrian duel. Without such evidence both horse and rider might have been identified.
“I came not here to answer idle questions,” replied Scarthe, with a laugh that rang ironically through the bars of his umbril. “Your first, I presume, needs no answer; and though I shall be over-courteous in replying to your second, you are welcome to the response you have challenged. My business, then, is to arrest a traitor!”
“A traitor! Who?”
“Henry Holtspur—a traitor to his king.”
“Coward!” cried Holtspur, returning scorn for scorn; “this is the thanks I receive for sparing your paltry life. From your extensive entourage of steel-clad hirelings, it is evident you fear a second chastisement at my hands. Why did you not bring a whole regiment with you? Ha! ha! ha!”
“You are pleased to be facetious,” said Scarthe, whose triumphant position facilitated the restraining of his temper. “In the end, Master Holtspur, you may find it not such matter for mirth. Let them be merry who win. Laughter comes with but ill grace from the lips of those who are about to lose; nay, have already lost.”
“Already lost!” interrupted Holtspur, driven to the interrogatory, by the tone of significant insinuation in which the other had spoken.
“Not your liberty: though that also you have already lost. Not your head: that you may lose by-and-bye; but something which, if you be a true cavalier, should be dear to you as either.”
“What?” mechanically inquired Holtspur, moved to the interrogatory, less by the ambiguous speech than by the sight of an object which, at that moment, flashed before his angry eye. “What?”
“Your mistress!” was the taunting reply. “Don’t fancy, my pretty picker-up of stray gloves, that you are the only one who receives such sweet favours. The fair lady of the golden hair, and white gauntlets, may have taken a fancy to dispose of a pair; and where two are thus delicately dispensed, the last given is the one most prized by me!”
As Scarthe said this, he raised his hand triumphantly towards the peak of his helmet; where a glove of white doeskin was seen conspicuously set—its tapering fingers turned forward, as if pointing in derision at him who possessed its fellow!
Scarthe’s gesture was superfluous. The eye of his adversary had been already fixed upon the indicated object; and the frown, that suddenly overspread his face, betrayed a strange commingling of emotions—surprise, incredulity, anger, with something more than its share of incipient jealousy.
Rushed into Holtspur’s mind at that moment, the recollection of the tête-à-tête, he had witnessed after parting with Marion Wade—her promenade up the long avenue, side by side with Scarthe—that short but bitter moment, when she had appeared complaisante.
If he wronged her in thought, he did not do so in speech. His jealousy kept silence; his anger alone found utterance.
“False trickster!” he cried, “’tis an impudent deception. She never gave you that glove. Thou hast found it—stolen it, more likely; and, by Heaven! I shall take it from thee, and restore it to its slandered owner—even here, in spite of your myrmidons! Yield it up, Richard Scarthe! or on the point of my sword—”
The threat was left unfinished, or rather unheard: for, simultaneous with its utterance, came the action—Holtspur raising his naked blade, and rushing upon his adversary.
“Seize him!” cried the latter, reining his horse backward to escape the thrust. “Seize the rebel! Slay him, if he resist!”
At the command, half-a-dozen of the cuirassiers spurred their steeds forward to the spot. Some stretched forth their hands to lay hold upon Holtspur, while others aimed at striking him down with the butts of their carbines.
Garth and the Indian had sallied forth to defend their master; who, had it not been for this, would perhaps have made a more prolonged resistance. But the sight of his two faithful followers—thus unnecessarily risking their lives—caused him suddenly to change his mad design; and, without offering further resistance, he surrendered himself into the hands of the soldiers who had surrounded him.
“Fast bind the rebel!” cried Scarthe, endeavouring to conceal his chagrin, at having shown fear, by pouring forth a volley of loyal speeches.
“Relieve him of his worthless weapon! Tie him hand and foot—neck and crop! He is mad, and therefore dangerous. Ha! ha! ha! Tight, you knaves! Tight as a hangman’s neck-tie!”
The order was obeyed quickly—if not to the letter; and in a few seconds Henry Holtspur stood bound, in the midst of his jeering enemies.
“Bring forth his horse!” cried Scarthe, in mocking tones. “The black horseman! ha! ha! ha! Let him have one last ride on his favourite charger. After that, he shall ride at the King’s expense. Ha! ha! ha!”
The black steed, already saddled by Garth, was soon brought round, and led towards the captive. There was something significant in the neigh, to which Hubert gave utterance as he approached the spot—something mournful: as if he suspected, or knew, that his master was in a position of peril.
As he was conducted nearer, and at length placed side by side with the prisoner, he bent his neck round till his muzzle touched Holtspur’s cheek; while his low, tremulous whimpering proved, as plainly as words could have expressed it, that he comprehended all.
The cuirassier captain had watched the odd and affecting incident. Instead of exciting his sympathy, it only intensified his chagrin. The presence of that steed reminded him, more forcibly than ever, of his own humiliating defeat—of which the animal had been more than a little the cause. Scarthe hated the horse almost as much as his master!
“Now, brave sir!” shouted he, endeavouring, in a derisive strain, to drown the unpleasant memories which the sight of Hubert had summoned up. “Such a distinguished individual must not ride bareheaded along the king’s highway. Ho there! Bring out his beaver, and set it upon his crown jauntily—jauntily!”
Three or four of the cuirassiers, who had dismounted, were proceeding to obey this last order—and had already mounted the steps leading up to the entrance—when an ejaculation from their commander caused them to turn back.
“Never mind, my lads!” he cried, as if having changed his intention. “Back to your horses! Never mind the hat: I shall go for it myself.”
The final words of this injunction were rather muttered, than spoken aloud. It was not intended they should be heard. They appeared to be the involuntary expression of some secret purpose, which had suddenly suggested itself to the mind of the speaker.
After giving utterance to them, the cuirassier captain leaped silently out of his saddle; and, mounting the stone steps, entered the door of the dwelling.
He traversed the entrance-hall with searching glances, and continued on along the corridor—until he stood opposite the door of an apartment. It was the library late occupied by the conspirators. He knew its situation; and surmised that he would there find what he was seeking for.
He was not mistaken. On entering he saw the desired object—the hat of Holtspur, hanging upon the antlers of a stag that were fixed in a conspicuous position against the wall.
He clutched at the hat, and jerked it down—with as much eagerness, as if he feared that something might intervene to prevent him.
It needed no close scrutiny to discover the white gauntlet, still in its place beside the panache of ostrich feathers. On the next instant, the hat, though permitted to retain its plume, was despoiled of the doeskin.
With a bitter smile passing over his pale features, did Scarthe scan the two gloves once more brought together. Finger by finger, and stitch by stitch did he compare them—holding them side by side, and up to the window’s light. His smile degenerated into a frown, as, on the completion of the analysis, he became convinced—beyond the possibility of a doubt—that the glove taken from the hat of Henry Holtspur, and that now figuring on his own helmet, were fellows, and formed a pair. Right and left were they—the latter being the true love-token!
He had entertained a hope, though but a very slight one, that he might still be mistaken. He could indulge it no longer. The gauntlet, worn in the hat of the black horseman, must have once graced the fair fingers of Marion Wade.
“Has she given it to him? Need I ask the question? She must have done so, beyond a doubt. May the fiend fire my soul, if I do not find an opportunity to make her rue the gift!”
Such was the unamiable menace with which Scarthe completed the comparison of the gloves.
That, just taken from the hat of Holtspur, was now transferred to the breast of his doublet. Quick and secret was the transfer: as if he deemed it desirable that the act should not be observed.
“Go!” he commanded, addressing himself to one of the troopers who attended him, “go into the garden—if there be such a thing about this wretched place. If not, take to the fields; and procure me some flowers. Red ones—no matter what sort, so that they be of a bright red colour. Bring them hither, and be quick about it!”
The soldier—accustomed to obey orders without questioning—hurried out to execute the singular command.
“You,” continued Scarthe, speaking to the other trooper, who had entered with him, “you set about collecting those papers. Secure that valise. It appears to need no further packing. See that it be taken to Bulstrode. Search every room in the house; and bring out any arms or papers you may light upon. You know your work. Do it briskly!”
With like alacrity the second attendant hastened to perform the part allotted to him; and Scarthe was for the moment left to himself.
“I should be more hungry,” muttered he, “after these documents, I see scattered about, were I in need of them. No doubt there’s many a traitor’s name inscribed on their pages: and enough besides to compromise half the squires in the county. More than one, I warrant me, through this silent testimony, would become entitled to a cheap lodging in that grand tenement eastward of Cheap. It’s a sort of thing I don’t much relish; though now I’m into it, I may as well make a wholesale sweep of these conspiring churls. As for Holtspur and Sir Marmy, I need no written evidence of their guilt. My own oral testimony, conjoined with that of my worthy sub, will be sufficient to deprive one—or both, if need be—of their heads. So—to the devil with the documents!”
As he said this, he turned scornfully away from the table on which the papers were strewed.
“Stay!” he exclaimed—the instant after facing round again, with a look that betokened some sudden change in his views; “Not so fast, Richard Scarthe! Not so fast! Who knows that among this forest of treasonous scribbling, I may not find some flower of epistolary correspondence—a billet-doux. Ha! if there should be one from her! Strange, I did not think of it before. If—if—if—”
In the earnestness, with which he proceeded to toss over the litter of letters and other documents, his hypothetical thought, whatever it was, remained unspoken.
For several minutes he busied himself among the papers—opening scores of epistles—in the expectation of finding one in a feminine hand, and bearing the signature: “Marion Wade.”
He was disappointed. No such name was to be found among the correspondents of Henry Holtspur. They were all of the masculine gender—all, or nearly all, politicians and conspirators!
Scarthe was about discontinuing his search—for he had opened everything in the shape of a letter—when a document of imposing aspect attracted his attention. It bore the royal signet upon its envelope.
“By the eyes of Argus!” cried he, as his own fell upon the well-known seal; “What see I? A letter from the King! What can his majesty have to communicate to this faithful subject, I wonder? Zounds! ’tis addressed to myself!”
“For ye Captain Scarthe,
“Command: H.M. Royal Cuirassiers,
“Bulstrode Park,
“Shire of Buckingham.”
“The intercepted despatch! Here’s a discovery! Henry Holtspur a footpad! In league with one, at all events—else how should he have become possessed of this? So—so! Not a traitor’s, but a felon’s death shall he die! The gibbet instead of the block! Ha! Mistress Marion Wade! you will repent the gift of your pretty glove, when you learn that you have bestowed it on a thief! By Saint Sulpiece! ’twill be a comical éclaircissement!”
“Ho, fellow! You’ve got the flowers?”
“I have, captain. They be the best I can find. There a’nt nothing but weeds about the old place, an’ withered at that.”
“So much the better: I want them a trifle withered. These will do—colour, shape—just the thing. Here I arrange them in a little bunch, and tie it to this hat. Fix them, as if the clasp confined them in their place. Be smart, my man; and make a neat thing of it!” The trooper plied his fingers with all the plastic ingenuity in his power; and, in a few seconds of time, a somewhat ragged bouquet was arranged, and adjusted on the beaver belonging to the black horseman—in the same place late occupied by the white gauntlet.
“Now!” said Scarthe, making a stride in the direction of the door, “Take out this hat. Place it on the head of the prisoner; and hark ye, corporal; you needn’t let him see the transformation that has been made, nor need you show it conspicuously to any one else. You understand me?”
The trooper having replied to these confidential commands with a nod and a knowing look, hurried off to execute them.
Stubbs, in charge of the guards outside, had already mounted Holtspur on horseback; where, with hands fast bound, and, for additional security, tied to the croup of the saddle,—his ankles also lashed to the stirrup leathers, and a steel-clad cuirassier, with drawn sword on each side of him—he looked like a captive left without the slightest chance of escape.
Even thus ignominiously pinioned, no air of the felon had he. His head, though bare, was not bowed; but carried proudly erect, without swagger, and with that air of tranquil indifference which distinguishes the true cavalier, even in captivity. His rough, and somewhat vagabond captors, could not help admiring that heroic courage—of which, but a few days before, they had witnessed such splendid proof.
“What a pity,” whispered one, “what a pity he’s not on our side! He’d make a noble officer of cavalry!”
“Help Master Holtspur to his hat!” tauntingly commanded Scarthe, as he clambered upon his own steed. “The wind must not be permitted to toss those waving locks too rudely. How becoming they will be upon the block! Ha! ha! ha!”
As commanded, his hat was placed upon the prisoner’s head.
The “forward,” brayed out by the bugle, drowned the satirical laugh of their leader, while the troopers, in files of two—with Scarthe at their head, Stubbs in the rear, and Holtspur near the centre—moved slowly across the lawn, leaving the mansion of Stone Dean without a master!