Michel and Angele [A Ladder of Swords], Complete - Gilbert Parker
Leicester, on his part, no more caught at the meaning of the morning, at
the long whisper of enlivened nature, than did his foe. The day gave to
him no more than was his right. If the day was not fine, then Leicester
was injured; but if the day was fine, then Leicester had his due. Moral
blindness made him blind for the million deep teachings trembling round
him. He felt only the garish and the splendid. So it was that at
Kenilworth, where his Queen had visited him, the fetes that he had held
would far outshine the fete which would take place in Greenwich Park on
this May Day. The fete of this May Day would take place, but would he see
it? The thought flashed through his mind that he might not; but he trod
it under foot; not through an inborn, primitive egotism like that of
Lempriere, but through an innate arrogance, an unalterable belief that
Fate was ever on his side. He had played so many tricks with Fate, had
mocked while taking its gifts so often, that, like the son who has
flouted his indulgent father through innumerable times, he conceived that
he should never be disinherited. It irked him that he should be fighting
with a farmer, as he termed the Seigneur of the Jersey Isle; but there
was in the event, too, a sense of relief, for he had a will for murder.
Yesterday's events were still fresh in his mind; and he had a feeling
that the letting of Lempriere's blood would cool his own and be some cure
for the choler which the presence of these strangers at the Court had
wrought in him.
There were better swordsmen in England than he, but his skill was
various, and he knew tricks of the trade which this primitive Norman
could never have learnt. He had some touch of wit, some biting
observation, and, as he neared the place of the encounter, he played upon
the coming event with a mordant frivolity. Not by nature a brave man, he
was so much a fatalist, such a worshipper of his star, that he had
acquired an artificial courage which had served him well. The unschooled
gentlemen with him roared with laughter at his sallies, and they came to
the place of meeting as though to a summer feast.
"Good-morrow, nobility," said Leicester with courtesy overdone, and
bowing much too low. "Good-morrow, valentine," answered Lempriere,
flushing slightly at the disguised insult, and rising to the moment.
"I hear the crop of fools is short this year in Jersey, and through no
fault of yours--you've done your best most loyally," jeered Leicester, as
he doffed his doublet, his gentlemen laughing in derision.
"'Tis true enough, my lord, and I have come to find new seed in England,
where are fools to spare; as I trust in Heaven one shall be spared on
this very day for planting yonder."
He was eaten with rage, but he was cool and steady.
He was now in his linen and small clothes and looked like some untrained
Hercules.
"Well said, nobility," laughed Leicester with an ugly look. "'Tis seed
time--let us measure out the seed. On guard!"
Never were two men such opposites, never two so seemingly ill-matched.
Leicester's dark face and its sardonic look, his lithe figure, the
nervous strength of his bearing, were in strong contrast to the bulking
breadth, the perspiring robustness of Lempriere of Rozel. It was not easy
of belief that Lempriere should be set to fight this toreador of a
fighting Court. But there they stood, Lempriere's face with a great-eyed
gravity looming above his rotund figure like a moon above a purple cloud.
But huge and loose though the Seigneur's motions seemed, he was as intent
as though there were but two beings in the universe, Leicester and
himself. A strange alertness seemed to be upon him, and, as Leicester
found when the swords crossed, he was quicker than his bulk gave warrant.
His perfect health made his vision sure; and, though not a fine
swordsman, he had done much fighting in his time, had been ever ready for
the touch of steel; and had served some warlike days in fighting France,
where fate had well befriended him. That which Leicester meant should be
by-play of a moment became a full half-hour's desperate game. Leicester
found that the thrust--the fatal thrust learned from an Italian
master--he meant to give, was met by a swift precision, responding to
quick vision. Again and again he would have brought the end, but
Lempriere heavily foiled him. The wound which the Seigneur got at last,
meant to be mortal, was saved from that by the facility of a quick
apprehension. Indeed, for a time the issue had seemed doubtful, for the
endurance and persistence of the Seigneur made for exasperation and
recklessness in his antagonist, and once blood was drawn from the wrist
of the great man; but at length Lempriere went upon the aggressive. Here
he erred, for Leicester found the chance for which he had manoeuvred--to
use the feint and thrust got out of Italy. He brought his enemy low, but
only after a duel the like of which had never been seen at the Court of
England. The toreador had slain his bull at last, but had done no justice
to his reputation. Never did man more gallantly sustain his honour with
heaviest odds against him than did the Seigneur of Rozel that day.
As he was carried away by the merry gentlemen of the Court, he called
back to the favourite:
"Leicester is not so great a swordsman after all. Hang fast to your
honours by the skin of your teeth, my lord."
CHAPTER XIV
It was Monday, and the eyes of London and the Court were turned towards
Greenwich Park, where the Queen was to give entertainment to the French
Envoy who had come once more to urge upon the Queen marriage with a son
of the Medici, and to obtain an assurance that she would return to France
the widow of the great Montgomery and his valiant lieutenant, Michel de
la Foret. The river was covered with boats and barges, festooned,
canopied, and hung with banners and devices; and from sunrise music and
singing conducted down the stream the gaily dressed populace--for those
were the days when a man spent on his ruff and his hose and his russet
coat as much as would feed and house a family for a year; when the
fine-figured ruflier with sables about his neck, corked slipper, trimmed
buskin, and cloak of silk or damask furred, carried his all upon his
back.
Loud-voiced gallants came floating by; men of a hundred guilds bearing
devices pompously held on their way to the great pageant; country
bumpkins up from Surrey roystered and swore that there was but one land
that God had blessed, and challenged the grinning watermen from Gravesend
and Hampton Court to deny it; and the sun with ardour drove from the sky
every invading cloud, leaving Essex and Kent as far as eye could see
perfect green gardens of opulence.
Before Elizabeth had left her bed, London had emptied itself into
Greenwich Park. Thither the London Companies had come in their varied
dazzling accoutrements--hundreds armed in fine corselets bearing the long
Moorish pike; tall halberdiers in the unique armour called Almainrivets,
and gunners or muleteers equipped in shirts of mail with morions or steel
caps. Here too were to come the Gentlemen Pensioners, resplendent in
scarlet, to "run with the spear;" and hundreds of men-at-arms were set at
every point to give garish bravery to all. Thousands of citizens,
openmouthed, gazed down the long arenas of green festooned with every
sort of decoration and picturesque invention. Cages of large birds from
the Indies, fruits, corn, fishes, grapes, hung in the trees, players
perched in the branches discoursed sweet music, and poets recited their
verses from rustic bridges or on platforms with weapons and armour hung
trophy-wise on ragged staves. Upon a small lake a dolphin four-and-twenty
feet in length came swimming, within its belly a lively orchestra;
Italian tumblers swung from rope to bar; and crowds gathered at the
places where bear and bull-baiting were to excite the none too fastidious
tastes of the time.
All morning the gay delights went on, and at high noon the cry was
carried from mouth to mouth: "The Queen! The Queen!"
She appeared on a balcony surrounded by her lords and ladies, and there
received the diplomatists, speaking at length to the French Envoy in a
tone of lightness and elusive cheerfulness which he was at a loss to
understand and tried in vain to pierce by cogent remarks bearing on
matters of moment involved in his embassage. Not far away stood
Leicester, but the Queen had done no more than note his presence by a
glance, and now and again with ostentatious emphasis she spoke to Angele,
whom she had had brought to her in the morning before chapel-going. Thus
early, after a few questions and some scrutiny, she had sent her in
charge of a gentleman-at-arms and a maid of the Duke's Daughter to her
father's lodging, with orders to change her robe, to return to the palace
in good time before noon, and to bring her father to a safe place where
he could watch the pleasures of the people. When Angele came to the
presence again she saw that the Queen was wearing a gown of pure white
with the sleeves shot with black, such as she herself had worn when
admitted to audience yesterday. Vexed, agitated, embittered as Elizabeth
had been by the news brought to her the night before, she had kept her
wardrobers and seamstresses at work the whole night to alter a white
satin habit to the simplicity and style of that which Angele had worn.
"What think you of my gown, my lady refugee?" she said to Angele at last,
as the Gentlemen Pensioners paraded in the space below, followed by the
Knights Tilters--at their head the Queen's Champion, Sir Henry Lee:
twenty-five of the most gallant and favoured of the courtiers of
Elizabeth, including the gravest of her counsellors and the youngest
gallant who had won her smile, Master Christopher Hatton. Some of these
brave suitors, taken from the noblest families, had appeared in the
tilt-yard every anniversary of the year of her accession, and had lifted
their romantic office, which seemed but the service of enamoured knights,
into an almost solemn dignity.
The vast crowd disposed itself around the great improvised yard where the
Knights Tilters were to engage, and the Queen, followed by her retinue,
descended to the dais which had been set up near the palace. Her white
satin gown, roped with pearls only at the neck and breast, glistened in
the bright sun, and her fair hair took on a burnished radiance. As Angele
passed with her in the gorgeous procession, she could not but view the
scene with admiring eye, albeit her own sweet sober attire, a pearly
grey, seemed little in keeping; for the ladies and lords were most richly
attired, and the damask and satin cloaks, crimson velvet gowns, silk
hoods, and jewelled swords and daggers made a brave show. She was like
some moth in a whorl of butterflies.
Her face was pale, and her eye had a curious disturbed look, as though
they had seen frightening things. The events of last evening had tried
her simple spirit, and she shrank from this glittering show; but the
knowledge that her lover's life was in danger, and that her happiness was
here and now at stake, held her bravely to her place, beset as it was
with peril; for the Queen, with that eccentricity which had lifted her up
yesterday, might cast her down to-day, and she had good reason to fear
the power and influence of Leicester, whom she knew with a sure instinct
was intent on Michel's ruin. Behind all her nervous shrinking and her
heart's doubt, the memory of the face of the stranger she had seen last
night with Sir Andrew Melvill tortured her. She could not find the time
and place where she had seen the eyes that, in the palace, had filled her
with mislike and abhorrence as they looked upon the Queen. Again and
again in her fitful sleep had she dreamt of him, and a sense of
foreboding was heavy upon her--she seemed to hear the footfall of coming
disaster. The anxiety of her soul lent an unnatural brightness to her
eyes; so that more than one enamoured courtier made essay to engage her
in conversation, and paid her deferential compliment when the Queen's
eyes were not turned her way. Come to the dais, she was placed not far
from her Majesty, beside the Duke's Daughter, whose whimsical nature
found frequent expression in what the Queen was wont to call "a merry
volt." She seemed a privileged person, with whom none ventured to take
liberties, and against whom none was entitled to bear offence, for her
quips were free from malice, and her ingenuity in humour of mark. She it
was who had put into the Queen's head that morning an idea which was
presently to startle Angele and all others.
Leicester was riding with the Knights Tilters, and as they cantered
lightly past the dais, trailing their spears in obeisance, Elizabeth
engaged herself in talk with Cecil, who was standing near, and appeared
not to see the favourite. This was the first time since he had mounted to
good fortune that she had not thrown him a favour to pick up with his
spear and wear in her honour, and he could scarce believe that she had
meant to neglect him. He half halted, but she only deigned an inclination
of the head, and he spurred his horse angrily on with a muttered
imprecation, yet, to all seeming, gallantly paying homage.
"There shall be doings ere this day is done. 'Beware the Gipsy'!" said
the Duke's Daughter in a low tone to Angele, and she laughed lightly.
"Who is the Gipsy?" asked Angele, with good suspicion, however.
"Who but Leicester," answered the other. "Is he not black enough?"
"Why was he so called? Who put the name upon Who but the Earl of Sussex
as he died--as noble a chief, as true a counsellor as ever spoke truth to
a Queen. But truth is not all at Court, and Sussex was no flatterer.
Leicester bowed under the storm for a moment when Sussex showed him in
his true colours; but Sussex had no gift of intrigue, the tide turned,
and so he broke his heart, and died. But he left a message which I
sometimes remember with my collects. 'I am now passing to another world,'
said he, 'and must leave you to your fortunes and to the Queen's grace
and goodness; but beware the Gipsy, for he will be too hard for all of
you; you know not the beast so well as I do.' But my Lord Sussex was
wrong. One there is who knows him through and through, and hath little
joy in the knowing."
The look in the eyes of the Duke's Daughter became like steel and her
voice hardened, and Angele realised that Leicester had in this beautiful
and delicate maid-of-honour as bitter an enemy as ever brought down the
mighty from their seats; that a pride had been sometime wounded, suffered
an unwarrantable affront, which only innocence could feel so acutely. Her
heart went out to the Duke's Daughter as it had never gone out to any of
her sex since her mother's death, and she showed her admiration in her
glance. The other saw it and smiled, slipping a hand in hers for a
moment; and then a look, half-debating, half-triumphant, came into her
face as her eyes followed Leicester down the green stretches of the
tilting-yard.
The trumpet sounded, the people broke out in shouts of delight, the
tilting began. For an hour the handsome joust went on, the Earl of
Oxford, Charles Howard, Sir Henry Lee, Sir Christopher Hatton, and
Leicester challenging, and so even was the combat that victory seemed to
settle in the plumes of neither, though Leicester of them all showed not
the greatest skill, while in some regards greatest grace and deportment.
Suddenly there rode into the lists, whence, no one seemed to know, so
intent had the public gaze been fixed, so quickly had he come, a mounted
figure all in white, and at the moment when Sir Henry Lee had cried aloud
his challenge for the last time. Silence fell as the bright figure
cantered down the list, lifted the gauge, and sat still upon his black
steed. Consternation fell. None among the people or the Knights Tilters
knew who the invader was, and Leicester called upon the Masters of the
Ceremonies to demand his name and quality. The white horseman made no
reply, but sat unmoved, while noise and turmoil suddenly sprang up around
him.
Presently the voice of the Queen was heard clearly ringing through the
lists. "His quality hath evidence. Set on."
The Duke's Daughter laughed, and whispered mischievously in Angele's ear.
The gentlemen of England fared ill that day in the sight of all the
people, for the challenger of the Knights Tilters was more than a match
for each that came upon him. He rode like a wild horseman of Yucatan.
Wary, resourceful, sudden in device and powerful in onset, he bore all
down, until the Queen cried: "There hath not been such skill in England
since my father rode these lists. Three of my best gentlemen down, and it
hath been but breathing to him. Now, Sir Harry Lee, it is thy turn," she
laughed as she saw the champion ride forward; "and next 'tis thine,
Leicester. Ah, Leicester would have at him now!" she added sharply, as
she saw the favourite spur forward before the gallant Lee. "He is full of
choler--it becomes him, but it shall not be; bravery is not all. And if
he failed"--she smiled acidly--"he would get him home to Kenilworth and
show himself no more--if he failed, and the White Knight failed not! What
think you, dove?" she cried to the Duke's Daughter. "Would he not fall in
the megrims for that England's honour had been over thrown? Leicester
could not live if England's honour should be toppled down like our dear
Chris Hatton and his gallants yonder."
The Duke's Daughter curtsied. "Methinks England's honour is in little
peril--your Majesty knows well how to 'fend it. No subject keeps it."
"If I must 'fend it, dove, then Leicester there must not fight to-day. It
shall surely be Sir Harry Lee. My Lord Leicester must have the place of
honour at the last," she called aloud. Leicester swung his horse round
and galloped to the Queen.
"Your Majesty," he cried in suppressed anger, "must I give place?"
"When all have failed and Leicester has won, then all yield place to
Leicester," said the Queen drily. The look on his face was not good to
see, but he saluted gravely and rode away to watch the encounter between
the most gallant Knight Tilter in England and the stranger. Rage was in
his heart, and it blinded him to the certainty of his defeat, for he was
not expert in the lists. But by a sure instinct he had guessed the
identity of the White Horseman, and every nerve quivered with desire to
meet him in combat. Last night's good work seemed to have gone for
naught. Elizabeth's humour had changed; and to-day she seemed set on
humiliating him before the nobles who hated him, before the people who
had found in him the cause why the Queen had not married, so giving no
heir to the throne. Perturbed and charged with anger as he was, however,
the combat now forward soon chained his attention. Not in many a year had
there been seen in England such a display of skill and determination. The
veteran Knight Tilter, who knew that the result of this business meant
more than life to him, and that more than the honour of his comrades was
at stake--even the valour of England which had been challenged--fought as
he had never fought before, as no man had fought in England for many a
year. At first the people cried aloud their encouragement; but as onset
and attack after onset and attack showed that two masters of their craft,
two desperate men, had met, and that the great sport had become a vital
combat between their own champion and the champion of another
land--Spain, France, Denmark, Russia, Italy?--a hush spread over the
great space, and every eye was strained; men gazed with bated breath.
The green turf was torn and mangled, the horses reeked with sweat and
foam, but overhead the soaring skylark sang, as it were, to express the
joyance of the day. During many minutes the only sound that broke the
stillness was the clash of armed men, the thud of hoofs, and the snorting
and the wild breathing of the chargers. The lark's notes, however,
ringing out over the lists freed the tongue of the Queen's fool, who
suddenly ran out into the lists, in his motley and cap and bells, and in
his high trilling voice sang a fool's song to the fighting twain:
"Who would lie down and close his eyes
While yet the lark sings o'er the dale?
Who would to Love make no replies,
Nor drink the nut-brown ale,
While throbs the pulse, and full 's the purse
And all the world 's for sale?"
Suddenly a cry of relief, of roaring excitement, burst from the people.
Both horsemen and their chargers were on the ground. The fight was over,
the fierce game at an end. That which all had feared, even the Queen
herself, as the fight fared on, had not come to pass--England's champion
had not been beaten by the armed mystery, though the odds had seemed
against him.
"Though wintry blasts may prove unkind,
When winter's past we do forget;
Love's breast in summer time is kind,
And all 's well while life 's with us yet
Hey, ho, now the lark is mating,
Life's sweet wages are in waiting!"
Thus sang the fool as the two warriors were helped to their feet.
Cumbered with their armour, and all dust-covered and blood-stained,
though not seriously hurt, they were helped to their horses, and rode to
the dais where the Queen sat.
"Ye have fought like men of old," she said, "and neither had advantage at
the last. England's champion still may cry his challenge and not be
forsworn, and he who challenged goeth in honour again from the lists.
You, sir, who have challenged, shall we not see your face or hear your
voice? For what country, for what prince lifted you the gauge and
challenged England's honour?"
"I crave your high Majesty's pardon"--Angele's heart stood still. Her
love had not pierced his disguise, though Leicester's hate had done so on
the instant--"I crave your noble Majesty's grace," answered the stranger,
"that I may still keep my face covered in humility. My voice speaks for
no country and for no prince. I have fought for mine own honour, and to
prove to England's Queen that she hath a champion who smiteth with strong
arm, as on me and my steed this hath been seen to-day."
"Gallantly thought and well said," answered Elizabeth; "but England's
champion and his strong arm have no victory. If gifts were given they
must needs be cut in twain. But answer me, what is your country? I will
not have it that any man pick up the gauge of England for his own honour.
What is your country?
"I am an exile, your high Majesty; and the only land for which I raise my
sword this day is that land where I have found safety from my enemies."
The Queen turned and smiled at the Duke's Daughter. "I knew not where my
own question might lead, but he hath turned it to full account," she
said, under her breath. "His tongue is as ready as his spear. Then ye
have both laboured in England's honour, and I drink to you both," she
added, and raised to her lips a glass of wine which a page presented. "I
love ye both--in your high qualities," she hastened to add with dry
irony, and her eye rested mockingly on Leicester.
"My lords and gentlemen and all of my kingdom," she added in a clear
voice, insistent in its force, "ye have come upon May Day to take delight
of England in my gardens, and ye are welcome. Ye have seen such a sight
as doeth good to the eyes of brave men. It hath pleased me well, and I am
constrained to say to you what, for divers great reasons, I have kept to
my own counsels, labouring for your good. The day hath come, however, the
day and the hour when ye shall know that wherein I propose to serve you
as ye well deserve. It is my will--and now I see my way to its good
fulfilment--that I remain no longer in that virgin state wherein I have
ever lived."
Great cheering here broke in, and for a time she could get no further.
Ever alive to the bent of the popular mind, she had chosen a perfect
occasion to take them into her confidence--however little or much she
would abide by her words, or intended the union of which she spoke. In
the past she had counselled with her great advisers, with Cecil and the
rest, and through them messages were borne to the people; but now she
spoke direct to them all, and it had its immediate reward--the
acclamations were as those with which she was greeted when she first
passed through the streets of London on inheriting the crown.
Well pleased, she continued: "This I will do with expedition and
weightiest judgment, for of little account though I am, he that sits with
the Queen of England in this realm must needs be a prince indeed.... So
be ye sure of this that ye shall have your heart-most wishes, and there
shall be one to come after me who will wear this crown even as I have
worn, in direct descent, my father's crown. Our dearest sister, the Queen
of the Scots, hath been delivered of a fair son; and in high affection
the news thereof she hath sent me, with a palfry which I shall ride among
you in token of the love I bear her Majesty. She hath in her time got an
heir to the throne with which we are ever in kinship and alliance, and I
in my time shall give ye your heart's desire."