The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “You will wonder what business has brought me hither to-day, Sir Giles,” he said; “and I will keep you no longer in suspense. I have been insulted, Sir Giles — grievously insulted.”

  “By whom?” demanded the extortioner.

  “By Sir Jocelyn Mounchensey,” replied Sir Francis, shaking with passion. “I have received a degrading insult from him to-day, which ought to be washed out with his blood.”

  “What hath he done to you?” inquired the other.

  “I will tell you, Sir Giles. I chanced to see him in the court-yard of the palace of Whitehall, and there being several gallants nigh at hand, who I thought would take my part — ough! ough! what a plaguey cough I have gotten, to be sure; but ‘t is all owing to those cursed ‘prentices — a murrain seize ‘em! Your patience, sweet Sir Giles, I am coming to the point — ough! ough! there it takes me again. Well, as I was saying, thinking the gallants with whom I was conversing would back me, and perceiving Mounchensey approach us, I thought I might venture” —

  “Venture!” repeated Sir Giles, scornfully. “Let not such a disgraceful word pass your lips.”

  “I mean, I thought I might take occasion to affront him. Whereupon I cocked my hat fiercely, as I have seen you and Captain Bludder do, Sir Giles.”

  “Couple me not with the Alsatian, I pray of you, Sir Francis,” observed the extortioner, sharply.

  “Your pardon, Sir Giles — your pardon! But as I was saying, I regarded him with a scowl, and tapped the hilt of my sword. And what think you the ruffianly fellow did? I almost blush at the bare relation of it. Firstly, he plucked off my hat, telling me I ought to stand bareheaded in the presence of gentlemen. Next, he tweaked my nose, and as I turned round to avoid him, he applied his foot — yes, his foot — to the back of my trunk-hose; and well was it that the hose were stoutly wadded and quilted. Fire and fury! Sir Giles, I cannot brook the indignity. And what was worse, the shameless gallants, who ought to have lent me aid, were ready to split their sides with laughter, and declared I had only gotten my due. When I could find utterance for very choler, I told the villain you would requite him, and he answered he would serve you in the same fashion, whenever you crossed his path.”

  “Ha! said he so?” cried Sir Giles, half drawing his sword, while his eyes flashed fire. “We shall see whether he will make good his words. Yet no! Revenge must not be accomplished in that way. I have already told you I am willing to let him pursue his present career undisturbed for a time, in order to make his fall the greater. I hold him in my hand, and can crush him when I please.”

  “Then do not defer your purpose, Sir Giles,” said Sir Francis; “or I must take my own means of setting myself right with him. I cannot consent to sit down calmly under the provocation I have endured.”

  “And what will be the momentary gratification afforded by his death — if such you meditate,” returned Sir Giles, “in comparison with hurling him down from the point he has gained, stripping him of all his honours, and of such wealth as he may have acquired, and plunging him into the Fleet Prison, where he will die by inches, and where you yourself may feast your eyes on his slow agonies? That is true revenge; and you are but a novice in the art of vengeance if you think your plan equal to mine. It is for this — and this only — that I have spared him so long. I have suffered him to puff himself up with pride and insolence, till he is ready to burst. But his day of reckoning is at hand, and then he shall pay off the long arrears he owes us.”

  “Well, Sir Giles, I am willing to leave the matter with you,” said Sir Francis; “but it is hard to be publicly insulted, and have injurious epithets applied to you, and not obtain immediate redress.”

  “I grant you it is so,” rejoined Sir Giles; “but you well know you are no match for him at the sword.”

  “If I am not, others are — Clement Lanyere, for instance,” cried Sir Francis. “He has more than once arranged a quarrel for me.”

  “And were it an ordinary case, I would advise that the arrangement of this quarrel should be left to Lanyere,” said Sir Giles; “or I myself would undertake it for you. But that were only half revenge. No; the work must be done completely; and the triumph you will gain in the end will amply compensate you for the delay.”

  “Be it so, then,” replied Sir Francis. “But before I quit the subject, I may remark, that one thing perplexes me in the sudden rise of this upstart, and that is that he encounters no opposition from Buckingham. Even the King, I am told, has expressed his surprise that the jealous Marquis should view one who may turn out a rival with so much apparent complacency.”

  “It is because Buckingham has no fear of him,” replied Sir Giles. “He knows he has but to say the word, and the puppet brought forward by De Gondomar — for it is by him that Mounchensey is supported — will be instantly removed; but as he also knows, that another would be set up, he is content to let him occupy the place for a time.”

  “Certes, if Mounchensey had more knowledge of the world he would distrust him,” said Sir Francis, “because in my opinion Buckingham overacts his part, and shows him too much attention. He invites him, as I am given to understand, to all his masques, banquets, and revels at York House, and even condescends to flatter him. Such conduct would awaken suspicion in any one save the object of it.”

  “I have told you Buckingham’s motive, and therefore his conduct will no longer surprise you. Have you heard of the wager between De Gondomar and the Marquis, in consequence of which a trial of skill is to be made in the Tilt-yard to-morrow? Mounchensey is to run against Buckingham, and I leave you to guess what the result will be. I myself am to be among the jousters.”

  “You!” exclaimed Sir Francis.

  “Even I,” replied Sir Giles, with a smile of gratified vanity. “Now, mark me, Sir Francis. I have a surprise for you. It is not enough for me to hurl this aspiring youth from his proud position, and cover him with disgrace — it is not enough to immure him in the Fleet; but I will deprive him of his choicest treasure — of the object of his devoted affections.”

  “Ay, indeed!” exclaimed Sir Francis.

  “By my directions Clement Lanyere has kept constant watch over him, and has discovered that the young man’s heart is fixed upon a maiden of great beauty, named Aveline Calveley, daughter of the crazy Puritan who threatened the King’s life some three or four months ago at Theobalds.”

  “I mind me of the circumstance,” observed Sir Francis.

  “This maiden lives in great seclusion with an elderly dame, but I have found out her retreat. I have said that Sir Jocelyn is enamoured of her, and she is by no means insensible to his passion. But a bar exists to their happiness. Almost with his last breath, a promise was extorted from his daughter by Hugh Calveley, that if her hand should be claimed within a year by one to whom he had engaged her, but with whose name even she was wholly unacquainted, she would unhesitatingly give it to him.”

  “And will the claim be made?”

  “It will.”

  “And think you she will fulfil her promise?”

  “I am sure of it. A dying father’s commands are sacred with one like her.”

  “Have you seen her, Sir Giles? Is she so very beautiful as represented?”

  “I have not yet seen her; but she will be here anon. And you can then judge for yourself.”

  “She here!” exclaimed Sir Francis. “By what magic will you bring her hither?”

  “By a spell that cannot fail in effect,” replied Sir Giles, with a grim smile. “I have summoned her in her father’s name. I have sent for her to tell her that her hand will be claimed.”

  “By whom?” inquired Sir Francis.

  “That is my secret,” replied Sir Giles.

  At this juncture there was a tap at the door, and Sir Giles, telling the person without to enter, it was opened by Clement Lanyere, wrapped in his long mantle, and with his countenance hidden by his mask.

  “They are here,” he said.

  “The damsel and the elderly female?” crie
d Sir Giles.

  And receiving a response in the affirmative from the promoter, he bade him usher them in at once.

  The next moment Aveline, attended by a decent-looking woman, somewhat stricken in years, entered the room. They were followed by Clement Lanyere. The maiden was attired in deep mourning, and though looking very pale, her surpassing beauty produced a strong impression upon Sir Francis Mitchell, who instantly arose on seeing her, and made her a profound, and, as he considered, courtly salutation.

  Without bestowing any attention on him, Aveline addressed herself to Sir Giles, whose look filled her with terror.

  “Why have you sent for me, Sir?” she demanded.

  “I have sent for you, Aveline Calveley, to remind you of the promise made by you to your dying father,” he rejoined.

  “Ah!” she exclaimed; “then my forebodings of ill are realized.”

  “I know you consider that promise binding,” pursued Sir Giles; “and it is only necessary for me to announce to you that, in a week from this time, your hand will be claimed in marriage.”

  “Alas! alas!” she cried, in accents of despair. “But who will claim it? — and how can the claim be substantiated?” she added, recovering herself in some degree.

  “You will learn at the time I have appointed,” replied Sir Giles. “And now, having given you notice to prepare for the fulfilment of an engagement solemnly contracted by your father, and as solemnly agreed to by yourself, I will no longer detain you.”

  Aveline gazed at him with wonder and terror, and would have sought for some further explanation; but perceiving from the inflexible expression of his countenance that any appeal would be useless, she quitted the room with her companion.

  “I would give half I possess to make that maiden mine,” cried Sir Francis, intoxicated with admiration of her beauty.

  “Humph!” exclaimed Sir Giles. “More difficult matters have been accomplished. Half your possessions, say you? She is not worth so much. Assign to me your share of the Mounchensey estates and she shall be yours.”

  “I will do it, Sir Giles — I will do it,” cried the old usurer, eagerly; “but you must prove to me first that you can make good your words.”

  “Pshaw! Have I ever deceived you, man? But rest easy. You shall be fully satisfied.”

  “Then call in Lupo Vulp, and let him prepare the assignment at once,” cried Sir Francis. “I shall have a rare prize; and shall effectually revenge myself on this detested Mounchensey.”

  CHAPTER VI.

  Of the Wager between the Conde de Gondomar and the Marquis of Buckingham.

  At a banquet given at Whitehall, attended by all the principal lords and ladies of the court, a wager was laid between the Conde de Gondomar and the Marquis of Buckingham, the decision of which was referred to the King.

  The circumstance occurred in this way. The discourse happened to turn upon jousting, and the magnificent favourite, who was held unrivalled in all martial exercises and chivalrous sports, and who, confident in his own skill, vauntingly declared that he had never met his match in the tilt-yard; whereupon the Spanish Ambassador, willing to lower his pride, immediately rejoined, that he could, upon the instant, produce a better man-at-arms than he; and so certain was he of being able to make good his words, that he was willing to stake a thousand doubloons to a hundred on the issue of a trial.

  To this Buckingham haughtily replied, that he at once accepted the Ambassador’s challenge; but in regard to the terms of the wager, they must be somewhat modified, as he could not accept them as proposed; but he was willing to hazard on the result of the encounter all the gems, with which at the moment his habiliments were covered, against the single diamond clasp worn by De Gondomar; and if the offer suited his Excellency, he had nothing to do but appoint the day, and bring forward the man.

  De Gondomar replied, that nothing could please him better than the Marquis’s modification of the wager, and the proposal was quite consistent with the acknowledged magnificence of his Lordship’s notions; yet he begged to make one further alteration, which was, that in the event of the knight he should nominate being adjudged by his Majesty to be the best jouster, the rich prize might be delivered to him.

  Buckingham assented, and the terms of the wager being now fully settled, it only remained to fix the day for the trial, and this was referred to the King, who appointed the following Thursday — thus allowing, as the banquet took place on a Friday, nearly a week for preparation.

  James, also, good-naturedly complied with the Ambassador’s request, and agreed to act as judge on the occasion; and he laughingly remarked to Buckingham— “Ye are demented, Steenie, to risk a’ those precious stanes with which ye are bedecked on the skill with which ye can yield a frail lance. We may say unto you now in the words of the poet —

  ‘Pendebant ter ti gemmata monilia collo;’

  but wha shall say frae whose round throat those gemmed collars and glittering ouches will hang a week hence, if ye be worsted? Think of that, my dear dog.”

  “Your Majesty need be under no apprehension,” replied Buckingham. “I shall win and wear his Excellency’s diamond clasp. And now, perhaps, the Count will make us acquainted with the name and title of my puissant adversary, on whose address he so much relies. Our relative chances of success will then be more apparent. If, however, any motives for secrecy exist, I will not press the inquiry, but leave the disclosure to a more convenient season.”

  “Nunc est narrandi tempus,” rejoined the King. “No time like the present. We are anxious to ken wha the hero may be.”

  “I will not keep your Majesty a moment in suspense,” said De Gondomar. “The young knight whom I design to select as the Marquis’s opponent, and whom I am sure will feel grateful for having such means of honourable distinction afforded him, is present at the banquet.”

  “Here!” exclaimed James, looking round. “To whom do you refer, Count? It cannot be Sir Gilbert Gerrard, or Sir Henry Rich; for — without saying aught in disparagement of their prowess — neither of them is a match for Buckingham! Ah! save us! We hae it. Ye mean Sir Jocelyn Mounchensey.”

  And as the Ambassador acknowledged that his Majesty was right, all eyes were turned towards the young knight, who, though as much surprised as any one else, could not help feeling greatly elated.

  “Aweel, Count,” said James, evidently pleased, “ye might hae made a waur choice — that we are free to confess. We begin to tremble for your braw jewels, Steenie.”

  “They are safer than I expected,” replied Buckingham, disdainfully. But though he thus laughed it off, it was evident he was displeased, and he muttered to his confidential friend, Lord Mordaunt,— “I see through it all: this is a concerted scheme to bring this aspiring galliard forward; but he shall receive a lesson for his presumption he shall not easily forget, while, at the same time, those who make use of him for their own purposes shall be taught the risk they incur in daring to oppose me. The present opportunity shall not be neglected.”

  Having formed this resolution, Buckingham, to all appearance, entirely recovered his gaiety, and pressed the King to give importance to the trial by allowing it to take place in the royal tilt-yard at Whitehall, and to extend the number of jousters to fourteen — seven on one side, and seven on the other. The request was readily granted by the monarch, who appeared to take a stronger interest in the match than Buckingham altogether liked, and confirmed him in his determination of ridding himself for ever of the obstacle in his path presented by Mounchensey. The number of jousters being agreed upon, it was next decided that the party with whom Buckingham was to range should be headed by the Duke of Lennox; while Mounchensey’s party was to be under the command of Prince Charles; and though the disposition was too flattering to his adversary to be altogether agreeable to the haughty favourite, he could not raise any reasonable objection to it, and was therefore obliged to submit with the best grace he could.

  The two parties were then distributed in the following order by the King: — On t
he side of the Duke of Lennox, besides Buckingham himself, were the Earls of Arundel and Pembroke, and the Lords Clifford and Mordaunt; and while the King was hesitating as to the seventh, Sir Giles Mompesson was suggested by the Marquis, and James, willing to oblige his favourite, adopted the proposition. On the side of Prince Charles were ranked the Marquis of Hamilton, the Earls of Montgomery, Rutland, and Dorset, Lord Walden, and, of course, Sir Jocelyn Mounchensey. These preliminaries being fully adjusted, other topics were started, and the carouse, which had been in some degree interrupted, was renewed, and continued, with the entertainments that succeeded it, till past midnight.

  Not a little elated by the high compliment paid to his prowess by the Spanish Ambassador, and burning to break a lance with Buckingham, Sir Jocelyn resolved to distinguish himself at the trial. Good luck, of late, had invariably attended him. Within the last few weeks, he had been appointed one of the Gentlemen of his Majesty’s Bed-chamber; and this was looked upon as the stepping-stone to some more exalted post. Supported by the influence of De Gondomar, and upheld by his own personal merits, which by this time, in spite of all hostility towards him, had begun to be appreciated; with the King himself most favourably inclined towards him, and Prince Charles amicably disposed; with many of the courtiers proffering him service, who were anxious to throw off their forced allegiance to the overweening favourite, and substitute another in his stead: with all these advantages, it is not to be wondered at, that in a short space of time he should have established a firm footing on that smooth and treacherous surface, the pavement of a palace, and have already become an object of envy and jealousy to many, and of admiration to a few.