Both lances were shivered, but the results of the strokes dealt on either side were widely different. Mounchensey maintained his seat firmly in the saddle, though his steed had been forced back upon its haunches by his opponent’s blow, who had touched his gorget; and riding on with all the ease, vigour, and grace, our young knight had previously exhibited, he threw down the truncheon of his lance, and opened his gauntlet to show that his hand was wholly uninjured.
Very differently had it fared with Buckingham, whose defeat was unquestionable. Unhorsed and unhelmeted, he was rolled in the dust; and as he sprang to his feet, had the mortification of hearing the deafening cheers that greeted his adversary’s triumph. Eager to hide his confusion, he vaulted upon the back of his steed, which was brought to him by an esquire, the animal’s flanks still quivering and reeking from the terrible shock it had undergone, and dashed beneath the scaffold he had so lately quitted — his pride severely humbled.
While the crest-fallen favourite thus retired to recover himself, Sir Jocelyn rode slowly towards the royal gallery. Having now raised his visor, his features were fully revealed to view, and perhaps were never seen to such advantage as at this proud and happy moment. His emotions were indeed enviable — but one thing was wanting to complete his satisfaction — the presence of her, before whom, of all others, he was most eager to distinguish himself. What mattered it that scarves and kerchiefs were waved to him by some of the fairest dames in the land? What mattered it that his name was called aloud, and that gloves and knots of ribands fell at his feet, as he rode past the ladies’ gallery? His heart was untouched by smile or glance, and he paused not to pick up one of the favours showered upon him.
But what means this sudden change in his demeanour? Why does he start and stop, and look inquiringly towards the back of the gallery? Whom does he discern amongst that bevy of beauties? Can it be Aveline? And if so, how comes she there?
As he pauses, all eyes are fixed upon her towards whom his gaze is directed. There is no difficulty in detecting the object of his regards, for her attire is simpler than that of all the glittering dames around her, and of a sadder hue. Her confusion also betrays her. She would not be seen by him she came to see. She would muffle up her features, but it is too late; and she is not only fully exposed to his view, but to that of a hundred other curious eyes. Though many a high-born damsel marvels at the young knight’s insensibility to her own superior attractions, none can deny that the unknown maiden is exquisitely beautiful, and demands are eagerly made as to who she may be. No one can answer — and no clue is given by her companion, for the elderly dame by whom she is attended, and who resembles a duenna, is likewise unknown to all.
As soon as Sir Jocelyn recovers his surprise, he requests a favour from the lady of his love, and she cannot refuse him — for immediately all the dames in front of the gallery move aside, to let her advance.
With her pale cheeks crimsoned with blushes, and her dark eyes flashing with mingled emotions of shame and pleasure, Aveline steps forward — and having no other favour to bestow upon her knight, she gives him her kerchief, which he presses to his lips, and then with a graceful salutation moves forward on his course. This is no time for explanation — and he must be content with his happiness, without inquiring how it has been procured for him.
The incident, however, has been generally noticed, and causes a good deal of speculation and talk amongst the female portion of the assemblage. There is one individual, however, of the opposite sex, who witnesses it with sentiments different from those by which most other observers are affected. This is Sir Giles Mompesson. He, it appears, has not been unaware of Aveline’s presence at the jousts, though he did not anticipate its revelation in this manner to Sir Jocelyn; and a bitter smile crosses his lips, as he watches the brief interview between the pair. He cares not what transports they indulge in now — nor what hopes they form for the future. He promises himself that he will effectually mar their bliss!
CHAPTER XIII.
The Felon Knight.
A few more bounds of his steed brought Sir Jocelyn to the royal gallery, where he dismounted, and leaving his steed in charge of an esquire, ascended the stairs in company with the marshals of the field, and presently found himself in the presence of the King. James received him very graciously. On the right of the monarch stood the Conde de Gondomar, who smiled on his protégé as he approached, and glanced at a silver coffer full of diamonds, pearls, emeralds, amethysts, and other precious stones, borne by an attendant in the gorgeous livery of the Marquis of Buckingham.
“We greet ye as victor, Sir Jocelyn,” said James, as the young knight made a profound obeisance to him; “and it rejoices us to say ye hae demeaned yourself honourably and fairly in the field. How say ye, Sirs?” he added to the marshals and others. “Shall not the prize of the day be adjudged to Sir Jocelyn?”
“It must be so, of right, your Majesty,” replied the foremost of them. “A better course at the ring could not be run than Sir Jocelyn hath performed, nor could greater ‘vantage be gained in the jousts than he hath obtained over the Marquis of Buckingham. All has been done by him in accordance with the rules of honour, and without fraud or supercherie.
“Enough, gentlemen,” said James. “Count, ye hae won your wager; and as to you, Sir Jocelyn, ye hae proved yourself a very mirror of chivalry — exemplar antiquoe fortitudinis et magnanimitatis — on the pattern of Bayard, the knight without fear and without reproach, and the like of whom we scarce expected to see in these latter days. You are right weel entitled to the prize ye hae gained, and which his Excellency so honourably assigns to you.”
“With your Majesty’s permission, I will add the diamond clasp which I staked against the Marquess’s casket of gems,” said De Gondomar, “and will beseech Sir Jocelyn to wear it as a testimony on my part of his merit as a cavalier. It is scarcely too much to say for him, after his recent brilliant achievements, that he takes rank amongst the foremost of the distinguished knights encircling your Majesty’s throne.”
“He takes rank as the first and best,” cried James, emphatically; “since he hath overcome Buckingham, who till this day hath held the chief place among our chivalry.”
“Your Majesty overwhelms me by your commendations,” replied Sir Jocelyn; “and I can only say, in reply, that my best energies shall be devoted to your service, whenever and howsoever called upon. As to your Excellency’s gift,” he added to De Gondomar, who had unfastened the glittering clasp and presented it to him, “I shall ever guard it, as a devotee in your own sunny land of Spain would the most precious relic.”
The coffer containing the gems was then, upon a sign from the King, delivered to Sir Jocelyn, who, as he received it from the attendant, took a string of pearls from it and gave them to the marshal, requesting they might be offered as largesse to the heralds; and the officer promised that the request should be complied with. Having bestowed a similar boon upon each of the marshals, Mounchensey requested that the coffer might be placed in charge of his esquire — and his directions were complied with.
“Is all concluded?” demanded the King.
“The contest for the prize is necessarily decided,” replied the marshal; “but there yet remains the combat with the sword on horseback, if it pleases Sir Jocelyn to engage in it.”
“What saith our young knight?” demanded the King. “Is he willing to risk the laurels he hath so fairly won on another, and it may be more dangerous encounter? What he hath already done may fairly entitle him to decline further hazard, if he be so minded.”
“I should ill deserve your Majesty’s high commendations if I hesitated for a moment,” replied Mounchensey; “but so far from feeling disinclination to the combat, I should regret if this opportunity for further distinction were denied me. With your Majesty’s gracious permission, I will pray the marshals of the field to let it be proclaimed by the heralds and pursuivants-at-arms that I challenge any true knight to do battle with me with the sword, and on horseback.”
“The laws of the tilt-yard, with which Sir Jocelyn is doubtless well acquainted,” observed the marshal, “require that the edge of the sword shall be dull, as your Majesty hath stated, and that no blow shall be dealt with the point of the weapon. These conditions must be strictly observed.”
“They shall be,” replied Sir Jocelyn; “and I pray you now to do your devoir, and make the proclamation.”
On this the marshal and his followers departed; and Sir Jocelyn, bowing reverently to the King, took his way after them, and descending the stairs, leaped on the back of his charger.
Soon after this, and while a sword, blunted in the manner prescribed, was girded round his waist by his esquire, the trumpets were sounded, and the challenge proclaimed by the marshal. It was immediately responded to by a blast from the opposite end of the arena, and a herald, stationed at this point, called out in a loud voice that the challenge was accepted. Again the excitement rose high among the spectators; again all eyes were directed towards Sir Jocelyn; and again many ardent aspirations were uttered by his numerous fair admirers for his success, — though none so fervent as that breathed by Aveline. Sir Jocelyn cast one glance towards that part of the ladies’ gallery where he knew her to be placed, and then prepared for his last essay.
As yet, he knew not who was to be his antagonist; but when a knight in sable armour, and with a sable plume upon his helm, rode from beneath the scaffold, he discovered, to his great indignation, that it was Sir Giles Mompesson. After a moment’s reflection, he resolved upon a course of action. When the signal for the combat was given by the marshal, and Sir Giles, sword in hand, dashed into the arena, Mounchensey rode towards him, but, without drawing his sword, and raising himself in the saddle, commanded him in a thundering voice to retire.
The impetuosity of Sir Giles’s career carried him past his antagonist, but he now wheeled round, and regarded Mounchensey fiercely from beneath the bars of his helmet.
“Retire, said you?” he exclaimed; “not unless you acknowledge yourself defeated. In my turn, I bid you go back to the point you started from, and commence the combat in due form, or I shall hold you vanquished, and compel you to abase your crest.”
“Hear me,” cried Sir Jocelyn, “and let it be heard by all. I challenged any true knight to the combat, but you answer not to the description. I proclaim you publicly in this place as a false and felon knight, and declare you utterly unworthy of my sword. Back to your starting-place, and if the heralds do their duty, they will hack off your spurs, and drive you with shame from the lists.”
“And think you I will tamely brook this insult?” roared Sir Giles; “draw your sword at once, and let it be a mortal combat between us.”
“Never,” replied Sir Jocelyn, disdainfully. “I will not stoop to the level of your infamy.”
“Then stoop to earth,” cried Sir Giles, aiming a terrible blow at him with his sword.
If the stroke had taken effect as intended, it would probably have made good Mompesson’s threat, but Sir Jocelyn was too wary and too agile even for his powerful assailant. Before the sword could descend, he seized his adversary’s wrist, and in another instant possessed himself of the blade. This he accomplished without injury, as the sword was blunted. Still maintaining his grasp of the weapon, he raised himself in his stirrups to give additional force to the blow, and with the pummel of the sword, struck Sir Giles a blow upon the brainpan with such violence, that he dropped from the saddle as if shot.
During this strange scene, not a word had been uttered by the spectators, who looked on with the greatest curiosity, wondering how it would end. As Sir Giles fell from his horse, and lay stretched in perfect insensibility on the ground, a tremendous shout was raised, and Sir Jocelyn was as much applauded as if he had performed an extraordinary feat — so universally was the extortioner detested.
Nor was there any sympathy manifested, when a few moments afterwards Sir Giles was raised from the ground by the pursuivants, and his helmet being removed, exhibited a countenance livid as death, with a stream of blood coursing slowly down the temples. Many would have been well-pleased if he had been killed outright, but the chirurgeon in attendance pronounced that he was only stunned by the blow.
CHAPTER XIV.
The private Cabinet of Sir Giles Mompesson.
A small room, and rendered yet smaller by the numerous chests and strong boxes encroaching upon its narrow limits. In some cases these boxes are piled, one upon another, till they touch the ceiling. All of them look stout enough, yet many are further strengthened by iron hoops and broad-headed nails, and secured by huge padlocks. The door is cased with iron, within and without, and has a ponderous lock, of which the master of the room always keeps the key, and never trusts it out of his own hand.
This small chamber is the private cabinet of Sir Giles Mompesson.
No one is permitted to enter it without him. Though his myrmidons are fully aware of its existence, and can give a shrewd guess at its contents, only two of them have set foot within it. The two thus privileged are Clement Lanyere and Lupo Vulp. Neither the promoter nor the scrivener are much in the habit of talking over their master’s affairs, even with their comrades, and are almost as habitually reserved as he is himself; still, from the few words let fall by them from time to time, the myrmidons have picked up a tolerable notion of the private cabinet, of its hidden cupboards in the walls, its drawers with secret springs; its sliding planks with hollows beneath them; its chests full of treasure, or what is the same thing as treasure, bonds, mortgage-deeds, and other securities; and its carefully concealed hoards of plate, jewels, and other valuables. Some of the least scrupulous among them — such as Staring, Hugh, Cutting Dick, and old Tom Wootton — have often discussed the possibility of secretly visiting it, and making a perquisition of its stores; but they have been hitherto restrained by their fears of their terrible and vindictive master.
On looking into the cabinet we find Sir Giles seated at a table, with a large chest open beside him, from which he has taken for examination sundry yellow parchments, with large seals attached to them. He is now occupied with a deed, on one of the skins of which the plan of an important estate is painted, and on this his attention becomes fixed. His countenance is cadaverous, and its ghastly hue adds to its grimness of expression. A band is tied round his head, and there is an expression of pain in his face, and an air of languor and debility in his manner, very different from what is usual with him. It is plain he has not yet recovered from the effects of the crushing blow he received at the jousts.
Opposite him sits his partner, Sir Francis Mitchell; and the silence that has reigned between them for some minutes is first broken by the old usurer.
“Well, Sir Giles,” he inquires, “are you satisfied with your examination of these deeds of the Mounchensey property? The estates have been in the family, as you see, for upwards of two centuries — ever since the reign of Henry IV., in fact — and you have a clear and undisputed title to all the property depicted on that plan — to an old hall with a large park around it, eight miles in circumference, and almost as well stocked with deer as the royal chase of Theobald’s; and you have a title to other territorial domains extending from Mounchensey Place and Park to the coast, a matter of twelve miles as the crow flies, Sir Giles, — and including three manors and a score of little villages. Will not these content you? Methinks they should. I’ faith, my worthy partner, when I come to reckon up all your possessions, your houses and lands, and your different sources of revenue — the sums owing to you in bond and mortgage — your monopolies and your patents — when I reckon up all these, I say, and add thereunto the wealth hoarded in this cabinet, which you have not placed out at usance — I do not hesitate to set you down as one of the richest of my acquaintance. There be few whose reven
ue is so large as yours, Sir Giles. ’Tis strange, though I have had the same chance as yourself of making money, I have not a hundredth part of your wealth.”
“Not a whit strange,” replied Sir Giles, laying down the deed and regarding his partner somewhat contemptuously. “I waste not what I acquire. I have passions as well as yourself, Sir Francis; but I keep them under subjection. I drink not — I riot not — I shun all idle company. I care not for outward show, or for the vanities of dress. I have only one passion which I indulge, — Revenge. You are a slave to sensuality, and pamper your lusts at any cost. Let a fair woman please your eye, and she must be bought, be the price what it may. No court prodigal was ever more licentious or extravagant than you are.”
“Sir Giles! Sir Giles! I pray you, spare me. My enemies could not report worse of me.”
“Nay, your enemies would say that your extravagance is your sole merit, and that therein you are better than I,” rejoined Sir Giles, with a sardonic laugh. “But I rejoice to think I am free from all such weaknesses. The veriest enchantress could not tempt me. I am proof against all female seductions. Think you the damsel lives who could induce me to give for her half these broad lands in Norfolk — this ancient hall, and its wide-spread domains? I trow not.”
“Perchance I have given too much,” cried the old usurer, eagerly; “if so, it is not too late to amend our contract. Between us, there should be fair dealing, Sir Giles.”
“There is none other than fair dealing on my part,” replied the extortioner sternly; “and the terms of our agreement cannot be departed from. What I have just said applies to your general mode of life; but you have better reason for your conduct in this instance than is usual with you, since you combine the gratification of revenge with the indulgence of your other passions. You obtain a fair young bride, and at the same time deprive the person whom you hate most of all others, of the mistress of his affections. This is as it should be. Vengeance cannot be too dearly purchased, and the more refined the vengeance, the higher must necessarily be the price paid for it. In no way can you so cruelly injure this detested Mounchensey, as by robbing him of his mistress. And the blow dealt by you, shall be followed by others not less severe on my part.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 541
