So saying, he filled a goblet with wine, and gave it to the young falconer, who did justice to the pledge proposed to him. Colonel Gunter then inquired from Ninian whether his horse was fully equal to the journey he had to perform, and being answered in the affirmative, he bade the young man good night, enjoining him to act with the utmost caution, since much now depended upon him.
Ninian, with much earnestness, and more modesty than he usually exhibited, replied that he felt the full responsibility of the task he had undertaken, and would discharge it to the best of his ability. He then took his departure, and in less than a quarter of an hour started for Shoreham.
Not long afterwards the two Cavaliers, having to rise early, with the prospect of a hard day’s work to follow, retired to rest.
CHAPTER II.
A Royal Wanderer
FIVE o’clock had not struck next morning, when Colonel Gunter entered Clavering’s chamber, and found his guest not only awake, but fully attired and prepared for the journey. So blithe were the young man’s looks, that Colonel Gunter could not help commenting upon them, and said, “I am glad to see you look so cheerful, my young friend. It shows that you calculate on success, and I doubt not your anticipations will be realized.”
“Ere many hours have flown, his Majesty, I hope, will have quitted these ungrateful shores,” said Clavering; “and I feel assured that although he is now driven hence by the malice of rebels and fanatics, he will return to his kingdom in triumph.”
“Amen!” replied Colonel Gunter. “Like myself, I see you are well armed — pistols in your belt and rapier by your side. I trust we shall have no occasion to use our weapons. But the king shall never fall into the hands of the rebels while we have breath to defend him. And now, since you are ready, let us set forth at once.”
“With all my heart,” replied Clavering; “I am impatient to greet his Majesty on the day which I trust will be that of his happy deliverance.”
None of the household were astir at this early hour except the confidential servant who had waited upon his master on the previous evening. Their attentive personage had prepared a slight repast for them, and set it out in the library, but neither of the gentlemen cared to partake of it, nor would they be prevailed upon to fortify their stomachs against the morning air by a glass of strong waters, at the butler’s recommendation. Proceeding at once to the stables, they mounted their steeds, which they found in readiness, and rode off.
Racton, Colonel Gunter’s residence, it has already been mentioned, was about four miles to the north-west of Chichester, and though a house of no great size or pretension, was very pleasantly situated at a short distance from Stanstead Park, then belonging to Lord Lumley. This park, with the stately mansion in the midst of it, now lay before our friends; they did not, however, enter it, but skirting the moss-grown palings by which it was surrounded, shaped their course towards the forest, which lay further to the west. As the sun had not yet appeared to enliven nature with his kindling beams, and dispel the mists of night, which still hung heavy over the woods and the landscape, the atmosphere felt excessively cold, causing the two gentlemen to draw their ample cloaks somewhat more tightly round them. It was now, it must be borne in mind, the middle of October, and the foliage was dyed with the glowing tints bestowed by the later days of autumn. Heavy dews hung on the leaves, and the ferns, briars, and gorse growing on the roadside were plentifully charged with moisture.
The horses snorted frequently and loudly as their riders walked them along, and the breath from the animal’s nostrils arose like steam. The rabbits on the sandy banks scudded off to their holes on the approach of the horsemen. The pheasant ran along the ground, thickly strewn with brown leaves, and gained the shelter of the copse. The blackbird started from the holly-bush, and the cries of the jay, the mellow notes of the wood-pigeon, and the chatter of the magpie resounded from the thicket. Ere long the two Cavaliers gained the forest, which was of considerable extent, and boasted some noble timber, being especially rich, like most large woods in this part of Sussex, in beech-trees. Passing a grove of these magnificent trees, crowning a sandy eminence from which their mighty roots protruded, our friends began to descend a long sweeping glade, broken here and there by scattered trees — ancient oaks with gnarled trunks and giant arms, towering elms, or venerable thorns. In a ferny brake on the right was couched a herd of deer, and as the two horsemen neared them, these graceful denizens of the forest started up from their bed, and tripped across the glade. A little further on, the deep secluded character of the forest in some measure disappeared, though the scene lost nothing of its picturesqueness and sylvan beauty.
By this time the sun had begun to o’er-top the trees on the east, and to light up the groves on the western side of the glade, chequering the open sward with shadows, though the opposite side was still buried in gloom. Riding quickly on, the two Cavaliers speedily reached the central avenue in the forest — a wide alley two miles in length, and skirted by noble trees — and they had no sooner entered it than they descried a little cavalcade advancing from the opposite direction, though still about a mile off.
“Yonder comes the king!” exclaimed Colonel Gunter. “We are not a minute too soon, after all. Forward! my young friend — forward!” And as he spoke he urged on his steed, while Clavering likewise quickened his pace.
The cavalcade descried by our friends consisted of four persons, all well mounted, and all plainly attired in sad-coloured garments — long black cloaks, square-toed boots drawn above the knee, and hats with tall conical crowns and broad penthouse brims. They might have been taken for demure and fanatical Republicans. The two gentlemen in advance were Colonel Robert Philips, of Montacute House, in Somersetshire, a devoted Royalist, and Captain Thomas Gunter, our worthy colonel’s kinsman. Of the pair who came behind, he who rode on the left was Lord Wilmot; but it is the individual on the right who claims our chief attention.
Tall of stature, and, so far as could be judged in his unbecoming attire, strongly and well proportioned, this personage possessed features which could scarcely be termed handsome. And yet, though the countenance might be somewhat harsh, the eyes were so large, quick, and expressive, so full of fire and intelligence, of malice and, it might be, merriment, that it was difficult to say that he was ill-looking. The owner of that remarkable physiognomy used himself to describe it as ugly, but it may be doubted whether any one else concurred with him in opinion. The features, though large, and perhaps a little coarse, were by no means heavy, but susceptible of the most captivating, vivacious, and humorous expression. Drollery, indeed, and good humour might be said to characterize the face, though there was a strong touch of sarcasm about the mouth. The complexion of the person under consideration was singularly swarthy, his eyebrows thick and black, and the little that could be seen of his close-cropped hair, of the same raven hue. Such was the fugitive monarch, Charles Stuart, as he appeared to the two Cavaliers when they rode forward to salute him.
As our friends came within a bow-shot of the king, he ordered a halt, and stood still to await their approach — his attendants drawing back so as to leave his Majesty in front. On seeing the little cortége halt in this manner, the two Cavaliers slackened their pace, approaching the royal wanderer as ceremoniously and with as profound respect as if he had been surrounded by a large retinue, and aided and accompanied by all the pomp and show of princely state. When within a short distance of the king, they both drew up, and, uncovering, bowed to the saddle-bow. Charles returned their salutation with the dignity and grace peculiar to him. His whole deportment was changed, and notwithstanding his sorry attire, he now looked every inch a king. Nothing could be more affable and condescending than his manner, while the air of majesty which he ceased not to retain, heightened the effect of his gracious demeanour.
“Well met, gentlemen!” he cried. “A good morning to both of you. Delighted to see you. Approach, Mr. Clavering Maunsel. We have not seen you since the night after Worcester’s luckless engagement,
when, at great personal risk, you delivered us from imminent capture by the rebels. Approach, brave young sir, that we may tender our thanks for the service, which, rest assured, will never be obliterated from our memory.”
At this intimation, Clavering sprang from his steed, and giving the bridle to Colonel Gunter, stepped forward, and bending the knee reverentially before the young monarch, kissed the hand which the latter extended towards him.
“Rise, sir,” said Charles. “We are greatly beholden to you, but you must content yourself with bare thanks for the present, our fallen estate not permitting us the means of adequately rewarding services like yours. But a day may come, and then they shall not be forgotten. And now, what tidings do you bring of your worthy father? — he is well, I trust? And the valiant old trooper who fought with him at Edge Hill and Naseby, and whom he sent with you to Worcester — how is he named? — let me see — oh! John Habergeon — how fares it with the tough old fellow? I trust no prick-eared fanatic has shortened his days? We shall put Colonel Maunsel’s loyalty and hospitality to the proof, for we propose to pass a few hours with him at Ovingdean Grange before proceeding to Shoreham. The visit, we trust, can be made without risk? But these questions, and others which we design to put to you, can be answered more leisurely as we ride along. So mount, young sir, and take a place beside us.”
And while Clavering hastened to obey his Majesty’s behest, Charles accorded an equally gracious reception to Colonel Gunter; with this difference only, that he allowed the latter to perform the ceremony of kissing hands without quitting the saddle.
The cavalcade was now once more in motion, and proceeding at a trot along the avenue. Colonel Philips and Captain Gunter rode in advance as before, while the rear was brought up by Colonel Gunter and Lord Wilmot, the king and Clavering occupying the centre. After a little preliminary discourse, Charles broached the subject of greatest interest to himself, and inquired, with an anxiety which he did not attempt to conceal, whether Tattersall’s vessel was engaged, and ready to sail that night, or early in the morning?
“The brig is secured, as I trust, sire,” Clavering replied; “but arrangements were made for to-morrow night, not for the morning. However, I do not believe that the earlier hour will make much difference to Captain Tattersall; and our faithful messenger Ninian Saxby, has already been dispatched to him to expedite matters.”
“Tattersall must start before daybreak to-morrow morning,” said Charles. “I am superstitious enough to attach great importance to the arrangement, and feel persuaded that delay will be fraught with danger.”
“Heaven forfend!” exclaimed Clavering. “I would we had been sooner aware of your Majesty’s wishes in this particular.”
“That could not easily be,” replied the king. “Till yesterday I was indifferent to the matter, but now I am bent upon it.”
“Far be it from me to attempt to shake your Majesty’s resolution,” said Clavering. “You would not, I am sure, feel so strong a conviction without cause. And perhaps this acceleration of your plans may save you from some secret danger.”
As he spoke, his thoughts involuntarily reverted to Micklegift, but he did not think it needful to mention his misgivings to the king. “I had previously prepared my father for the honour and gratification he might expect in a visit from your Majesty tomorrow; but his impatience will be so great that he will be far better pleased that it should occur to-day.”
“I hope we shall take him by surprise,” said the king. “I do not desire him to make any preparations. I must be received by him, not as the king, but as plain William Jackson. Besides, if by any accident the expected visit of to-morrow should have reached the enemy, and bring them to the house, they will be a day too late.”
“True,” replied Clavering, thoughtfully. “All things considered, I am not sorry that your Majesty has advanced the hour of your departure.”
At this juncture an opening in the trees displayed a fine view of the country, the prospect being terminated by Portsmouth, with its shipping, and the Isle of Wight.
The king stopped to gaze at the scene, and his little escort halted likewise. After looking for a few moments at the distant arsenal, with its forts, docks, and storehouses, he exclaimed, in tones of some emotion, not unmingled with bitterness.
“Oh, that yon noble arsenal, with its fortifications and stores, and the powerful fleet in its harbour, were mine! I should not need more to regain my kingdom. But all have fallen from me except you, my faithful followers, and a few others, and I ought, therefore, to estimate your loyalty at its true value.”
After a brief pause he continued, in a voice of deep emotion, “Now that the hour is almost come when I must exile myself from my country, and seek shelter on a foreign shore, I shrink from the effort, and almost prefer death to a flight, which has something cowardly and dishonourable about it — unworthy of the descendant of a royal line, and himself a king.”
“View not your withdrawal in that light, my gracious liege,” said Clavering. “There is nothing unworthy in your meditated flight. On the contrary, it is a course of action dictated by prudence. If a chance remained of regaining your kingdom, I and your faithful liegemen would urge you to stay. But the moment is unpropitious, and you do wisely to withdraw till this terrible tempest now passing over the land shall have exhausted its fury. Leave your misguided and ungrateful subjects for a while to the care of the usurper Cromwell — they will soon be heartily sick of him, and eager to recally ou.”
“What you say is true — perfectly true,” replied Charles; “I must go. Yet it is hard to fly from a kingdom, even when it is mine no longer.”
“Your kingdom is not lost, my liege,” cried Clavering. “You design not to abdicate.”
“Never!” exclaimed Charles. “I will sooner mount my murdered father’s scaffold than do so.”
“Then I am right in saying your kingdom is not lost, sire. A king is not the less a king because he can only rally round him a few faithful followers, Our spirit in time will animate others, and will catch and spread till the whole land is on fire. Treason and rebellion will be burned out, and your subjects eager to herald your return.”
“I trust it may be so,” replied the king. “Have any tidings been heard of the Earl of Derby? A court-martial hath sat upon him, as I am informed, by virtue of a commission from the arch-traitor Cromwell, and it hath, in violation of all laws of honourable warfare, since quarter was promised the earl on surrender, condemned him to death by the headsman. But his lordship hath since petitioned Cromwell, as I am told, for a remission of his sentence — with what result? — can any of ye tell me, gentlemen?”
There was a profound silence. And Clavering and Colonel Gunter, on whom Charles fixed inquiring glances, cast down their eyes.
“Your silence shows me that the petition has been ineffectual,” continued the king. “Not content with shedding the best blood of England, the murderous villain would pour out more. He would spare none of you if ye fell into his hands. O my valiant and chivalrous Derby, thou soul of honour and loyalty, and art thou to perish thus! When and where is the shameful deed to be done?”
“To-morrow at noon at Bolton, in Lancashire, as I am informed, my liege,” replied Clavering, to whom the question seemed to be addressed.
“To-morrow at noon — ha!” exclaimed Charles, sadly. “Then one of the best and bravest spirits in England will wing its flight to purer spheres! Prepare yourselves to be astonished, gentlemen, by what I am about to relate. As I live and stand before you,” he added, in a tone of so much solemnity that it struck awe in his hearers, “I have been warned that Derby would die at the time you have mentioned.”
“May I venture to ask your Majesty how you received the warning?” said Clavering.
“From the earl himself,” replied Charles. “You all stare and look incredulous. But it is so, unless I have conjured up a phantom from mine own imagination. I saw him the night before last at midnight — I saw him again last night. Nay, methought I b
eheld his shadowy figure, not long ago, in this very forest.”
“Here! in this forest, sire?” exclaimed Clavering.
“Moving amidst the trees by my side,” replied Charles. “I beheld him quite plainly, though I mentioned not the circumstance.”
“And the apparition, if such it may be called, came to warn your Majesty, you say?” cried Clavering.
“The earl, or a spirit in his likeness, warned me,” replied the king, “that his execution would take place to-morrow — the truth of which sad intelligence you yourself have just confirmed — and the semblance of my gallant Derby added, that if I quitted not England before his head was laid upon the block, I should share the same fate as my martyred father. Hence my anxiety to set sail at daybreak to-morrow will be intelligible to you.”
“Your haste and inquietude are now perfectly intelligible, sire,” replied Clavering.
“The circumstance is strange, and inexplicable even to myself,” said Charles. “But it is best to accept such matters as they come, without seeking to examine them too closely. It may be a delusion, or it may be real, I cannot say which; but I shall act as if the warning had been given me by my beloved Derby in person. But I shall grow sad if I suffer my thoughts to dwell longer on this theme. Let us on!”
With this, he put his steed once more in motion, and the little cavalcade proceeded in the same order and at the same pace as before. By pursuing the avenue to its full extent, the king would have been brought nearer Stanstead House than his conductors judged prudent. They therefore turned off on the left, and soon came to a more open part of the forest, where the timber, being scattered, attained larger growth. Here they encountered a woodman, with a hatchet over his shoulder, accompanied by a lad, and both stood still to gaze at the cavalcade; but on recognizing Colonel Gunter, who was known to him, the forester doffed his fur cap and went his way. Further on, they met a couple of huntsmen in Lord Lumley’s livery, and these men likewise testified surprise on beholding the party. But again Colonel Gunter’s presence prevented interruption.
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