“Ay, my liege,” Clavering replied. “He died like a brave and loyal man, sword in hand, smiting the enemies of his king. Thus it fell out: I and those with me were aware of the visit of the Iron-sides to this inn, for we were scouting about the town; but we did not think it prudent to attack them, lest the townsfolk should come to their aid. Ensconced where we could observe them, we saw them issue forth with a single prisoner — your Majesty we feared it might be. But be it whom it might, we resolved upon a rescue. I ought to mention, that we had been joined by three recruits, two of whom are here present, and who rendered us good service. The Ironsides left Brightelmstone, and rode across the downs in the direction of Lewes. We followed, but did not come up with them until they reached Kingston Hill. We then shouted loudly to them to stop, and they drew up and awaited our approach. Sword in hand we charged them — your name, my liege, forming our battle-cry. So furious was our assault that it proved irresistible. The shock scattered them, and a hand-to-hand conflict ensued — such a conflict as, since the days of the old Romans, I verily believe that hill hath never seen- The turf is reddened with the blood of your enemies, sire. We were triumphant. Half a dozen Ironsides now lie stark upon Kingston Hill. Amongst them, alas! is John Habergeon. But he sold his life dearly. Three of our foemen — their sergeant Delves being among the number — fell by his hand. Give me a glass of wine, my good hostess. I am somewhat faint.”
“That task be mine,” cried Charles, filling a glass for him. “You have gained a glorious victory, but I would it had not been purchased by the death of John Habergeon.”
“He died as he would have wished to die — with your Majesty’s name upon his lips,” rejoined Clavering.
Charles was silent for a moment, and then said: “A brave fellow is gone, but he has left good men behind him. I am glad to see that Ninian Saxby has escaped unhurt—”
“Not altogether unhurt, an please your majesty,” replied Ninian, stepping forward. “I have received a few sharp cuts, but nothing to signify. I gave the Roundheaded rogues as good as they brought, — and better!”
“I doubt it not,” said Charles, smiling. “Thou art a brave lad. But what do I see? Surely these are the gentlemen whom I met at Steyning?”
“Your Majesty is in the right,” replied Goldspur, coming forward and making an obeisance. “I and my friend Jervoise Rumboldsdyke have been anxious to approve our loyalty, and at length we have found occasion for doing so. Mr. Clavering Maunsel will declare whether we have comported ourselves well or not.”
“Both gentlemen behaved with great bravery, sire,” said Clavering.
“I am glad to hear it,” said the king. “I only wish I could reward you according to your deserts. But my exchequer is pretty much in the same state as your own.”
“Our exchequer is better furnished than your Majesty supposes,” rejoined Goldspur; “that is, it will be so to-morrow,” he added, correcting himself. “A rascally porter, named Skrow Antram, who served old Zachary Trangmar, the rich usurer of Lewes, joined us this evening, and was shot in the fight on Kingston Hill. With his dying breath he confessed to me and my friend Rumboldsdyke that he had robbed the old usurer his master, and told us where he had hidden the gold. To-morrow we shall visit old Zachary, and make a bargain with him for the discovery of the treasure. The old usurer must come down handsomely, for his porter had purloined a good round sum.”
“Well resolved,” replied Charles. “I am sure you will not make yourselves accomplices of the rogue Antram, and sully your honour as Cavaliers by appropriating the treasure. And now, Captain Tattersall, there is no need to tarry longer here. Let us to Shoreham. These gentlemen will go with us, and constitute my escort.”
“I am at your Majesty’s disposal,” replied the skipper.
“Farewell, then, my worthy host and hostess,” said Charles. “Rest assured I shall often think of the eventful night I have spent at the George at Brightelmstone.”
“I shall venture to remind your Majesty of it one of these days,” said Smith.
“You shall not need, my good fellow; nor you, my buxom Joan. Harkye, gentlemen, he amongst you who has the stoutest horse must give Captain Tattersall a seat behind him.”
“Then I will take him,” said Colonel Philips, “for I am well mounted.”
“Give me thy purse, Wilmot,” said the king. And on receiving it, he took forth five gold pieces, and placed them in the hostess’s hands. “There is for the reckoning, bonny Joan. One kiss at parting, and then adieu!”
Charles then left the room, and was attended to the yard by both host and hostess, neither of whom would leave him till he took his departure. Honest Smith prayed that every blessing might attend his Majesty, coupled with a hope that the George might speedily be again honoured by his presence. Mrs. Smith’s sobs prevented her from saying anything. At length all the party were mounted, Captain Tattersall being accommodated with a seat behind Colonel Philips. The king then gave the word to start, and bade adieu to the host and hostess, giving his hand to the latter, who bathed it with her tears, while pressing it to her lips.
The cavalcade being then put in motion, took the road along the coast through Hove. It was a fine, clear, starlight night, with the wind blowing freshly from the north-east. In little more than half an hour the troop approached Shoreham, no misadventure or hindrance of any kind having occurred to them. Captain Tattersall now directed the king’s attention to a vessel which could just be distinguished lying out at sea, at about a quarter of a mile’s distance, and informed him it was the Swiftsure.
A halt was then called. Charles dismounted, and bade adieu to his followers, thanking them all warmly for their services, and saying something kindly to each. His last words were reserved for Clavering Maunsel. Bidding the young man remember him to his father, he added, “And fail not to commend me to good Mr. Beard and fair Mistress Dulcia. Ere long, I hope to hear of your union with the object of your wishes.”
By this time Lord Wilmot and Captain Tattersall had dismounted. The skipper then walked on in advance, leaving the king and his lordship to follow. After crossing a heavy bank of shingle, they reached the edge of a little creek divided by an outer bank from the sea. Tattersall then gave a low whistle, in reply to which the sound of oars was heard, and a boat was seen advancing from under the shade of the opposite bank. This boat, which was manned by a couple of stout-looking seamen, soon touched the strand. The king and Lord Wilmot leaped into it, and were quickly followed by Tattersall, who seated himself in the stern. The men then plying their oars briskly, the boat was soon out of the creek, and cleaving its way through the sea.
In ten minutes more they were beside the Swiftsure. Charles sprang up the vessel’s side as actively as any seaman could have performed the feat, and was followed by the two others, while the boat pulled off again to shore. The king then looked towards the group of horsemen, whom he could dimly discern on the beach and a joyful shout reached his ears.
The brig then stood out to sea, and Charles was safely landed on the morning of the following day at Fécamp.
L’ENVOY
THE king’s recommendation was not neglected. Ere the year was out, Clavering was made happy with the hand of the fair Dulcia, and had no reason to repent his choice.
Charles, we need scarcely say, had to wait nine years for the Restoration, and long before that auspicious event, Colonel Maunsel was gathered to his fathers. But good Mr. Beard lived to be reinstated in his living, and again officiated in the little village church. He took for the text of the first sermon preached by him on resuming his duties, these verses from the 129th Psalm: “The plowers plowed upon my back; they made long their furrows. — The Lord is righteous: he hath cut asunder the cords of the wicked.”
Clavering and Dulcia continued to reside at Ovingdean Grange to the close of their days, which extended in both instances into another century. Though the Maunsel family is now extinct in the direct line, worthy representatives are left — both at Rottingdean and Lewes —
of the good old stock of the BEARDS. And we may add, that the old house at Ovingdean still belongs to a branch of the same family.
Stelfax, at that time a colonel in the Guards, and in high favour with Monk, formed part of the royal escort from Blackheath, on the glorious 29th of May, 1660, when the king made his triumphal entry into London. Charles particularly distinguished him, and good-humouredly observed, “Have you forgotten the half- hour we spent together in the hiding-place at Ovingdean, colonel?”
“I have forgotten all, except your Majesty’s generosity,” replied Stelfax, bending to the saddle-bow. He was already, we may perceive, a courtier.
Ninian Saxby became the fortunate possessor of Patty Whinchat, and was blessed with a numerous progeny. After his father’s death he filled the post of ostreger to Clavering, who grew passionately fond of all country sports. Some of Ninian’s descendants, we believe, may be found in the neighbourhood of Ovingdean to this day.
The body of stout old John Habergeon was removed from Kingston Hill, and buried in the village churchyard. Peace be with him!
Captain Tattersall received a considerable sum for his services. Moreover, a pension of a hundred a year was settled upon him and his descendants; and he was likewise presented with a handsome ring by the grateful monarch. Would you know more of the worthy skipper’s virtues, go seek his monument in the old parish churchyard at Brighton! There you may read the following epitaph:
Within this marble monument doth lie
Approved faith, honour, and loyalty.
In this cold clay he now has ta’en his station,
That once preserved the church, the crown, and nation.
When Charles the great was nothing but a breath,
This valiant soul stept between him and death.
Usurpers’ threats and tyrant rebels’ frown
Could not affright his virtue to the Crown;
Which glorious act of his for church and state
Eight princes in one day did gratulate;
Professing all to him in debt to be,
As all the world are to his memory.
Bonfellow Smith had gone the way of all flesh before that most festive time, when — to the infinite satisfaction of all landlords — universal England drunk did get —
For joy that Charles, her monarch, was restored.
But his still buxom widow at once took down the old sign of the George, and set up in its place King Charles the Second’s Head.
If Clavering’s services were not more fully requited, it was his own fault rather than that of his sovereign. Charles endeavoured to persuade him to quit his seclusion and come to court, offering him knighthood. But he was too happy at Ovingdean Grange to leave it, and respectfully declined the honour. By this time he had become, what he continued to remain to the last,
A fishing, hawking, hunting, Country Gentleman.
THE END
TALBOT HARLAND
CONTENTS
BOOK I: THE COURT AT TUNBRIDGE WELLS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
BOOK II. THE COURT AT WHITEHALL
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
BOOK III. THE CROWN JEWELS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
BOOK IV: THE MULBERRY GARDEN
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
BOOK V: THE COURT AT WINDSOR CASTLE
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
The Gaillarde on the Heath
No ballet ever offered a prettier tableau than the scene now presented. What with the two graceful central figures, the groups around them, the richly-gilt coach, the horses of the troopers, and the old oak-tree in the background, the picture was perfect.
Amid the applause of the beholders, the gaillarde came to an end.
BOOK I: THE COURT AT TUNBRIDGE WELLS
CHAPTER I
SOMERHILL
No mansion in Kent is more charmingly situated, or commands fairer prospects, than stately Somerhill. From its terrace, the views are enchanting, comprising gentle hills clothed with timber, lovely valleys, broad meads, homesteads innumerable, orchards, hop-gardens, and, at no great distance, the picturesque old town of Tunbridge, with its ruinous castle, and the Medway flowing past it. Beyond, rise the heights of Sevenoaks, and the long line of the Surrey hills. Tunbridge Wells, which lies in a hollow on the left, is hidden; but its position is marked by the heathy common beyond it, and by the villas crowning the hills. At the rear of the mansion, the prospect is far more extensive, and ranges over a vast and fertile plain, in the midst of which may be descried Canterbury, with the chalk downs near Dover in the extreme distance.
In the days of the Merry Monarch, in which our story is laid, the views from the terrace of Somerhill were even finer than at present, because there was nothing to mar the beauty of the landscape. A delightful air of seclusion pervaded the whole scene. There were more heaths, more woods, and fewer hedges. The prospect was wilder, but more pleasing.
In 1670, the precise date of our story, Somerhill could not boast of antiquity. It is old now; but still in excellent preservation. Built in the reign of James I., on the site of an older mansion, which had belonged to the mirror of knighthood, Sir Philip Sidney, and afterwards to Dudley, Earl of Leicester, Queen Elizabeth’s favorite, at the period of which we treat, it was the country residence of Lady Muskerry, the famous “Babylonian Princess” of De Grammont, and had been bequeathed to her by her husband, the brave Lord Muskerry, who was killed by the side of the Duke of York, in the great naval conflict with the Dutch in 1665.
The widowed lady of Somerhill was not a beauty — far from it. Very plain, very vain, she dressed outrageously; and being crazed on the subject of dancing, rendered herself an object of ridicule to the whole court. Nevertheless, she was very good humored, and took even ridicule in good part — perhaps she did not perceive it; and being very rich and hospitable, her absurdities, though laughed at, were tolerated. Indeed, they afforded endless amusement to the Duke of Buckingham, Killegrew, Etherege, Sedley, and the other court wits.
Lady Muskerry was of an uncertain age, neither young nor old, short of stature, not particularly well made, but remarkably active; and she believed — and she had the king’s word for it — that she dressed and danced better than any other dame at court — not excepting even the Duchess of Cleveland, Naturally, her wealth attracted many suitors, who were not deterred by her eccentricity; but as yet she had continued fai
thful to the memory of her valiant husband. Whenever Charles visited Tunbridge Wells with his court, Somerhill was the scene of constant festivities, and nothing could be more sumptuous or agreeable than these entertainments.
Lady Muskerry had latterly greatly increased her popularity at court by providing the queen with the loveliest maid of honor that had been seen at Whitehall since the time of the belle Stewart, now Duchess of Richmond.
Dorinda Neville, Lady Muskerry’s niece and ward, was just nineteen when she was preferred to the enviable place by her majesty Queen Catherine; and it was universally allowed that for grace, symmetry of person, and regularity of feature, she eclipsed all her predecessors. The queen was delighted with her; for she had as much discretion as beauty, and her head was not turned by the adulations of even the highest personages. The wittiest of the courtiers wrote sonnets in her praise; and those who were less witty, but quite as eager to win her favor, paid her a thousand compliments; but neither wits nor empty coxcombs touched her heart, though they afforded her amusement.
We must endeavor to give her portrait, though only Lely could do justice to her charms. Dorinda Neville, then, was a blonde, with a delicately fair complexion, eyes of a tender blue, arched over by exquisitely pencilled eyebrows, and shaded by long eyelashes, lovely features, marked by a charming expression, a profusion of light tresses, and a slender but faultless figure. All her movements were full of grace, and she danced to admiration. Lady Muskerry told the king, confidentially, that she had been her niece’s sole instructress in dancing, and had taken a vast deal of pains with her.
“Oddsfish! I thought so,” replied Charles, smiling. “She does your ladyship a vast deal of credit.”
The lovely Dorinda Neville had not been long at court — though quite long enough to cause innumerable heart-burnings and jealousies — when his majesty’s youngest sister, Henrietta, Duchess of Orleans, arrived on a visit to her royal brother. Henrietta, it may be proper to state, was married to Philip, Duke of Orleans, sole brother to Louis XIV., and at this time was not more than twenty-five, and possessed of great personal attractions. Poor princess! she could not foresee her fate, which was to die by poison, administered by her husband, not many weeks afterwards. The duchess’s visit, though apparently unexpected by Charles, had been preconcerted between them; in fact, she came on a secret mission from the French monarch. The Duchess of Orleans embarked at Dunquerque in the beginning of May, 1670, and was received by the king, in person, at Dover, and conducted by him to Whitehall, where a series of magnificent fetes were given in her honor. These fetes derived additional attraction from the many French gentlemen and dames whom the duchess had brought in her train. Foremost among the latter, for beauty and grace, was the dazzling Louise de Quéroualle; and if Louis had sent over the ambitious syren for the purpose of subjugating the amorous English monarch, he perfectly succeeded in his design. Charles at once fell into the snare. But Louise, though young, was an experienced coquette, and heightened the king’s passion by feigned indifference to his suit.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 588
