The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  Charles was in the act of springing from his couch to summon Chiffinch, when a gesture from the unknown restrained him.

  “I am armed, sire,” said the audacious personage, in a low, deep voice. ““best your majesty should remain quiet and listen to me.”

  There was something so determined in the man’s manner and tone, that it enforced compliance.

  “Who are you?” demanded the king. “And with what design have you come hither?”

  “Your majesty asks who I am,” replied the intruder. “I will tell you without disguise. I am the leader of a secret society, numbering several hundreds, which has been formed for the express purpose of putting you to death.”

  “I have to deal with an assassin, then?” cried Charles.

  “Be silent, on your life, sire,” rejoined the other. “The slightest indiscretion will be fatal to you. It must be evident, if I designed to injure you, that I possess the power. I have found means of penetrating to your chamber. I have stolen upon you during your slumbers, and could have slain you, as the murderous Thane slew the royal Duncan.”

  “And what hindered you?” demanded the king, very ill at his ease, though manifesting no fear.

  “I was overpowered by the sacred majesty of your person,” replied the other. “You were completely at my mercy — but I could not strike.”

  “I suppose I am bound to thank you for your extraordinary forbearance,” said Charles, beginning to feel reassured. “But why not depart, since you had so judiciously changed your mind?’’

  “Had I done so, your majesty would have been unaware of the service I have rendered you,” observed the unknown.

  “That is quite true,” rejoined the king. “I suppose you expect to be rewarded?”

  “I am entitled to a reward, sire — a great reward. Not only have I saved your life, but I will deliver you from a hundred secret enemies, by whom you are beset.”

  “Why not denounce your accomplices?” said the king.

  “Were I base enough to do so,” rejoined the unknown, disdainfully, “I should ensure your destruction and my own. Any treachery would be promptly and terribly avenged. The rack would extort no confession from me. Trust to me, sire, and I will protect you. Hereafter I will ask for my reward. And now a word of caution at parting. Your safety depends upon your silence. Speak not of our interview. Make no inquiries concerning me. “You will learn nothing. My precautions are too well taken. You may sleep soundly, for I promise that you shall not be again disturbed.”

  As the words were uttered, he extinguished the light, and the chamber was instantly buried in gloom.

  Charles listened intently, but could hear no sound of his departure.

  After a while he summoned Chiffinch, but had to call twice before the sleepy valet-de-chambre responded.

  “How’s this? — the light gone out!” cried Chiffinch, as he opened the door.

  He quickly relighted the taper, and Charles then perceived that the mysterious intruder had disappeared.

  The king addressed no questions to the valet, nor did he explain why he had summoned him; but Chiffinch ventured to inquire if his majesty had seen the ghost.

  “I have had an unpleasant dream,” replied the king. “Go to bed again, but leave the door ajar.”

  “He has seen his grandsire!” muttered Chiffinch, as he returned to his couch; “but he doesn’t like to own it.”

  As may naturally be expected, Charles could not easily compose himself to sleep again. But he determined, after much reflection, to maintain silence respecting the strange incident.

  When he arose next mom at his accustomed early hour, he tried to ascertain in what manner the mysterious intruder had entered the room.

  Raising the tapestry, he carefully examined the wainscot, but failed to detect any sliding panel or secret door.

  CHAPTER XXI

  HOW THE KING WAS ROBBED BY CLAUDE DUVAL

  In the course of his adventurous career, Charles had escaped too many perils not to have become a predestinarian; and, being firmly persuaded that he was not destined to perish by the hand of an assassin, he soon shook off the fears inspired by his nocturnal visitor.

  That the person was well acquainted with the mansion, or had been aided by some one possessing such knowledge, was certain. Besides the guests, there were innumerable lacqueys and servants in the house, and possibly the mysterious individual might be among them. But how was the king to recognize him, since he had not been able to obtain a full view of his features?

  However, the careless monarch made no such attempt. He instituted no inquiries, and took no precautions for his safety. He went forth that morning wholly unattended, as usual, walked for two or three hours in the park, and even visited Sevenoaks.

  After a copious breakfast, which he had earned by his vigorous exercise, he was too much engrossed by the amusements prepared for him by his noble host, to think more of the strange occurrence.

  One of the diversions of the day was a rustic fete, which took place in the park, among the trees, at no great distance from the mansion.

  The weather being most propitious, the fete was delightful. A maypole, hung with garlands and ropes of flowers, was reared in the midst of a broad patch of soft green sward, and round it danced the prettiest Phillises and the gayest Corydons of Sevenoaks.

  Though both their majesties were present, no constraint was placed upon the assemblage. On the contrary, the Merry Monarch promoted the festivity by commanding a general dance, and set the example to his courtiers by selecting a blooming damsel for his partner.

  How the rosy-cheeked girl blushed at the honor conferred upon her, and how she boasted of it afterwards!

  That dance, in which court gallants were mingled with country maidens, and court dames with young rustics, was a pleasant sight — pleasanter far to witness than the grand revel of the night before.

  Carpets were spread upon the sward, on which those who listed could sit down; and a tent was pitched close at hand, where refreshments were served to the country folk. Besides dancing, there were various rustic sports that caused infinite amusement.

  While these were going on, the court dames and gallants exhibited their skill in archery. Targets, and what were called “rovers,” had been placed in the beautiful dell to which we have alluded, and here they shot for prizes given by Lord Buckhurst. The chief prize — a silver bugle — was won by Louise, who was enchanted by her success. She was still more pleased when Charles promised to add a chain garnished with pearls to the bugle.

  As she was surveying the scene with the king, from the bank of the dell, she exclaimed, “Would Achille were here. How much he would have enjoyed these sports!”

  “I wish he were here, with all my heart!” cried Charles. “Have you heard from him?”

  “Yes. The messenger who arrived this morning with a letter from the princess to your majesty, brought me a few lines from him. Her highness, as you know, embarked yesterday from Dover, but rather late in the day. Achille did not care to travel by night, so we shall not see him till to-morrow.”

  “I hope he will have some diverting adventure to relate on his return,” said the king. Then, with a change of manner, he added, “Poor Henrietta! she writes as if she were bidding me an eternal adieu! She seems to dread returning to Saint Cloud.”

  “The duke, her husband, is a jealous tyrant, capable of any atrocious act,” cried Louise. “I sometimes tremble for her highness. I have warned her, and I hope she will not neglect my counsel.”

  “You seem to have frightened her,” said Charles.

  “Sire, you do not know the Duke of Orleans as well as I do. He is as perfidious as a Borgia, and capable of poisoning her.”

  The king made no remark, but a dark shade came over his countenance.

  Presently, however, he recovered his gaiety, and proceeded to the mansion, where all the guests partook of a sumptuous collation.

  After the repast, Charles, who liked nothing so well as a game at bowls, and wh
o had never found a bowling-green more to his mind than that of Knole, was about to devote the afternoon to his favorite recreation; but he was turned from his purpose by Louise, who proposed a ride in the park, declaring that she had not seen half its beauties.

  The expression of her wishes was sufficient for Charles, and shortly afterwards a joyous troop sallied forth on horseback.

  But the king and Louise soon separated from the others, and rode on by themselves towards the further side of the park, halting, ever and anon, to admire the lovely pictures offered to their gaze. Knolls crowned by magnificent oaks, clumps of beech, long, sweeping glades, deep dells, coverts, amidst which herds of deer might be seen tossing their branching antlers, and here and there a solitary tree of enormous size. Some of the oldest trees in the country are to be seen in Knole Park.

  They were passing through a copse, when a horseman, whose approach they had not noticed, suddenly presented himself before them. There was nothing very startling in the circumstance, except that this personage was masked.

  He was extremely well mounted, and gaily attired in a scarlet riding-dress, embroidered with gold. As he had pistols in his holsters, it struck both those who beheld him that he must be the much-talked-about Claude Duval.

  The king, however, manifested neither surprise nor uneasiness, as the horseman removed his feathered hat, and bowed profoundly, but courteously returned the salutation.

  ““Claude Duval, sire; I am sure of it!” cried Louise.

  “You are right, mademoiselle. I am the person you suppose,” said the masked horseman, addressing her in French, and speaking with a marked and peculiar accent.

  “Are you aware that you are in the presence of his majesty?” pursued Louise.

  “I am quite aware of it, mademoiselle,” replied Duval, with profound deference.

  “Then I presume that you do not design to rob me?” cried the king, with a half laugh.

  “Pardon me, sire; I have that intention,” rejoined Duval. “I should be wanting to myself, if I allowed the opportunity of crowning my reputation to escape me.”

  The assurance with which this was uttered made the king laugh heartily.

  “Oddsfish!” he exclaimed; “this is a novel adventure.”

  “Let me give him my purse, sire,” said Louise, detaching an embroidered velvet escarcelle from her girdle.

  “Mademoiselle, I must have something from the king himself,” observed Claude Duval. “The diamond buckle from his majesty’s hat, or a ring, will perfectly content me.”

  “Parbleu! you are excessively moderate in your demand,” cried Charles, still laughing. “But before I give you aught, you must unmask.”

  “Your majesty must be pleased to excuse me,” rejoined Duval. “Out of consideration for Mademoiselle de Quéroualle, I cannot remove my mask. My aspect would horrify her. Besides, I have a vow that hinders me.”

  “Let him have the ring, I entreat you, sire,” cried Louise. “I begin to feel afraid.”

  “Fear no maladresse on my part, mademoiselle,” said Duval. “It is true that I have companions in this wood, but I should never dream of summoning them.”

  ““be a pity to disappoint so polite a gentleman,” observed Charles. “Give him the ring if you will,” he added, presenting it to Louise.

  Opening her escarcelle, she dropped the ring into it, and gave the little bag to Duval, who received it with a graceful bow.

  “Grammercy, sire!” he cried. “I would rather have this than a thousand pounds.”

  “I challenge you to wear it in my presence,” said the king.

  “I accept the challenge, sire,” replied Duval. “You shall behold it on my finger.”

  “I know not if this is meant as a frolic, sir,” said Charles, amazed at the other’s audacity. “If so, it may cost you dear. I shall order instant pursuit; and if captured, you will assuredly be hanged.”

  “I must take my chance, sire,” rejoined Duval. “But I do not think I shall be captured. I have the honor to salute your majesty.”

  Bowing profoundly, he galloped off.

  He had not disappeared, when another horseman entered the copse from behind.

  It proved to be Talbot Harland, and the king hallooed to him to come on.

  “What think you has happened?” cried Charles. “Nay, you will never guess. I have been robbed.”

  “Robbed, sire?” echoed Talbot, in astonishment.

  “Robbed of a ruby ring by Claude Duval. “he who has just ridden off. Pursue him!”

  “I will follow him to the death,” cried Talbot.

  And clapping spurs to his steed, he dashed off in the direction taken by Duval.

  “If Bellegarde had not been at Dover, I should have thought that this was he,” cried Charles.

  CHAPTER XXII

  THE PURSUIT

  The oak copse in which the incident just described took place, was situated at the outskirts of Knole Park.

  As Talbot burst from the wood, he descried Duval, who was not more than a couple of hundred yards off, evidently making towards the park pales, and he shouted to him to stop, though with little expectation of his compliance.

  Duval neither looked back, nor quickened his pace; but in another moment jumped the palings, and disappeared.

  Talbot followed without hesitation, being luckily mounted on one of Lord Buckhurst’s best hunters; but on landing on the other side of the pales, he could see nothing of the flying robber.

  However, a countryman, whom he espied, called out that “t’other gentleman” had ridden down the hill, and Talbot instantly took the course pointed out.

  The gentle slope which he was descending was covered with fern, with hollies and broom scattered about, but at the bottom there was a thicket, in which he felt sure the robber had taken shelter.

  In this he was mistaken. Duval had merely passed through the wood, and could now be discerned mounting the opposite side of the glen. Apparently, he gave himself little concern about his pursuer, for he rode slowly up the ascent, and on gaining the summit, halted, and looked round, as if considering in what direction he should next shape his course.

  Tunbridge was but seven miles distant, and he may have thought of proceeding thither; but, perhaps, some difficulties occurred to him, and he rode off towards Sundridge.

  Meantime, Talbot had drawn nearer to him, and kept him full in view.

  After reaching a narrow lane with high banks, in which, fortunately for the fugitive, no cart or other vehicle was encountered, they came upon an extensive heath; and here Talbot did his best to overtake the robber. But he soon found that his steed was no match, in point of swiftness, for that of Duval.

  Hitherto, the robber had made no effort to escape; but he now careered across the common at a pace that would have soon carried him out of sight if he had maintained it; but he evidently enjoyed the chase, and had no wish to put an end to it.

  He allowed his pursuer to come within bow-shot of him, and then started off again as swiftly as before.

  Avoiding the little village of Sundridge, which lay towards the left, he rode on past River Head, and soon reached the foot of Madam’s Court Hill.

  As yet, he had experienced no hindrance of any kind. The roads he had taken were unfrequented; and none of the few pedestrians he met ventured to stop him, though urged to do so by Talbot’s vociferations. The sight of the pistols in Duval’s holsters kept them at a respectful distance.

  He now rode leisurely up Madam’s Court Hill, from the summit of which a magnificent view over the weald of Kent is commanded, and was surveying the country, as if still undecided in which direction to shape his course, when three or four horsemen, apparently coming from Farnborough, were seen mounting the hill.

  Not caring to meet them, he turned about, when he found that Talbot was nearer than he supposed — so near, indeed, that an encounter with him was inevitable.

  Drawing his sword, Talbot spurred his horse towards the robber, shouting out to him to surrender himself a
prisoner.

  Duval quietly awaited the charge; and when his antagonist was within three or four yards of him, fired, and horse and rider rolled to the ground. A bullet had pierced the poor animal’s brain.

  “Suivez moi, si vous pouvez, a Londres,” cried Duval.

  With these words, he dashed down the hill.

  The horsemen who were mounting the ascent witnessed the rencounter, and fancied that Talbot was shot; but ere they got up, the young man was on his legs.

  Very little explanation was needed. The newcomers quite understood that it must be a highwayman who had fled, but they one and all refused to go in pursuit of him. They thought the attempt too hazardous. The next shot might be for the rider — not for the horse.

  “I call upon you in the king’s name to assist me!” cried Talbot, authoritatively. “Refuse at your peril. I belong to his majesty’s household. I must have a horse from one of you.”

  “Take mine,” cried a stout man, dismounting. “I am a butcher of Farnborough; Gideon Brisket by name. I’ll walk on to Sevenoaks. If my horse gets shot, like this poor beast, you’ll have to pay twenty pounds for him.”

  Without more ado, Talbot sprang into the saddle which Gideon had just quitted, and bidding the others follow, rode down the hill.

  If, with the best hunter in the Knole stables, he had failed to catch Duval, it did not seem very likely he would be able to overtake him now with the sorry steed he had acquired; but he determined to do his best.

  Much time had been lost, and Duval had disappeared. But, from the brow of the hill, Talbot had seen him strike off towards Otford, and he and his companions were about to take the same course, when they heard the trampling of horses in the distance, and soon afterwards perceived a little troop galloping along the road from Sevenoaks.

  Overjoyed at the sight, Talbot immediately halted.

  The troop consisted of half-a-dozen grooms, headed by the Duke of Buckingham and Lord Feversham, who had been sent by the king in pursuit of the robber. They had ascertained that he had taken the London road.