With the instinct of jealousy, the Duchess of Portsmouth had made the same discovery at the same moment, but she said nothing. Charles, however, was so excited that he called out to Bellegarde:
“Look, count! whom do you see in that boat?”
“A very charming creature, sire,” rejoined Bellegarde, with affected indifference.
“Do not affect ignorance,” rejoined the king. “You know her as well as I do.”
“Do you call that creature beautiful?” cried the duchess, with a mocking laugh. “I think her frightful.”
“Why don’t you stand up in defence of your mistress, count?” said the king, laughing.
“My mistress, sire! I don’t even know her.”
“Fi done!” cried Charles, laughing incredulously. “You ought to be proud of her. She does credit to your taste.”
“Sire, I accept your compliments, though I do not deserve them,” said Bellegarde, shrugging his shoulders.
At this juncture, the stalwart individual, who acted as coxswain, sang out lustily to the oarsmen. The words were nothing, but they struck the king forcibly, and almost made him start.
“That is the voice I heard at Newmarket!” he said, in a significant tone, to Bellegarde.
“Indeed, sire!” exclaimed the count, scarcely able to disguise his confusion.
“I am certain of it,” rejoined the king. “Now you know what to do.”
The oarsmen had been ordered by the coxswain to pull away rapidly, and they obeyed with such alacrity that the wherry had already shot off to some distance.
In her flight past the royal barge, Violet had not only been recognized by the king, but by Talbot and Dorinda; and, yielding to the impulse of the moment, the latter made a sign with her fan to the fair occupant of the wherry. It was this sign that made her father order the oarsmen to pull off.
CHAPTER II
THE JEWEL TOWER
The royal barge passed safely through the centre arch of London Bridge, and was subsequently moored off Tower Wharf, where a double line of warders, armed with their halberts, was drawn up.
The Duchess of Portsmouth, to whom this scene was new, was much struck with the appearance of the ancient fortress, especially with the dark and low-browed arches of Traitors’ Gate, and with the stern and massive White Tower; but she could not discern any resemblance between the vast and sombre pile and the Bastille, to which her thoughts naturally recurred.
Loud flourishes from the trumpeters had announced the arrival of the king, and had summoned forth all the principal officers of the fortress.
On disembarking, their majesties were received with much ceremony by the Lieutenant of the Tower, and Sir Gilbert Talbot, master and treasurer of the Jewel Tower.
Sir Gilbert Talbot, we may mention, had been appointed to the post by Charles, on the Restoration, and though some of the privileges and emoluments of the office had been abolished by Lord Chancellor Clarendon, it was still valuable and important, the perquisites amounting to 1,500l, yearly — a large sum in those days. Sir Gilbert was uncle, on the mother’s side, to Talbot Harland.
The royal party next crossed the drawbridge that spans the moat near the By-ward Tower, and proceeding along the outer ward, passed through the dismal arch of the Bloody Tower, and so gained the inner ward, in the midst of which is reared the majestic White Tower.
The king’s visit being perfectly private, no preparations had been made, and only the ordinary officials and warders were in attendance, but a company of musketeers was being exercised on the parade, and drums were beaten as their majesties appeared.
Charles having signified his intention of inspecting the regalia, Sir Gilbert Talbot hastened on to the Jewel Tower; and while he was gone, the royal party remained on the green.
This brief detention allowed the Duchess of Portsmouth an opportunity of surveying the White Tower and the chain of smaller towers surrounding the inner ward, in both of which state prisoners were then confined; but she turned aside with horror when a bare spot, marked by white stones, was pointed out to her, and the king added, in a low tone, that it was the place of execution, where Catherine Howard and Anne Boleyn had fallen by the headsman’s axe.
Shortly afterwards the royal party were conducted to the Jewel Tower, which is situated at the northeast angle of the inner ward. Originally, this structure was known as the Martin Tower, and had been used as a prison lodging until it became the depositary of the regalia.
The history of the Crown jewels is extremely curious, but it would occupy too much time to narrate it in full. Repeatedly pledged by successive monarchs, and conveyed away to Paris and Flanders, pawned almost in detail by the unhappy Henry the Sixth, they were again gathered together by the Tudors, and considerably augmented in number. A careful inventory was made of them by James the First, who frequently gloated over his treasures.
At last, they came into possession of Charles the Second, and, if he could have ventured to do so, no doubt the Merry Monarch would have pawned them, as his predecessors had done. It was in his reign that the regalia were first exhibited to the public. Hitherto they had been kept in strong iron chests, in a secret chamber in the White Tower, and only inspected with the utmost caution; but they were now removed to the Martin Tower, which, thenceforward, changed its name to the Jewel Tower.
The chamber in which the Crown jewels were deposited was on the first story of the tower in question. Built of stone, with walls of enormous thickness, an arched and groined roof, deep embrasures, terminated by narrow loopholes, a ponderous door, studded with nails, and having a huge lock, the room seemed perfectly secure.
The greater part of the treasures were placed on open shelves, covered with crimson velvet, and ranged on one side of the chamber.
Conspicuous among these was the imperial crown, which had been made for Charles’s own coronation, and which glittered with diamonds of the first water, rubies, pearls, emeralds, and sapphires. Next to it was the crown of state, likewise made for Charles, garnished with an emerald that might have come from Aladdin’s palace, a priceless ruby, and the finest pearl in the world.
Beside these, there were three crowns assigned to the queen, each adorned with diamonds and pearls; the orb which, we need scarcely say, is a large ball of gold, embellished with roses of diamonds and other precious stones; the ampulla, destined to contain the holy oil employed at the coronation; St. Edward’s staff; the king’s two sceptres, each of gold, and garnished with diamonds of inestimable value, and the queen’s sceptre, with the cross.
These treasures, and a hundred others, which we have not time to describe, were only protected by a thick crimson curtain, which, of course, was drawn aside when they were exhibited.
CHAPTER III
TALBOT EDWARDS
The custodian of the Crown jewels at the time of our story was an old man named Talbot Edwards. He was a kinsman of Sir Gilbert Talbot, and being in reduced circumstances, was appointed by the master-treasurer to the post as a provision for his old age. A better guardian could not have been chosen. The brave old gentleman — for a gentleman he was by birth as well as in bearing — would have sold his life rather than part with the treasures confided to him. He was a Welshman, and, though poor, excessively proud, and somewhat quick-tempered, but much liked.
Old Edwards led a very agreeable life in the Jewel Tower, though he was sometimes rather troubled by the tremendous responsibility imposed upon him. Many strangers came to see the treasures, and from these he received small gratuities, that eked out his modest salary. The worthy old gentleman was married, his wife being much younger than himself, and having still some pretensions to good looks. Moreover, he had a daughter, Edith, who was accounted the prettiest girl in the Tower, and whom he was very anxious to see married.
Such was the personage who had the honor of attending upon the royal party during their inspection of the regalia. Sir Gilbert Talbot was likewise in attendance; but the treasures were lifted from the shelves and displayed by Edwards.<
br />
His extreme formality was almost ludicrous. However, he was courtier enough to feel that he ought to pay special attention to the Duchess of Portsmouth, and he had no difficulty in doing so, as she was near the king.
“What think you of these bawbles?” said Charles, to the duchess, who was in perfect ecstasies at the sight.
“Magnificent!” she replied. “I long to carry off the whole collection.”
“Will it please your grace to look at the imperial crown?” said Edwards, exhibiting it to her. “I pray you to notice that it is formed of four crosses, and four fleurs-de-lis of gold, rising from a golden circlet.”
“What lovely oval pearls!” she exclaimed. “Anyone of them would content me.”
“Your grace must see the pearl on the crown of state. “the finest in the world!” said the custodian.
And he held up the other crown to her view.
“Ah, mon Dieu! what a pearl! what an emerald! what a ruby!” exclaimed the duchess.
The enamored monarch looked up, as if he could have presented them to her.
“I can show your grace plenty of other gems, but none like these,” said Edwards. “Here is her majesty’s crown, set with diamonds and pearls.”
But the duchess could think of nothing but the splendid emerald and the inestimable ruby which she had just seen. Collars of enamelled gold containing table diamonds were next exhibited; rings set with topazes, sapphires, and rubies; brocades of enamelled gold, diamond flowers and diamond feathers; carcanets, crosses and tablets, — all set with precious stones of immense value. —
Never had the duchess’s cupidity been so strongly excited. But she was not the only person excited. Strange thoughts passed through Bellegarde’s breast as he examined the jewels.
CHAPTER IV
EDITH EDWARDS
The old custodian had now enough to do to attend to the many fair dames that thronged around him, curious to examine the collars, chains, and smaller ornaments; and as he was unwilling to trust any of the jewels out of his own hands, he was obliged to call in the aid of his wife and daughter, who were standing near the door, probably awaiting a summons.
Mrs. Edwards, whom we have already described as a comely woman, was composed enough, but Edith was suffused with blushes, as she stood before the courtly throng, and heard the many remarks passed upon her by the gallants. As their remarks, however, were highly complimentary, they could not have been altogether disagreeable, as the fair damsel had some coquetry in her nature.
This was not the first time that her charms had been praised, though by a very different class of admirers. Now she was exposed to the gaze of some of the boldest rakes in town, and Buckingham, Etherege, and others ogled her most unmercifully. Rather a formidable ordeal, it must be owned, but she stood it tolerably well.
Edith resembled her mother, rather than her father, who was tall and gaunt, and with strongly pronounced features. Her figure was charmingly proportioned, but rather full; her eyes blue, and tender in expression; her complexion exquisitely fair, and her golden tresses as beautiful as those of Queen Elizabeth in her younger days.
Moreover, she had very white and very daintily-formed hands, that could not fail to be observed as she held up the jewels for inspection.
Many a court dame envied her those taper fingers. Many an inflammable court gallant was scorched by her superb golden locks. Edith was Talbot Harland’s second or third cousin, we scarcely know which; but the foolish fellow did not care to avow the fact once to Dorinda, even when the latter noticed the smile of recognition that passed between them.
The appearance of the custodian’s fair daughter gave a new turn to the Count de Bellegarde’s meditations. Perhaps he thought she might assist the scheme he was forming in his breast. Perhaps he was merely struck by her beauty.
As he was the handsomest man in the room, he soon contrived to attract her attention; and when he got near enough to exchange a few words with her, he felt sure that he had produced the impression he desired.
We have said that the count was irresistible. And he found it so in the present instance. The foolish little coquette felt sure she should see him again. Nor was she wrong.
Very little time, however, was allowed him to achieve this conquest. Almost immediately after Edith’s appearance, the Duchess of Portsmouth lost her interest in the jewels. Her grace had been delighted with old Edwards, but she could not endure his daughter, especially when Edith’s golden tresses were admired by his majesty.
She turned aside haughtily and contemptuously when the lovely lily-white hands proffered her a collar of gold with eighteen knots, set with seven fair diamonds and thirteen rubies, with thirteen pearl pendants, and would not look at it. She declared she had seen quite enough, and became impatient to depart. However, she had to await the queen’s pleasure; and her majesty, who was attended by Sir Gilbert Talbot, had not quite finished her inspection. At last, the royal party quitted the jewel-room.
Talbot Harland lingered for a moment behind the others, and so did Bellegarde.
“How is my pretty cousin Edith?” asked Talbot.
“Your cousin!” exclaimed Bellegarde, surprised. “Faith! you have a most charming cousin!”
“I thought Mr. Talbot Harland had disclaimed our relationship,” observed Edith. “He has never paid us a visit since we have been at the Tower. But we have heard that he makes a gay figure at court.”
“And you have heard the truth,” said Bellegarde. “No one is in higher favor with the king than your cousin.”
“But we have heard you were banished from court,” cried old Edwards. “I’m heartily glad to find the rumor incorrect.”
“It was correct enough,” observed Talbot. “I was banished for fighting a duel with this gentleman — the Count de Bellegarde. Happily, we have both been pardoned by his majesty, and are now in as great favor as ever.”
“Delighted to hear it,” cried Edwards. “I am the count’s very humble servant.”
“And I yours, sir,” replied Bellegarde, bowing. “Pray present me to your fair daughter.”
This was done, and the count saluted her very respectfully. Talbot then interposed, and begged his kinsfolk to excuse them, as they must perforce follow their majesties. Of course, Bellegarde was obliged to tear himself away, but he told Edith, in a whisper, that he hoped soon to behold her again.
While the inspection of the Crown jewels was going on, a collation had been prepared in the lieutenant’s lodgings, and to this the royal party now sat down.
After the repast, their majesties returned by water to Whitehall.
CHAPTER V
COLONEL BLOOD’S RETREAT IN WHITEFRIARS
Ever since the attack upon the Duke of Ormond, Colonel Blood and his comrades had taken up their quarters in Whitefriars, in which sanctuary they could set the officers of justice at defiance.
Here we must seek them; and we shall find the colonel and his trusty associates in a large, badly-furnished and gloomy-looking room on the ground floor of an old crazy house that had served as a place of refuge to a succession of lawless characters.
This habitation chanced to be empty at the time, and so Blood took it, and it answered his present purpose well enough. We know not how many strange hiding-places and contrivances for escape it contained. There were trapdoors in the floor, sliding panels in the wainscots, secret staircases, and vaults communicating with other vaults, so that the river could be reached. But the officers of justice were never allowed to set foot within the liberties of Whitefriars. The room, as we have said, in which Blood and his comrades sat, was large and gloomy. A wood-fire was burning on the hearth, and cast its light on the harsh features of the colonel, which wore a very moody expression. He was thinking over the attack upon Ormond, and blaming himself for its ill-success. When he was in one of these sullen fits, his followers did not dare to disturb him, for his temper, at such times, was very savage. The flasks of wine on the table showed that the party had had a carouse. Mandeville
was still drinking, while Montalt and Flodoard were playing at piquet. Suddenly, Blood looked up, and called, in a gruff voice, for a cup of sack, which was given him.
“Never was plan better contrived, nor more boldly executed,” he muttered; “and yet it failed — failed utterly, through my own gross neglect! Curses upon the villain Ormond! To think that I had him in my power — that he was on the road to Tyburn, and that he should manage to escape! But I will hang him yet!”
“Think no more of him, colonel,” said Mandeville. “You know that our leader, Claude Duval, never approved of the scheme, and would take no part in it. He told us it would lead to mischievous consequences, and so it has.”
“I should have been well content if I had avenged my friends,” said Blood. “But I must wipe out my failure by some other daring exploit.”
“Ay, that’s the way to look at it, colonel,” cried Mandeville. “No use lamenting the past. Think of the present. Have you any fresh scheme to propose to us?”
“I have none,” rejoined Blood, moodily.
“But I have,” cried a well-known voice. “I have a magnificent scheme to propose to you.”
Claude Duval stood before them.
He had come through a secret door, contrived in the wainscot near the chimney-piece. He was wrapped in a long, black coat, and carried a dark lantern in his hand. His appearance was hailed with the greatest satisfaction, all rising to welcome him except Blood.
Montalt assiduously helped him to take off his cloak, while Flodoard relieved him of the dark lantern. He then flung himself into a chair, and said:
“Give me a cup of wine. I have been half-stifled in those confounded vaults. Pah! Now, then, you shall hear what I have to propose. Listen to me, I beg of you, colonel. What I have to say will interest you. I have just parted with the Count de Bellegarde. He has been with their majesties to the Tower.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 603
