CHAPTER XVII.

Oh, the man in the moon! the man in the moon! What a prodigious sackful of good resolutions you must have, all broken through the middle. First, there are all sorts of resolutions of amendment, of every kind and description, except the resolution of a carter to amend his draught, or that of a gourmand whose appetite fails to drink Chateau Margaux instead of Lafitte. All, except these, my dear sir, you clutch by handfuls; and then you get all the resolutions of women of five-and-thirty never to marry whenever the opportunity happens; the resolutions of many young heirs not to be taken in, and of young coquettes not to go too far; of old gentlemen to look young, and of vulgar men to hold their tongues. Though I see, my dear sir, that your bag be almost bursting, yet I must trouble you with one more.

I had determined, as I hinted in a former chapter, never to quit my hero and go vagabondising about in my history from one part to the other, like a gipsy or a pedlar; but, on the contrary, to proceed in a quiet, respectable, straightforward manner, telling his story, and nobody else's story but his; but it is this individual resolution that I am now under the necessity of foregoing, for it is absolutely necessary, that I should return to what took place at the mansion of the Duke of Buckingham, in Kent, even if I should risk the breaking of my neck, as well as my resolution, in scampering back again afterwards.

Early in the morning of the day after that on which Sir Osborne had left the manor-house to proceed to the Benedictine Abbey, near Canterbury, Sir Payan Wileton, with a large suite, rode up to the gates, and demanded an audience of the duke, which was immediately granted. As the chamberlain marshalled him the way to the duke's closet, the knight caught a glance of the old man, Sir Cesar, passing out, from which he argued favourably for his purposes; doubting not that the discourse of the astrologer had raised the ambition and vanity of the duke, and fitted him to second the schemes with which he proposed to tempt him.

When the knight entered, the princely Buckingham was seated, and with that cold dignity which he knew well how to assume, he motioned his visiter to a chair, without, however, deigning to rise.

"He thinks himself already king," thought Sir Payan. "Well, his pride must be humoured. My lord duke," he said, after a few preliminary words on both parts, "I come to tender your grace my best service, and to beg you to believe, that should ever the occasion offer, you shall find me ready at your disposal, with heart and hand, fortune and followers."

"And what is it that Sir Payan Wileton would claim as his reward for such zealous doings?" demanded the duke, eyeing him coolly. "Sir Payan's wisdom is too well known to suppose that he would venture so much without proportionate reward."

"But your grace's favour," replied the knight, somewhat astonished at the manner in which his offers were received.

"Nay, nay, Sir Payan!" replied the duke; "speak plainly. What is it you would have? Upon what rich lordship have you cast your eyes? Whose fair estate has excited your appetite? Is there any new Chilham Castle to be had?"

"In truth, I know not well what your grace means," answered the knight, "though I can see that some villain behind my back has been blackening my character in your fair opinion. I came here frankly to tender you, of my own free will, services that you once hinted might be acceptable. Men who would climb high, my lord duke, must make their first steps firm."

"True, true, sir knight," replied the duke, moderating the acerbity of his manner; "but how can I rise higher than I am? Perhaps, indeed, my pride may soar too high a pitch, when I fancy that in this realm, next to his grace the king, my head stands highest."

"True," said Sir Payan; "but I have heard a prophecy, that your grace's head should be of all the highest without any weakening qualification next to any man's. His grace King Henry may die, and I have myself known the Duke of Buckingham declare, that there were shrewd doubts whether the king's marriage with his brother's wife were so far valid as to give an heir to the English crown. Kings may die, too, of the sharp sword and the keen dagger. Such being the case, and the king dying without heirs male, who will stand so near the throne as the Duke of Buckingham? Who has so much the people's love? Who may command so many of the most expert and powerful men in England?"

The duke paused and thought. He was "not without ambition, though he was without the illness that should accompany it." No one did he more thoroughly abhor than Sir Payan Wileton; and, yet rich, powerful, unscrupulous, full of politic wile and daring stratagem, Sir Payan was a man who might serve him essentially as a friend, might injure him deeply as an enemy; and he was, moreover, one that must be treated as one or the other, must be either courted or defied. While a thousand thoughts of this kind passed through the mind of the duke, and connecting themselves with others, wandered far on the wild and uncertain tract that his ambition presented to his view, while the passion by which angels fell was combating in his bosom with duty, loyalty, and friendship, the eye of Sir Payan Wileton glanced from time to time towards his face, watching and calculating the emotions of his mind, with that degree of certainty which long observation of the passions and weakness of human nature had bestowed. At length he saw the countenance of the duke lighted up with a triumphant smile, while, fixing his eyes upon the figure of an old king in the tapestry, he seemed busily engaged in anticipations of the future. "He has them now," thought Sir Payan, "the crown, the sceptre, and the ball. Well, let him enjoy his golden dream;" and dropping his eyes on the table, he gathered the addresses of the various letters which Buckingham had apparently been writing: "The Earl of Devonshire"--"The Lord Dacre"--"Sir John Morton"--"The Earl of Fitzbernard, to be rendered to the hands of Sir Osborne Maurice"--"The Prior of Langley."

"Ha!" thought the knight, "Lord Fitzbernard! Sir Osborne Maurice! So, so! I have the train. Take heed, Buckingham! take heed, or you fall;" and he raised his eyes once more to the countenance of the duke, whose look was now fixed full upon him.

"Sir Payan Wileton," said Buckingham, "we have both been meditating, and perhaps our meditations have arrived at the same conclusion."

"I hope, my lord duke," answered Sir Payan, returning to the former subject of conversation, "that your grace finds that I may be of service to you."

"Not in the least," replied the duke, sternly; for it had so happened that his eyes had fallen upon Sir Payan just at the moment that the knight was furtively perusing the address of the letter to Lord Fitzbernard, and the combinations thus produced in the mind of the noble Buckingham had not been very much in favour of Sir Payan: "not in the least, Sir Payan Wileton. Let me tell you, sir, that you must render back Chilham Castle to its lord; you must reverse all the evil that you have done and attempted towards his son; you must abandon such foul schemes, and cancel all the acts of twenty years of your life, before you be such a man as may act with Buckingham."

"My lord duke! my lord duke!" cried Sir Payan, "this is too much to bear. Your pride, haughty peer, has made you mad, but your pride shall have a fall. Beware of yourself, Duke of Buckingham, for no one shall ever say that he offended Sir Payan Wileton unscathed. Know you that you are in my power?"

"In thine, insect!" cried the duke. "But begone! you move me too far. Ho! without there! Begone, I say, or Buckingham may forget himself!"

"He shall not forget me," said Sir Payan. "Mark me, lord duke: you wisely deem, that because you have not shown me your daring schemes in your hand-writing, you are safe, but you have yet to know Sir Payan Wileton. We shall see, lord duke! we shall see! So, farewell!" and turning on his heel, he left the duke's closet, called for his horse, and in a few minutes was far on the road homeward.

"Guilford," cried he, turning towards his attendants, "Guilford, ride up."

At this order, a downcast, sneering-looking man drew out from the rest of the servants and rode up to the side of his master, who fixed his eyes upon him for a moment, shutting his teeth hard, as was his custom when considering how to proceed. "Guilford," said he at last, "Guilford, you remember the infant that was found dead in Ashford ditch last year, that folks supposed to be the child of Mary Bly----? ha!" The man turned deadly pale. "I have found an owner for the kerchief in which it was tied with the two large stones," proceeded Sir Payan. "A man came to me yesterday morning, who says he can swear to the kerchief, and who it belonged to. Fie! do not shake so! Do you think I ever hurt my own? Guilford, you must do me a service. Take three stout fellows with you, on whom you can depend; cast off your liveries, and ride on with all speed to the hill on this side of Rochester. Wait there till you see a courier come up with a swan embroidered on his sleeve; find means to quarrel with him; and when you return to Elham Manor, if you bear his bag with you, you shall each have five George nobles for your reward. But leave not the place. Stir not till you have met with him. And now be quick; take the three men with you; there will be enough left to return with me. Mark me! let him not escape with his bag, for if you do, you buy yourself a halter."

"Which of them shall I take?" said the man. "There are Wandlesham and Black John, who together stole the Prior of Merton's horse, and sold it at Sandwich. They would have been burned i' the hand if your worship had not refused the evidence. Then there is Simpkin, the deer-stealer----"

"That will do," said Sir Payan, "that will do; 'tis said he set Raper's barn on fire. But be quick; we waste time."

It was late the next day before the party of worthies whom Sir Payan entrusted with the honourable little commission above stated returned to his house at Elham Manor; but, to his no small satisfaction, they brought the Duke of Buckingham's letter-bag along with them, which Master Guilford deposited on the table before Sir Payan in his usual sullen manner, and only waited till he had received his reward, which was instantly paid; for the honest knight, well knowing by internal conviction that rascality is but a flimsy bond of attachment, took care to bind his serviceable agents to himself by the sure ties both of hope and fear. If they were useful and silent, their hopes were never disappointed; if they were negligent or indiscreet, their fears were more than realised.

The moment he was alone, the knight put his dagger into the bag, and ripped it open from side to side. This done, his eye ran eagerly over the various letters it contained, and paused on that to Lord Fitzbernard. In an instant the silk was cut, and the contents before his eyes.

"Ha!" said Sir Payan, reading; "so here it is, the whole business; so, so, my young knight, 'the real name to be told to nobody till the king's good-will is gained.' But I will foil you, and blast your false name before your real one is known. Good Duke of Buckingham, I thank you! 'A villain!' If I am, you shall taste my villany. Oh! so he had charge to 'conduct the Lady Katrine Bulmer to the court: his feats of arms and manly daring shall much approve him with the king.' Ay, but they shall damn him with the cardinal, or I'll halt for it! Now for the rest!"

With as little ceremony as that which he had displayed toward the letter addressed to Lord Fitzbernard, Sir Payan tore open all the rest, but seemed somewhat disappointed at their contents, gnawing his lip and knitting his brow till he came to the last, addressed to Sir John Morton. "Ha!" exclaimed he, as he read, "Duke of Buckingham, you are mine! Now, proud Edward Bohun, stoop! stoop! for out of so little a thing as this will I work thy ruin. But what means he by this? Sir Osborne Maurice! It cannot be him he speaks of. It matters not; it shall tell well, too, and in one ruin involve them both. Sir Osborne Maurice! I have it! I have it! Sure the disclosure of such a plot as this may well merit Wolsey's thanks; ay, and even, by good favour, some few acres off the broad estates of Constance de Grey. We shall see. But first let us track this young gallant; we must know his every step from Canterbury to Greenwich."

Proud in supreme villany, Sir Payan trod with a longer stride, confidently calculating that he held all his enemies in his power; but, subtle as well as bold, he did not allow his confidence to diminish in the least his care; and calling to his aid one of his retainers, upon whose cunning he could count with certainty, he laid him upon the path of our hero like a hound upon the track of a deer, with commands to investigate, with the most minute care, every step he had taken from Canterbury to Greenwich.

"And now," said Sir Payan, "to-morrow for Greenwich; I must not fail the party of Sir Thomas Neville. When enemies grow strong, 'tis time to husband friends;" and springing on his horse, he proceeded to put in train for execution some of those minor schemes of evil which he did not choose to leave unregulated till his return.

CHAPTER XVIII.

"By my faith!" cried the Earl of Darby, as soon as they found themselves in the street, or rather lane, before the dwelling of Sir Cesar, "I know not in the least where we are; and if I had known it before, my brain is so unsettled with all this strange sight, that I should have forgotten it now. Which way did we turn?"

"The other way! the other way!" cried Sir Osborne, "and then to the right."

"Pray, sir, can you tell me where the devil I am?" demanded the earl, when they had reached the bottom of the lane, addressing a man who was walking slowly past.

"I'll tell you what, my young gallant," answered the man, "if you don't march home with your foolery, I'll lock you up. I am the constable of the watch."

"It is my way home that I want to know, friend constable," replied the earl. "For, 'fore God! I know not where I am any more than a new-born child, who, though he comes into the world without asking the way, finds himself very strange when he is in it."

"Why, marry, thou art at the back of Baynard's Castle, sir fool," replied the constable.

"Ay; then I shall find my road," said the earl. "Thank thee, honest constable; thou art a pleasant fellow, and a civil, and hast risked having thy pate broken to-night more than thou knowest. So, fare thee well!" and turning away, he led his companion through various winding lanes into a broader street, which at length conducted them to the mansion of the Duke of Buckingham.

"Now, by my faith, Darnley, or Maurice, or whatever you please to be called," said the earl, "if you have any hospitality in your nature, you will give me board and lodging for a night. May you make so free with the good duke's house?"

"Most willingly will I do it," said Sir Osborne, "and find myself now doubly happy in his grace's request, to use his mansion as if it were my own."

"Were I you," said Lord Darby, "and had so much of Buckingham's regard, I would hear more of that strange man, if he be a man, Sir Cesar; for 'tis said that the duke and Sir John Morton are the only persons that know who and what he really is. God help us! we have seen as strange a sight to-night as mortal eyes ever beheld."

"I have heard one of my companions in arms relate that a circumstance precisely similar happened to himself in Italy," replied the knight. "The famous magician, Cornelius Agrippa, showed him out of friendship a glass, wherein he beheld the lady of his love reading one of his own letters,^[10] which thing she was doing, as he ascertained afterwards, at the very minute and day that the glass was shown to him. I never thought, however, to have seen anything like it myself."

It may be easily supposed that various were the remarks and conjectures of the two young noblemen during the rest of the evening, but with these it will be unnecessary to trouble the reader. Suffice it that we have translated as literally as possible the account which Vonderbrugius gives of the circumstances; nor shall we make any comment on the facts, leaving it to the reader's own mind to form what conclusion he may think right. Whether the whole was an artifice on the part of Sir Cesar, aided by strongly-excited imagination on theirs, each person must judge for himself; but certain it is that they both firmly believed that they saw the same thing; and, as in the well-known case of Lord Surrey, the argument is of avail, that the magician had no object or interest in deceiving those to whom he displayed his powers. The effect, however, upon the mind of Sir Osborne was to give him new hope and courage; for so completely had the former prediction of Sir Cesar been fulfilled, that though he might still doubt, yet his very hesitation leant to the side of hope.

Lord Darby laughed, and vowed 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange, and wrote it down in his tablets, lest he should not believe a word of it the next morning. When the morning came, however, he found that his belief had not fled; and before leaving Sir Osborne, he talked over the business with more gravity than he could usually command. Many arrangements also were necessary to be made in regard to the knight's introduction to the court; but at length it was agreed that the earl should account for his acquaintance with Sir Osborne by saying that their parents had been friends, and that, having been educated in the court of Burgundy, the knight was then in England for the first time since his youth.

"All this is true," said Lord Darby, "for my father was well known to yours, though, perhaps, they could hardly be called friends; but, however, there are not above two grains of lie to an ounce of truth, so it will poison no one."

When all their plans were finally settled, Lord Darby took leave of the knight, and left him to make his preparations for the next morning. As soon as he had departed, Sir Osborne called for his horse, and, accompanied by Longpole, of whom he had seen little since his arrival in London, set out for the house of the honest Flemish merchant, William Hans, from whom, as we have said, he expected sundry sums of money.

As they proceeded, the worthy custrel, who, for the purpose of showing him the way, rode by his side (permitting him, nevertheless, to keep about a yard in advance), did not fail to take advantage of their proximity to regale the knight's ears with many a quaint remark upon the great bee-hive, as he called it, in which they were.

"Lord! Lord!" said he, "to think of the swarm of honey-getting, or rather money-getting insects, that here toil from morn to night, but to pile up within their narrow cells that sweet trash which, after all, is none of theirs; for ever and anon comes my good lord king, the master of the hive, and smokes them for a subsidy. Look at yon fat fellow, your worship! For God's sake, look at him! How proud he seems, waddling forward under the majesty of his belly! Well, if a paunch like that be the damnation attached to an alderman's gown, heaven absolve me from city feasts, I say! And his lean follower; see! with the quill behind his ear, and inkhorn at his button, so meagre, as if he wished to mock his master's fatness. Oh! 'tis the way, 'tis the way; the fat merchant seems to absorb all the lean clerk's portion. Everything begets its like; fat gets fat, riches get riches, and even leanness grows more lean, as it were, by living upon itself. Now to the left, your worship, up that paved court."

The house of the merchant now stood before them, and Sir Osborne, dismounting from his horse, advanced to the door of what seemed to be a small dark counting-house, in which he found an old man, with many a book and many a slate before him, busily employed in adding to the multitude of little black marks with which the page under his eyes was cumbered.

In answer to the knight's inquiry for Master William Hans, he replied that he was in the warehouse, where he might find him if he wished to see him. "Stay, stay! I will show you the way," cried he, with ready politeness. "Lord, sir! our warehouse is a wilderness, wherein a man might lose himself with blessed facility. Thanks be to God therefor; for on May-day, three years last past, called 'Evil May-day,' we should have lost our good master, when the prentices, and watermen, and pick-purses, and vagabonds, broke into all the aliens' houses, and injured many; but, happily, he hid himself under a pile of stockfish, which was in the far end of the little warehouse, to the left of the barrel-room, so that they found him not."

While he pronounced this oration, the old clerk locked carefully the door of the counting-house, and led the knight into an immense vaulted chamber, wherein were piled on every side all kinds of things, of every sort and description that human ingenuity can apply to the supply of its necessities or the gratification of its appetites. On one side were displayed a thousand articles of foreign produce or manufacture brought thither for the English market, and on the other appeared the various productions of England, destined soon to be spread over half the world. The objects that met the eye were not more various than the smells that assailed the nose. Here was the delicious odour of salted fish, there the delicate scent of whale oil; here dry skins spread their perfume around, and there a cask of fresh tallow wasted its sweetness on the warehouse air; while through the whole was perceived, as a general medium for all the rest, the agglomerated stink of a hundred unventilated years.

Making his way through all, Sir Osborne proceeded directly towards the spot where a small window in the roof poured its light upon a large barrel, the contents of which were undergoing inspection by the worthy Fleming whom he sought. In Flanders the knight had known the good burgess well, and had been sure to receive a visit from him whenever business had called his steps from his adopted to his native country. There might be both an eye to gratitude and an eye to interest in this proceeding of Master William Hans; for the knight had twice procured him a large commission for the army, and, what was still more in those days, had procured him payment.

On perceiving his visitor in the present instance, the merchant caught up his black furred gown, which he had thrown off while busied in less dignified occupations, and having hastily insinuated his arms into the sleeves, advanced to meet the knight with a bow of profound respect. "Welcome back to England, my lord!" cried he, in very good English, which could only be distinguished as proceeding from the mouth of a foreigner by a slight accent and a peculiar intonation. "Coot now, my lord, I hope you have not given up your company in Flanders. I have such a cargo of beans in the mouth of the Scheldt, it would have suited the army very well indeet."

"But, my good Master Hans," answered the knight, "the army itself is given up since the peace. When I left Lisle, there were scarce three companies left."

After a good deal more of such preliminary conversation, in the course of which the knight explained to the merchant the necessity of keeping his name and title secret for the present, they proceeded to the arrangement of those affairs which yet remained unconcluded between them. Conducting the knight back to the counting-house, William Hans turned over several of his great books, looking for the accounts.

"Here it is, I think," he cried, at length. "No! that is the Lady de Grey's."

"Lady Constance de Grey?" demanded Sir Osborne, in some surprise.

"Yes, yes!" answered the merchant. "I receive all the money for her mother's estates, who was a French lady. Did for her father, too, till the coot old lord died. Oh! it was hard work in the time of the war; but I got a Paris Jew to transmit the money to a Flemish Jew, who sent it over to me. They cot ten per cent. the thieves! for commission, but that very thing saved the estates; for they would have been forfeited by the old king Louis, if the Jew, who had given him money in his need, had not made such a noise about it, for fear of losing his ten per cent, that the king let it pass. Ah! here is the account. First, we have not settled since I furnished the wine for the companie, when they had the fever. Five hundred chioppines of wine, at a croat the chioppine, make just twenty-five marks: received thirty marks; five carried to your name. Then for the ransom of the Sire de Beaujeu: you put him at a ransom of two thousand crowns, not knowing who he was, but he has sent you six thousand; because, he says, he would not be ransomed like an écuyer. Creat fool! Why the devil, when he could get off for a little, pay a much?"^[11]

"No true knight but would do the same," replied Sir Osborne. "It was only by my permission that he got away at all: therefore he was bound in honour to pay the full ransom of a person of his condition."

"Well, then," said the Fleming, "here comes the ransom of two esquires, gentlemen they call themselves, five hundred crowns each, making in the whole seven thousand crowns, or two thousand six hundred and twenty-five marks. Then there is against you, freight and carriage of armour and goods, four marks; exchange and commission, three marks; porterage, a croat; warehouse-room, two croats: balance for you, two thousand six hundred and seventeen marks, five shillings, and two croats, which I am ready to pay you, as well as to deliver the two suits of harness and the packages."

"The money, at present, I do not want," replied Sir Osborne; "but I will be glad if you would send the arms, and the rest of the packages, to the manor of the Rose, in St. Lawrence Poultney."

"To the coot Duke of Buckingham's? Ah! that I will, that I will! But I hope you will stay and take your noon-meal with me; though I know you men of war do not like the company of us merchants. But I will say, I have never found you any way proud."

"I would most willingly, Master Hans," answered the knight; "but I go to the court to-morrow for the first time, and I have no small preparation to make with tailors and broiderers."

"Oh! stay with me, stay with me, and I will fit you to your desire," answered the Fleming. "There is a tailor lives hard by who will suit you well. I am not going to give you a man who can make nothing but a burgomaster's gown or a merchant's doublet. I know your coot companions would laugh, and say you had had a merchant's tailor; but this is a man who, if you like it, shall stuff out your breeches till you can't sit down, make all the seams by a plumb-line, tighten your girdle till you have no more waist than a wasp; and, moreover, he is tailor to the Duke of Suffolk."

The knight found this recommendation quite sufficient; and agreeing to dine with the honest Fleming, the tailor was sent for, who, with a great display of sartorial learning, devised several suits, in which Sir Osborne might appear at court, without being either so gaudy as the butterflies of the day, or so plain as to call particular attention. The only difficulty was to know whether the tailor could furnish a complete suit for the knight, and one for each of his four attendants, by the next morning; but after much calculation, and summing up of all the friendly tailors within his knowledge, he undertook to do it; and, what is wonderful for a tailor, kept his word.

CHAPTER XIX.

A barber surgeon one day, bleeding a farrier, bound up his arm with a piece of red tape, and pinned it. The farrier went the next day to shoe one of the king of the country's horses; as he was driving the nail, the pin pricked him, the nail went too near the quick, the horse's foot grew tender, the king went out to hunt, the horse threw him, the king was taken up dead, and was succeeded by his son, whom he intended to have disinherited the next day for his cruel disposition. The new king cut off his subjects' heads, made continual war upon all the states around, conquered a great many countries, gained a great many battles, robbed, murdered, and burned, and at last was assassinated himself, when human nature could bear him no longer; and at the end of his reign it was computed that a hundred millions of treasure, and twenty millions of human lives, had been wasted, by a barber pinning a piece of red tape, instead of tying it, like his grandfather.

"The luckiest accident for you in the world has just happened!" cried Lord Darby, entering Sir Osborne Maurice's apartment two full hours before the time he had appointed. "Order your men to choose your best suit of harness, to pack it on a strong horse, to lead your own courser by the bridle, and to make all speed to the foot of the hill at Greenwich, there to wait till they be sent for; and you come with me: my barge waits at the duke's stairs."

"But what is the matter, my lord?" demanded Sir Osborne; "at least, tell me if my horse must be barded."

"No, no; I think not," replied the earl; "at all events, we shall find bards,^[12] if we want them. But be quick, we have not a moment to lose, though the tide be running down as quick as a tankard of bastard over the throat of a thirsty serving-man; I will tell you the whole as we go."

"Longpole," cried the knight to his follower, who, at the moment the Earl entered, was in the room, putting the last adjustment to his master's garments; "Longpole, quick! you hear what Lord Darby says. Take the fluted suit----"

"Oh! the fluted, the fluted, by all means," interrupted the earl, "it shows noble and knightly. So shall we go along as in a Roman triumph, with flutes before, and flutes behind. The fluted by all means, good Longpole, and lose no time on the road: for every flagon you do not drink, you shall have two at Greenwich. Now, Maurice, are you ready? By heaven! you make a gallant figure of it; your tailor deserves immortality. 'Tis well! 'tis mighty well! But, to my taste, the cuts in your blue velvet had been better lined with a soft yellow than a white; the hue of a young primrose. The feather might have been the same, but 'tis all a taste: white does marvellous well; the silver girdle and scabbard too! But come; we waste our moments: let two of your men come with us."

Lord Darby conducted his new friend to the barge, and as they proceeded towards Greenwich with a quick tide, he informed him that some knights, Sir Henry Poynings, Sir Thomas Neville, and several others--having agreed to meet, for the purpose of trying some newly-invented arms, the king had been seized with a desire of going unknown to break a lance with them on Blackheath, and had privately commanded the Earl of Devonshire to accompany him as his aid: but that very morning, at his house in Westminster, the earl had slipped, and had so much injured his leg, that his surgeon forbade his riding for a month. "As soon as I heard it," continued Lord Darby, "I flew to his lodging, and prayed him to let me be his messenger to the king, to which petition he easily assented, provided I set off with all speed, for his grace expects him early. Now, the moment that the king hears that the earl cannot ride, he chooses him another aid, and I so hope to manage, that the choice may fall upon you. If you break a lance to his mind, you shall be well beloved for the next week at least; and during that time you must manage to fix his favour. But first, let me give you some small portraiture of his mind, so that by knowing his humour, you may find means to find it."

The character which Lord Darby gave of Henry the Eighth shall here be put in fewer words. He was then a very, very different being from the bloated despot which he afterwards appeared. All his life had hitherto been prosperity and gladness; no care, no sorrow, had called into action any of the latent evil of his character, and he showed himself to those around him as an affable and magnificent prince; proud without haughtiness, and luxurious without vice. Endowed with great personal strength, blessed with robust health, and flourishing in the prime of his years, he loved with a degree of ostentation all those manly and chivalrous exercises which were then at their height in Europe; and placed, as it were, between the age of chivalry and the age of learning, he in his own person combined many of the attributes of each. In temper and in manner he was hasty but frank, and had much of the generosity of youth unchilled by adversity. Yet he was ever wilful and irritable, and in his history even at that time may be traced the yet unsated luxurist, and the incipient tyrant, beginning a career in splendour and pride that was sure to end in despotism and blood.

It may well be supposed that the knight's heart beat quickly as the boat came in sight of the palace at Greenwich. It had nothing, however, to do with that agitation which men often weakly feel on approaching earthly greatness. Accustomed to a court, though a small one, if Sir Osborne had ever experienced those sensations, they had long left him; but he felt that on what was to follow from the present interview, perhaps on that interview itself, depended his father's fortune and his own; more: his own happiness for ever.

Lord Darby's rowers had plied their oars to some purpose, and before ten o'clock the barge was alongside the king's stairs at Greenwich. "Come, Sir Osborne," cried the earl; "bearing a message which his grace will think one of great consequence, I shall abridge all ceremony, and find my way as quickly to his presence as I can."

The two young men sprang to the shore, followed by their attendants, and passed the parade, which was quite empty, the king having taken care to disperse the principal part of his court in various directions, that his private expedition might pass unnoticed, feeling a sort of romantic interest in the concealment and mystery of his proceedings. The earl led the way across the vacant space to one of the doors of the palace, which opened into a sort of waiting hall, called the "Hall of Lost Steps," where the two friends left their servants; and proceeding up a staircase that seemed well known to Lord Darby, they came into a magnificent saloon, wherein an idle page was gazing listlessly from one of the windows.

"Ha, Master Snell!" cried the earl; "may his grace be spoken with?"

"On no account whatever, my noble lord," replied the page, "I am placed here expressly to prevent any one from approaching him: his grace is at his prayers."

"Go then, good Master Snell," said the earl, "and bid our royal master add one little prayer for the Earl of Devonshire, who has fallen in his house at Westminster, and is badly hurt; and tell his grace that I bear an humble message from the earl, who dared not confide it to a common courier."

"I go directly, my noble lord," said the page. "The king will find this bad news;" and making all haste, he left the room by a door on the other side of the apartment.

"This is indeed a kingly chamber," said Sir Osborne, gazing around upon the rich arras mingled with cloth of gold which covered the walls. "How poor must the court of Burgundy have seemed to the king, when he visited the Princess Regent at Lisle. And yet, perhaps, he scarcely saw the difference."

Even while he spoke, the door by which the page had gone out was again thrown open, and a tall, handsome man entered the apartment, with haste and peevishness in his countenance. He was apparently about thirty years of age, broad-chested and powerfully made, muscular, but not fat, and withal there was an air of dignity and command in his figure that might well become a king. He seemed to have been disturbed half-dressed; for under the loose gown of black velvet which he wore was to be seen one leg clothed in steel, while the other remained free of any such cumbersome apparel. The rest of his person, as far as might be discovered by the opening of the gown, was habited in simple russet garments, guarded with gold, while on his head he wore a small-brimmed black bonnet and a jewelled plume. Lord Darby and Sir Osborne immediately doffed their hats as the king entered, the young knight not very well pleased to see the irritable spot that glowed on his brow.

"How now, lord? how now?" cried Henry, as they advanced. "What is this the page tells me? Devonshire is hurt--is ill? What is it? what is it, man? speak!"

"I am sorry to be the bearer of evil news to your grace," replied Lord Darby, with a profound inclination; "but this morning, as my Lord of Devonshire was preparing to set out to render his duty to your highness, his foot slipped, heaven knows how! and his surgeons fear he has dislocated one of the bones of the leg. He, therefore, being unwilling to trust an ordinary messenger, begged me humbly, in his name, to set forth his case before you, and to crave your gracious pardon for thus unintentionally failing in his service."

"Tut! he could not help it," cried Henry. "The man broke not his bones and wrenched not his leg to do me a displeasure; and yet in this is Fortune cross-grained; for where now shall I find an aid who may supply his place? But, how now! What is this? Who have you with you? You are bold, young lord, to bring a stranger to my privy chamber! Ha! how now! Mother of God, you are too bold!"

Hope sickened in Sir Osborne's bosom, and bending his head, he fixed his eyes upon the ground, while Lord Darby replied, nothing abashed by the king's reproof--

"Pardon me, my liege; but trusting to the known quality of your royal clemency, which finds excuses for our faults, even when we ourselves can discover none, I made bold to bring to your grace's presence this famous knight, Sir Osborne Maurice, who, being himself renowned in many courts in feats of arms, has conceived a great desire to witness the deeds of our most mighty sovereign, whose prowess and skill, whether at the tourney or in the just, at the barriers or with the battle-axe, is so noised over Europe, that none who are themselves skilful can refrain from coveting a sight of his royal daring. Allow me to present him to your grace."

Sir Osborne advanced, and kneeling gracefully before the king, bent his head over the hand that Henry extended towards him; while, pleased with his appearance and demeanour, the monarch addressed him with a smile: "Think not we are churlish, sir knight, or that we do not welcome you freely to our court; but, by St. Mary! such young gallants as these must be held in check, or they outrun their proper bounds. But judge not of our poor doings by Darby's commendation: he has of a sudden grown eloquent."

"On such a theme who might not be an orator?" said Sir Osborne, rising. "Were I to doubt Lord Darby, I must think that Fame herself is your grace's courtier, acting as your herald in every court, and challenging a world to equal you."

"Fie, fie! I must not hear you," cried the king. "Darby, come hither: I would speak with you. Come hither, I say!"

Sir Osborne drew a step back, and the king, taking the young earl into the recess of a window, spoke to him for a moment in a low tone, but still sufficiently loud for a great part of what he said to be audible to the knight, especially towards the conclusion.

"A powerful man," said the king; "and, if he be but as dexterous and valiant as he is strong, will prove a knight indeed. Think you he would?"

"Most assuredly, my liege," replied the earl. "He is your grace's born subject; only, his father having fallen into some unhappy error in the reign of our last royal king, Sir Osborne has had his training at the court of Burgundy, and received his knighthood from the sword of Maximilian, the late emperor."

"Good, good!" said Henry: "I remember hearing of his father; 'twas either Simnel, or Perkyn Warbeck, or some such treasonous cause he espoused. But all that is past. Sir knight," he continued, turning to Sir Osborne, "what if in my armoury we could find a harness that would fit you? are you minded to break a lance as consort with the king?--ha! This very morning--ay, this very hour? What say you?--ha!"

"That I should hold an honour never to be forgot, my liege," replied the knight. "And for the arms, my own are here in Greenwich. They might be brought in a moment."

"Quick, quick, then!" cried the king. "But we must be secret. Stop, stop! You go, Lord Darby. Send for the arms quick. Is your horse here, sir knight? By St. Mary, 'tis happy you came! Darby, bid them take the knight's horse into the small court, and shut the gates. Quick with his armour! Bid them put no bards on the horses, and be secret. I'll go arm. You arm here, sir knight. Snell! stand firm at that door; let no one pass but Lord Darby and the knight's armourer. Be quick, sir knight! I charge you be quick: and, above all, let us be secret. Remember, we will never raise our visors. These knights think of no such encounter, but fancy they have it all amongst themselves. They have kept their just mighty secret; but we will break their lances for them--ha!"

The king now left Sir Osborne, who, delighted with the unexpected turn which his humour had taken, waited impatiently for Lord Darby's return, expecting every minute to see the other door open and Henry re-appear before he had even received his armour. At length, however, Lord Darby came, and with him our friend Longpole, who, as the page would only allow one person to enter with the earl, received that part of the armour which he did not carry himself from the attendant without, and then flew to assist his lord. Sir Osborne lost no time, and, expert by constant habit, he put on piece by piece with a rapidity that astonished the young earl, who, accustomed alone to the tilt-yard, was unacquainted with the facility acquired by the unceasing exercises of the camp.

At length, while Longpole was buckling the last strap, the king re-entered alone, completely armed, and with his beaver down.

"What! ready, sir knight?" cried he; "nay, 'faith, you have been expeditious."

"Lord bless you, sir!" cried Longpole, never dreaming that he spoke to the king, "my master puts on his arms as King Hal took Terouenne."

"How now!" cried Sir Osborne, afraid of what might coms next; but the king held up his hand to him to let the man speak. "How is that, good fellow?" demanded he.

"Why, he just puts his hand on it, and it is done," replied Longpole.

"Thou art a merry knave," said Henry, better pleased perhaps with the unquestionable compliment of the yeoman than he would have been with the more refined and studied praise of many an eloquent oration. "Thou art a merry knave. Say, canst thou blow a trumpet?"

"Ay, that I can, to your worship's contentment," replied Longpole, who began to see by the looks of Lord Darby and his master that something was wrong. "I hope I have not offended."

"No, no," answered Henry, "not in the least. Snell, fetch him a trumpet with a blanche banner. Now, fellow, take the trumpet that the page will bring you, and, getting on your horse, follow us. When you shall come to a place where you see lists up, blow me a defiance. Hast thou never a vizard to put thy muzzle in? Darby, in that chamber you will find him a masking vizard, so that we may not be recognised by his face hereafter."

Longpole was soon furnished with one of the half masks of the day, the long beard of which, intended to conceal the mouth and chin, as it had been worn by the king himself, was composed of threads of pure gold, so that the yeoman bore an ample recompense upon his face for the duty the king put him on. He would fain have had his remark upon the vizard; but beginning to entertain a suspicion of how the matter really stood, he wisely forebore, and followed his master and Lord Darby, who, preceded by the king, passed down a narrow back-staircase into the smaller court, wherein stood the horses prepared for their expedition.

All now passed in almost profound silence. The king and his aid mounted, and, followed by Longpole with his trumpet, issued forth through two gates into the park, where, taking the wildest and most unfrequented paths, they made a large circuit, in order that their approach might seem from any other quarter than the palace. After gaining the forest on Shooter's Hill, the king led the way through one of the roads in the wood, to what we may call the back of Blackheath, on the very verge of which they might behold a group of gentlemen on horseback, with a crowd of lookers-on afoot, disposed in such sort as to show that their exercises were begun. The spot which they had chosen was a very convenient one for their purpose: shaded on the south by a grove of high elms, whose very situation has not been traceable for more than two centuries, but which then afforded a width of shade sufficient for several coursers to wheel and charge therein, without the eyes of the riders being dazzled by the morning sunshine. At the foot of these trees extended an ample green, soft, smooth, and even, round which the tilters had pitched the staves and drawn the ropes, marking the limits of the field; and at the northern end was erected a little tent for them to arm in before, and rest after, the course. The four knights themselves, who had met to try their arms, together with several grooms, an armourer, a mule to bear the spears, and two horses for the armour, with their several drivers, formed the group within the lists, which, in the wide-extended plain whereon they stood, looked but a spot, and would have seemed still less had it not been for the crowd of idlers that hung about the ground, and the four knightly pennons, which, disposed in a line, with a few yards' distance between them, caught the eye as it wandered over the heath, and attracted it to the spot by their flutter and their gaudy hues.

The king paused for a moment to observe them, and then beckoning Longpole to come up, "Now, ride on, trumpet!" cried he; "blow a challenge, and then say that two strange knights claim to break two lances each, and pass away unquestioned."^[13]

At this command Longpole rode forward, and while Henry and his master followed more slowly, blew a defiance on his trumpet at the entrance of the lists, and then in a loud voice pronounced the message with which the king had charged him.

As he finished, Henry and Sir Osborne presented themselves; and Sir Thomas Neville, the chief of the other party, after some consultation with his companions, rode up and replied: "Though we are here as a private meeting, for our own amusement only, yet we will not refuse to do the pleasure of the stranger knights; and as there are four of us, we will each break a spear with one of the counter-party, which will make the two lances a-piece that they require. Suffer the knights to enter," he continued to the keeper of the barrier; and Henry, with the young knight, taking the end of the ground in silence, waited till their lances should be delivered to them.

Whether the tilters suspected or not who was the principal intruder on their sport matters not, though it is indeed more than probable that they did; for it was well known to everybody, that if Henry heard of any rendezvous of the kind, he was almost certain to be present, either privately or avowedly; and indeed on one occasion, recorded by Hall, the chronicler of that day, this romantic spirit had almost cost him dear, the sport being carried on so unceremoniously as nearly to slay the gentleman by whom he was accompanied, and to bring his own life into danger.

On the present occasion no words passed between the two parties, and after a few minutes' conversation amongst the original holders of the ground as to who should first furnish the course to the strangers, Sir Thomas Neville presented himself opposite to the king, and Sir Henry Poynings, one of the best knights of the day, prepared to run against Sir Osborne. "Now do your best, my knight," said the king to his aid; "you have got a noble opponent."

The spears were delivered, the knights couched their lances, and galloping on against each other like lightning, the tough ash staves were shivered in a moment against their adversaries' casques.

"Valiantly done!" said Henry to Sir Osborne, as they returned to their place; "valiantly done! You struck right in the groove of the basnet, and wavered not an inch. Who are these two, I wonder? They have their beavers down."

While he spoke the spears were again delivered; and upon what impulse, or from what peculiar feeling, would be difficult to say, but Sir Osborne felt a strong inclination to unhorse his opponent; and couching his lance with dexterous care, as far as possible to prevent its splintering, he struck him in full course upon the gorget, just above its junction with the corslet, and bore him violently backwards to the ground, where he lay apparently deprived of sense.

By this time the king had shivered his lance, and some of the attendants ran up to unlace the fallen man's helmet, when, to his surprise, Sir Osborne beheld the countenance of Sir Payan Wileton. He appeared to be much hurt by his fall; but that was a thing of such common occurrence in those days, that no further notice was ever taken of an accident of the kind than by giving the injured person all the assistance that could be administered at the time.

However, it may well be supposed that Sir Osborne Maurice felt no ordinary interest in the sight before him. By an extraordinary coincidence, overthrown by his hand, though without intention, and apparently nearly killed, lay the persevering enemy who had swallowed up the fortunes of his house, and had sought so unceasingly to sweep it for ever from the face of the earth; and while he lay there, prostrate at his feet, with the ashy hue of his cheek paler than ever, and his dark eye closed as if in death, Sir Osborne still thought he could see the same determined malignity of aspect with which he had declared that he would found his title to the lordship of Chilham Castle on the death of its heir.

Still holding the lance in his hand, the knight bent over the bow of his saddle, and through the bars of his volant-piece contemplated the face of his fallen adversary, till he began to unclose his eyes and look around him; when Sir Thomas Neville, thinking that the stranger was animated merely by feelings of humanity, turned to him, saying that Sir Payan had only been a little stunned, and would do very well now.

"Gentlemen," continued he, addressing the king and Sir Osborne, "we must, according to promise, let you pass away unquestioned; but I will say, that two more valiant and skilful knights never graced a field, nor is it possible to say which outdoes the other; but ye are worthy companions and true knights both, and so fare ye well."

The king did not reply, lest he should be recognised by his voice; but bending low, in token of his thanks, rode out of the lists, accompanied by Sir Osborne and followed by Longpole.

"Now, by my fay, sir knight!" cried Henry, when they had once more reached the cover of the wood, "you have far exceeded my expectations; and I thank you heartily--good faith, I do!--for your aid. But I must have you stay with me. Our poor court will be much graced by the addition of such a knight. What say you? ha!"

"To serve your grace," replied Sir Osborne, "is my first wish; to merit your praise my highest ambition. It is but little to say that you may command me when you command all; but if my zeal to obey those commands may be counted for merit, I will deserve some applause."

"Wisely spoken," answered the king; "we retain you for ours from this moment; and that you may be ever near our person, we shall bid our chamberlain find your apartments in the palace. How say you, sir knight? are you therewith contented?"

"Your grace's bounty outstrips even the swift wings of Hope," replied Sir Osborne; "but I will try to fly Gratitude against it; and though, perhaps, she may not be able to overtop, she shall, at least, soar an equal pitch."

The knight's allusion to the royal sport of falconry was well adapted to the ears that heard it. Every one must have remarked, that whatever impressions are intended to be produced on the mind of man are always best received when addressed to his heart through its most common associations. Whether we wish to explain, to convince, to touch, or to engage, we must refer to something that is habitual and pleasing; and, therefore, the use of figures in eloquence is not so much to enrich and to deck, as to find admission to the soul of the hearer, by all the paths which its own habits have rendered most easy of access.

Thus, Sir Osborne, without knowing it, drew his metaphor from a sport in which the king delighted; and, more convinced of his zeal by these few words than if the young knight had spoken for an hour, the king replied, "I doubt ye not; 'faith, I doubt ye not. But this night we give a mummery unto our lady queen, when I will bring you to her knowledge: 'tis a lady full of graciousness, and though 'tis I who say it, one that will love well all that I love. But now let us haste, for the day wears; and as you shall be my masking peer, we must think of some quaint disguise: Darby shall be another; and being all light of foot, we will tread a measure with the fair ladies. You are a proper man, and may, perchance, steal some hearts, wherein you shall have our favour, if 'tis for your good advancement. But turn we down this other path; in that I see some strangers. Quick! Mary Mother! I would not be discovered for another kingdom!"