“At the Court Gate to-morrow. The Court will all come out in procession
to the tilt-yard. All the lads will be there. That fellow for all his
swagger and bulk knows no more about cudgel-play than a pig. Three
chances that poor waterman gave him, which, if he had been trained by
Wat Smith, as I have, would have shortened the battle eight minutes.
Pray Heaven he be not too drunk to keep his word in the morning!”
In the morning Jack presented himself at the Court Gate to wait for the
coming out of his master, but earlier than his time of service required.
There, as he expected, were a good sprinkling of his companions of the
previous day assembled in the crowd to see the procession to the sports
in honour of Prince Edmund’s birthday. There too, to his delight, was
the poet Skogan, parchment in hand, gesticulating and bullying as he had
appeared on the previous evening--merely a little cleaner and apparently
sober.
After listening to his rhapsodies for a few minutes, Jack approached his
companions. They received him distantly. Even his staunch adherent and
believer Shallow--who being an arrant coward dared not stand aloof from
the majority--was constrained in his manner.
“I forgive you, gentlemen,” said Jack; “you have had some reason to
doubt my courage. I think I have an opportunity of proving it. This
noisy fellow offends me; you shall see me thrash him.”
“What--Skogan--the cudgeller--Jack?” gasped Shallow, in delighted
astonishment.
“Pray you, some of you ask him to read his verses. I will find fault
with them.”
“Said I not--said I not?” said Shallow, in ecstasies.
One Master Thomas Doit, a law student, of Staffordshire, stepped
forward, and in respectful tones begged the poet to favour him with a
hearing of his verses.
The poet required no second bidding. Tucking his cudgel under his arm,
he cleared his voice and began--
“Oh, royal Edmund, son of Edward Third,----”
“You lie.” said Jack, “he’s the fourth son.”
“Who spoke?”
“I did.”
“Wilt be whipp’d, boy?”
“Ay--when thou goest a week without.”
“He can do it! He can do it!” cried Shallow.
“Go on with the verses, Master Skogan,” said the bystanders. “He is but
young.”
“True. Boy, another time----”
“‘Though fourth in line--”
“I told him so,” said Jack. “He steals my very words.”
“How now? cock-sparrow!”
“How now? hen-gull!”
“Send thy father here for a cudgelling.”
“He sent me here to look for one,” said Jack, “and I am not to go away
without seeing one given.”
“Take care, lad,” said Skogan, raising his stick. Jack, seizing a
cudgel from a bystander, knocked it out of his hand; and, following the
movement up with a smart tingling blow across the bully’s face, threw
off his doublet nimbly and claimed a ring.
Skogan declined the combat on the score of his adversary’s youth.
“Here’s a fellow!” said Jack. “I heard him, drunk, last night challenge
a score men--knowing well not one of them knew the use of a cudgel: now,
sober, he fears to meet a boy who does.”
“You must needs give him a lesson, Skogan,” suggested a bystander, who
was rather tired of waiting for the princes and wanted some amusement;
“or farewell to your repute.”
“Then just one bout to silence him,” said Skogan, stripping.
[Illustration: 067]
The lists were soon formed and orthodox weapons provided. The combatants
took their places. Master Skogan convulsed the bystanders by pretending
to be terribly frightened. He shook all over in the most humorous
manner; rejected half-a-dozen cudgels as not stout enough for so
terrible an occasion; affected to look for a soft place to tumble upon;
and hoped that some kind gentleman would have compassion on his wife and
family in case of fatal accidents. The cudgel play commenced, and the
spectators still laughed; but the mortifying conviction was soon forced
upon Skogan that they were no longer laughing with, but at him. The poet
had assumed a nonchalant patronising air, as who should say, “We will
get this ridiculous business swiftly and mercifully over,” which Jack
imitated to the life, continuing, indeed, to burlesque every one of his
adversary’s movements throughout the encounter. Our hero parried every
blow, easily. Skogan’s jaunty smile deepened into rather an ill-favoured
grin. He had made the serious mistake of underrating his opponent’s
powers. Jack, on the other hand, had well calculated the weight of
the peril he was incurring, and now brought all his nerve, muscle, and
intellect to bear in meeting it. He depended on a chance for a peculiar
stroke--one of Wat Smith’s teaching--of which he had seen Skogan to be
ignorant. An opportunity for this offered itself. It was seized
like lightning. A sharp ringing sound was heard. Skogan let fall his
sword-arm, put his left hand up to his brow, and tried an unconcerned
smile, as though the thing were a mere nothing, in the midst of which
facial effort he fell senseless on his back with a fractured skull.
This was the manner in which Jack Falstaff broke Skogan’s head at the
Court Gate.
A loud shout burst from the spectators. Shallow wept tears of
rapture--mingled with envy.
“Oh, if I could but do it! If I could but have such a thing to talk of!
If I could but once say I had broken a head like that!” he exclaimed
frantically.
“A word with you, sir,” said a rough, shockheaded fellow, drawing him
aside confidentially.
A flourish of trumpets announced the approach of the princes. Jack’s
companions flocked round him, overwhelming him with congratulations
and apologies. Jack affected to treat the whole matter lightly; the
knowledge that he had more than recovered his lost ground enabled him
to still the beatings of his heart. He had fought with wondrous coolness
and apparent enjoyment, but had, in reality, suffered all the agonies
which a keen intellect must always experience in an encounter with
serious physical danger.
Skogan was carried away to be plastered. It is to be hoped his poem
would keep till the next birthday.
By the time Sir Thomas Mowbray came out with the rest of the courtiers,
he found his page fully equipped, and ready to accompany him to the
tiltyard in Smithfield.
When they reached the ground, as Jack was struggling with a crowd of
men at arms to get through the narrow gateway, he felt his sleeve pulled
from behind, and an eager voice cried--
“Jack, Jack! don’t go in yet. Look here; I’ve fought too!”
He looked round and saw Master Robert Shallow in a high state of
excitement, dragging a man by the collar, whose head was bound with a
cloth streaming with blood.
“Look, Jack! mind, say you saw it. Sampson Stockfish his name is--he’s a
fruiterer--I made him come here to show his broken head, or I threatened
him with another.”
“Another head?”
“I pray you let me go, sir,” whined the wounded man; “you have hurt me
sore enough for one day.”
“There! you hear him confess,” crowed the delighted Shallow.
“Out of the way, thou cobbler’s end,” said an authoritative voice. “What
dost thou here among the Marshal’s men?”
And Prince John of Gaunt, striding through the gateway, laid his
sheathed sword across Master Shallow’s head--reducing that warlike
gentleman to the same condition as his blood-stained victim.
Master Shallow was led away howling, by the magnanimous Stockfish.
“Why what eelskin had’st thou got hold of there, Jack?” inquired the
prince, looking after the discomfited champion.
“A Gloucestershire lamprey,” answered Jack. “Your highness would have
done well to kill him, for truly he puts your title in danger.”
“How so?”
“Why your highness is no more Gaunt than he is. He fairly beats your
name.”
When Master Sampson Stockfish and his conqueror were alone, the former
very considerately took the bandage from his own forehead--previously
wiping off the superfluous sheep’s blood--and bound it round his
employer’s head, as having more need of it. He then requested to be
paid, as he wanted to get home.
“True; a silver mark it was, I think,” said Shallow, who was not much
hurt, handing the sum he named.
“A silver mark. Go hang! I’ll have forty.”
“Why it was thine own plan and bargain.”
“All’s one for that. I must have forty if I’m to keep counsel. If not,
out comes the whole tale.”
Master Shallow compromised the matter for twenty marks on the present
occasion,--and, by occasional subsequent fees, was enabled to bind
Stockfish over to permanent silence. He boasted incessantly of his
victory, which he eventually led himself to believe he had gained.
Moreover, he would have considered any price cheap for an adventure
which led to his making the acquaintance of that renowned prince,
John of Gaunt, with whom he was wont to declare he had enjoyed a most
interesting conversation upon the political and theological questions of
the day.