A TOURNAMENT. THE COMBAT.
At this the challenger, with fierce defy,
His trumpet sounds; the challenged makes reply.
DRYDEN.
Grass did not grow beneath the feet of the good people of Haddon
during the week which ensued. Inside the Hall everything was in
confusion and disorder. Rooms were being emptied of hangings which had
lain undisturbed repose for many a long year, and everybody was eager
to bring to light such old relics of previous tourneys which had ever
taken place there as could be discovered outside, and the stir was not
one whit less. The level sward through which the Wye rippled on its
way to join the Derwent, having once been selected as the battle
ground, was immediately transformed from a scene of lovely rustic
peacefulness to a very pandemonium of noisy workmen, out of which
slowly evolved tents and pavilions for the accommodation of the
numerous visitors who were expected to witness the struggle.
The news had spread far and wide, and a large number of persons,
attracted by the well-known splendour and hospitality of the King of
the Peak, as well as by the desire to witness the rare exhibition of
a tournament, which was now about extinct, assembled at Haddon as the
time appointed for the fray drew nigh.
At length the eventful morning dawned. Everything was fully prepared.
The white tents, with their fluttering pennons of many lines, occupied
one side of the ground; the balconies, decked with their brightly
coloured hangings, faced them from the other side, and a slightly
elevated platform, upon which was the throne for the queen of the
tourney, filled one end, while the other was left open for such of the
neighbouring villagers as liked to come.
Long before the appointed hour the space had been filled up by eager
sightseers. Men and women, lads and lasses, old folk and young,
all alike were there, tricked out in holiday attire. Not a coign of
vantage was lost sight of, and every tree which might reasonably have
been expected to yield a glimpse of the scene was crowded by rustics,
eager to gaze upon so rare an exhibition. Behind all rose the grey old
towers of the Hall, which presented a very picturesque appearance as
the sun flashed upon its turrets, and its flags waved to and fro in
the gentle breeze. Haddon had witnessed many stirring scenes before,
but surely never a more brilliant one than was about to be enacted.
Jousts were divided into two classes. The "joust a plaisir" was a mere
knightly display of skill, and was fought with weapons, the edges of
which were dulled; but the other, the "joust a l'outrance," was of
a far more dangerous kind. Lances, swords, and even, occasionally,
mace-like weapons with sharp spikes were used, and it rarely happened
that serious injuries did not result, while not unfrequently it was
accompanied by a fatal termination.
Additional interest was attached to this tournament, inasmuch as it
was of the latter class, and when the sound of the herald's trumpets
was heard, a shout of admiration went up from the assemblage, as the
gates swung open and the party descended from the Hall; and round
after round of praise was accorded by the crowd as the cavalcade
wended its way through it, and took up its allotted position in the
tents and on the balconies.
Without waiting any time Dorothy seated herself upon the throne, and
giving the signal to commence by waving a dainty little flag, the
trumpeters took it up and blew a loud blast upon their instruments.
This was the summons for the combatants to appear, and amid the
tumultuous greetings of the whole assembly, Manners and De la Zouch
came forward from either side of the balcony, and each, well protected
with armour, stood leaning upon his charger while the herald read
aloud the order of the King of the Peak, by whose command the tourney
was held.
Having read it out, this functionary retired with all the grace
and speed at his command; the trumpet sounded again, and the two
assailants leapt simultaneously into the saddle. A minute later the
galloping rush, the sound of contending horsemen, and the noise of
shivering lances told the outsiders that the conflict had begun.
So terrible was the shock as the two met together in the centre of
the ring that it seemed utterly impossible that either of them could
recover from it, but after the first thrust and parry they each passed
on, apparently uninjured, and wheeling their horses around, with
lances couched they paused to spy out a weak point in the other's
defence.
Every breath was hushed, and every eye was strained, to the uttermost
as the anxious onlookers stood on tiptoe to follow every movement of
the competitors.
But neither the knight nor the esquire appeared to be particularly
eager to commence the struggle. Each waited for the other to advance,
and for a moment or two they stood perfectly still, keenly regarding
each other through the bars of their visors.
"They are not going to fight, Sir George," exclaimed De Lacey, in
piteous, tones, "and I've come all this weary way to see the sport."
"Never fear, Sir John," replied the baron cheerily, "you'll see
sport enough soon; they will begin directly, but they don't know each
other's mettle yet."
Even as he spoke Manners rode forward and the conflict was renewed.
Sir Henry de la Zouch was famous at the London schools for his
brilliant lance play, and many of his friends had accepted his
invitation to witness his triumph; but, although it was anticipated
that he would win easily enough with that weapon, it was feared by his
well-wishers that unless he succeeded in placing his combatant hors
de combat then, his chance of doing so with the sword would be
considerably less.
De la Zouch himself knew this, although he would not own it, and it
made him cautious. For a long time he stood carefully upon his guard,
but at last, espying a favourable opportunity, he darted a fierce
blow at the vizor of his opponent, hoping it would pierce the bars and
transfix itself there. It was a well-aimed thrust, and almost proved
successful, but, unfortunately for De la Zouch, Manners unwittingly
foiled him by rising in his saddle at the same time to deliver a
similar blow at him, and instead of receiving the lance upon his
helmet, he caught it in the very centre of his breast-plate. Still
the blow was delivered with so powerful a stroke that, standing in the
stirrups as Manners was, it completely upset his balance, and he fell
over.
A great shout rose up at this feat, but Dorothy turned her face aside,
fearing that he whom she loved was stricken down never to rise again,
and wishing, for the fiftieth time, that she was in her own chamber,
peacefully occupied in stitching at her tapestry.
But the shout was broken off suddenly--to be succeeded the next moment
by another, louder and more prolonged, for, although taken unawares
and overturned, Manners put into execution a trick he had learned in
Holland, and sliding under the belly of the horse, he nimbly swung
himself up by the girths on the other side, and reseated himself in
the saddle, much to the astonishment of De la Zouch, who imagined
he had unhorsed him, and much to the delight of the audience, which
greeted him with plaudits again and again renewed.
"See!" exclaimed De Lacey, with eyes wide open with astonishment,
"where's he come from?"
"Never saw a neater thing in my life," replied Sir George, enraptured
at the trick. "Look now!"
Sir John looked as he was bidden, and saw the astounded De la Zouch
receive a stinging blow on his arm from his opponent ere he had
recovered from his surprise.
As the lances of both were now broken, the trumpet sounded, and the
combatants, nothing loth, rode off for a few minutes' rest, and a
fresh supply of weapons.
The latter having been procured, they very quickly renewed the
struggle, and this time De la Zouch had better fortune, for just as
the bugles were sounding for them to cease he pierced the joint of
Manners' armour, and inflicted a nasty flesh wound upon his elbow.
As the latter would not own himself vanquished, even at Dorothy's
request, the conflict was resumed, and this time with swords, and here
the inferiority of De la Zouch was soon apparent. Though he was no
mean swordsman, yet his opponent was far more than a match for him,
and blow after blow was rained down upon him, whilst on his own part
Sir Henry was too busily engaged in defending himself to attempt to
act on the offensive. He was hard pressed, and it was fortunate indeed
for him when the signal was given which called upon them both to
desist awhile, in order to gain fresh breath, and to put to rights, as
far as they were able, the damages they had already received.
The interval was filled up by the shouts of the onlookers, who now
made up for their previous silence by loudly criticising the deeds
of their respective champion, and vociferously calling out their
particular favourite worthless instructions how to proceed when the
conflict was continued.
Eustace stood ready to receive his master, and give him cordials
wherein to reinvigorate his nerves, while Crowleigh was in waiting in
lieu of a page, to bathe his friend's wounds with water.
The sight of blood, which slowly trickled from Manners' arm, reminded
à Woode that he was a doctor, and, leaping from his seat, he clambered
over the balcony and rushed across the arena to where the wounded
esquire was standing.
"Let me see it," he cried. "This must be stopped at once. Sir Henry, I
declare you the winner of the----"
"Hold there," cried Manners, "I have not yielded yet."
"Leave him alone, Sir Benedict," added Crowleigh. "He will make a
sorry example of De la Zouch even yet."
"But," persisted the old knight, "I declare----"
His speech was rudely cut short, for with a yell of pain he darted off
across the arena, closely followed by a huge mastiff, whose tail he
had been unfortunate enough to tread upon.
With the doctor out of the way the conflict was speedily renewed. It
was a terrible combat. De la Zouch, intent on ridding himself of
his adversary, declared he would give no quarter, and, altering his
tactics, he hewed and lunged away with all the temerity of a man who
fights for death or victory.
Manners' superiority with the sword, however, was so apparent that
after the restarting of the contest the final issue of it was never
for a moment doubted, not even by the veriest tyro present. Sir
Henry's wild thrusts were parried with consummate ease, and while the
knight's sword moved hither and thither with lightning-like rapidity,
the trusty blade of the other moved equally quick, but with far more
certainty.
He waited until De la Zouch began to tire before he exerted himself.
The time came at last, and then with a few quick strokes he laid his
foeman before him on the ground.
"Strike!" shouted a score of voices. "Strike!"
The victor uplifted his sword, and poised it high above his head to
bring it down with all his might. The people waited with throbbing
hearts to witness the stroke which should finish the combat, but
instead of striking Manners paused and turned round.
"Strike, man, strike!" yelled a chorus of onlookers.
Humbly bowing before Dorothy, he magnanimously declared that the fate
of his rival rested with her.
"'Tis a tournament, not a murder," decided Doll promptly; "you have
proved your cause, and if your foe will yield we are ready to spare
him."
Amid the plaudits of the crowd, Manners bowed low upon his knee,
kissed the hand held graciously out towards him. He murmured his
perfect acquiescence to her will, and was about to pass out of the
ring, an easy victor, when a horseman rode in, and without in anyway
announcing himself, he sprang off his horse and scanned the company.
"What does this fellow want?" growled Sir George, as with knitted
eyebrows he scrutinised the intruder. "Thou art a Royal messenger," he
added, turning to the man, who had advanced until he stood before the
baron.
There was little sympathy between the Court at London and the King of
the Peak, and the baron surmised little good from the arrival of the
courtier. As the latter urged his horse through the crowd, and entered
the arena, Sir George anticipated trouble.
"I want the King of the Peak," replied the new comer.
"I am Sir George Vernon."
"Then," replied the other, "I deliver into thine hand this summons,
which cites thee to appear at Westminster to answer the charge of
slaying Mary Durden."
The baron started with surprise, and thought for a moment of laying
violent hands upon the man, but a moment's reflection convinced him of
the unwisdom of such an act.
"And if I refuse to come," he doggedly said, "what then?"
"Then you do so at your peril," he replied, and leaping again upon
his horse, he departed as suddenly as he had appeared, leaving the
awe-stricken assembly to disperse with much less pleasure than they
had anticipated from the scene of such an exciting exhibition of manly
prowess.