The Scottish Knights at the English Court—The wealthy London
Merchant—Combat on London Bridge.
Everything that art could achieve, by means of steel, gold, embossing,
embroidery, and emblazoning, was done to give splendour to the array of
Sir David Lindsay, and his companions and attendants, that Scotland
should, if possible, be in no whit behind England upon this occasion. A
safe-conduct was readily granted them by the English court, and they
departed, all high in spirits, save Hepborne alone, who seemed to
suffer the journey rather than to enjoy it. They travelled very
leisurely, and frequently halted by the way, that their horses might
not be oppressed; and they were everywhere received with marked
respect.
It was towards the end of the third week that they found themselves
crossing a wide glade among those immense forests which then covered
the country, lying immediately to the north of the English metropolis,
when they were attracted by an encampment of gay pavilions, pitched
among the thin skirting trees. A strong guard of archers and
well-mounted lances, that patrolled around the place, proved that there
was some one there of no mean consequence. Within the circle was a vast
and motley crowd of people, moving about in all the rich and varied
costumes which then prevailed. There could be descried many nobles,
knights, and esquires, some equipt in fanciful hunting-garbs, and
others in all the foppery of golden circlets, flowing robes,
party-coloured hose, and long-pointed shoes, attached to knee-chains of
gold and silver; and these were mingled with groups of huntsmen,
falconers, pages, grooms, lacqueys, and even hosts of cooks and
scullions. Many were on horseback, and whole rows of beautiful horses
were picketted in different places, and their neighing mingled cheerily
with the baying of tied-up hounds and the hum of many merry voices.
It was a spectacle well calculated to arrest the attention of the
Scottish knights, and accordingly they halted to enjoy it, and to
listen to the trumpets and timbrels that now began to sound. In a
little time they observed a party of horsemen leave the encampment, and
they were soon aware that it came to meet them. At the head was a
knight clad in a white hunting-coif richly flowered with gold, and a
sky-blue gippon of the most costly materials, thickly wrought with
embroidery, while the toes of his tawny boots, being released from
their knee-chains, hung down nearly a yard from his stirrup-irons. On
his wrist sat a falcon, the badge of a knight. He rode a superb horse,
and his housings corresponded in grandeur with everything else
belonging to him.
“Ha!” exclaimed he, as he reined up his steed affectedly in front of
the group, raised himself in his high-peaked saddle, and, standing in
his stirrups, put his bridle-hand to his side, as if selecting the
attitude best calculated to show off his uncommonly handsome person;
“ha! so I see that my divination doth prove to have been true to most
miraculous exactitude. My Lord of Welles must forfeit an hundred
pieces, in compliment to my superior accuracy of vision and of
judgment. Sir David de Lindsay, I knew thy banner. I do give thee
welcome to England, beausir; nay, I may add, welcome to London too,
seeing thou art barely two leagues from its walls, and that the very
spirit of its greatness is here in these sylvan solitudes, in the
person of the Royal Richard, attended as he is by his chivalrous
Court.”
“Sir Piers Courtenay,” exclaimed Sir David de Lindsay, “perdie, it doth
rejoice me to behold thee, strangers as we are, in these parts.”
“Trust me, ye shall be strangers no longer, gentle sir,” replied Sir
Piers, with a condescending inclination of body, that he now deigned to
continue round, with his eyes directed to the other knights severally,
whom he had not noticed until now. “When I, with singularly fortunate
instinct, did assert that it was thee and thy bandon we beheld, the
Lord Welles did wager me an hundred pieces that I did err in sagacity;
but as I parted from him to ride hither, to bring mine accuracy to the
proof, he charged me, if I were right, to invite thee and thy company
to the Royal camp.”
“Travel-worn and dust-begrimed as we are,” said Sir William de Dalzel,
“meseems we shall be but sorry sights for the eyes of Royalty,
especially amid a crowd of gallants so glittering as the sample thou
hast brought us in thine own sweet and perfumed person, beausir.”
“Nay, nay,” replied Sir Piers Courtenay, glancing with contempt at
Dalzel’s war-worn surcoat, and taking his ironical remark as an actual
compliment, “we are but accoutred, as thou seest, for rustic sport; we
are shorn of our beams among the shades of these forests. But let us
not tarry, I pray thee; the sports of the morning are already over; the
sylvan meal is about to be spread in the grand pavilion, and rude
though it be, it may not come amiss to those who have already travelled
since dawn. Let us hasten thither, then, for the King doth return to
London after feeding.”
Under the guidance of this pink of fashion, the Scottish knights
advanced towards the Royal hunting-encampment; and long ere they
reached it, the Lord Welles, who already saw that he had lost his
wager, came forth to meet them, and received them with all that warmth
of hospitality which characterized the English people of all ranks even
in those early days, and for which they were already famed among
foreign nations. He led them through a mass of guards, who, though they
appeared but to form a part of the pageantry of the Royal sports, were
yet so completely armed, both men and horses, that it was manifest
security from sudden surprise was the chief object of their being
placed there.
Sir David Lindsay and his companions, after quitting their saddles,
were led by the Lord Welles to his own tent, where they soon rendered
themselves fit to appear before Royal eyes. They were then conducted to
the King’s pavilion, which they found surrounded by a strong body of
archers, and they had no sooner entered the outer part of it than they
were introduced to the Earls of Kent and Huntingdon, half-brothers to
the King, who were in waiting. These were now Richard’s chief
favourites since the late banishment of De Vere, Duke of Ireland, and
others. By these noblemen they were immediately introduced into the
Royal presence.
The young Richard was not deficient in that manly beauty possessed by
his heroic father, the nation’s idol, Edward the Black Prince, but his
countenance was softened by many of those delicate traits which gave to
his lovely mother the appellation of the Fair Maid of Kent. His eyes,
though fine and full, were of unsteady expression, frequently
displaying a certain confidence in self-opinion, that suddenly gave way
to doubt and hesitation. Though the dress he had on was of the same
shape as that worn by his courtiers, being that generally used by
noblemen of the period when hunting, yet, costly as was the attire of
those around him, his was most conspicuous among them all, by the rich
nature of the materials of which it was composed, as well as by the
massive and glittering ornaments he wore. The gorgeous furniture of his
temporary residence too, with the endless numbers of splendidly habited
domestics who waited, might have been enough of themselves to have
explained to the Scottish knights whence that dissatisfaction arose
among his subjects, who were compelled to contribute to expenditure so
profuse.
The King’s natural disposition to be familiar with all who approached
him would of itself have secured a gracious reception to Sir David de
Lindsay and his companions, but the cause of their visit made them
doubly welcome. Their coming ensured him an idle show and an empty
pageant which would furnish him with an apology for making fresh
draughts on his already over-drained people. Every honour, therefore,
was paid them, as if they had been public ambassadors from the nation
to which they belonged, and the most conspicuous places were assigned
them at that luxurious board where the Royal collation was spread, and
where, much as they had seen, their eyes were utterly confounded by the
profusion of rarities that appeared.
The King had been hunting for nearly a week in these suburban wilds,
and he was now about to return to his palace in the Tower, which he at
this time preferred as a residence to that of Westminster. But the
pleasures of the table, seasoned by dissolute conversation with the
profligate knights and loose ladies, who were most encouraged at his
Court, together with that indolence into which he was so apt to sink,
had at all times too great charms for him to permit him easily to move
from them. He therefore allowed the hours to pass in epicurean
indulgence, whilst he gazed on the wanton attitudes of the women who
danced before him, or on the feats of jugglers and tumblers.
At length the camp was ordered to be broken up, and then the whole
Royal attention became occupied in the arrangement of the cavalcade, so
that it might produce the most imposing effect, and the humblest
individuals were not considered as unworthy of a King’s notice on so
important an occasion. All were soon put into the wished-for order, and
Richard himself figured most prominently of all, proudly mounted on a
magnificently-caparisoned horse, having housings that swept the ground.
A canopy was borne over him by twelve esquires, and he was surrounded
by his archers. Sir David de Lindsay and his companions formed a part
of this pageant, which they failed not to remark was carefully defended
on all sides by well-armed horsemen.
From the summit of an eminence the Scottish knights caught their first
view of London, then clustered into a small space within its confined
walls. It seemed to be tied like a knot, as it were, on the winding
thread of the majestic Thames, which, after washing the walls of the
Palace of Westminster, flowed thence gently along its banks, fringed by
the gardens and scattered country-dwellings of the nobility and richer
citizens, until it was lost for a time amid the smoke arising from the
dusky mass of the city, to appear farther down with yet greater
brilliancy. The sun was already getting low, and was shooting its rays
aslant through the thick atmosphere that hung over the town. They
caught on its most prominent points, and brought fully into notice the
venerable tower and spire of the then Gothic St. Paul’s, and the
steeples of the few churches and monasteries which the city contained,
together with its turreted walls and its castles. All between the
partially wooded slope they stood on and the gates, was one wild
pasture, partly covered with heath, interspersed with thickets, and
partly by swamps, and a large lake.
As they drew nearer to the city, they passed by crowds of young
citizens engaged in athletic exercises. Some were wrestling; others,
mounted on spirited horses and armed with lances, were tilting at the
quintaine, or jousting with wooden points against each other. In one
place they were shooting with bows at a mark; and in another, groups of
young men and damsels were seen dancing under the shade of trees, to
the gratification of many a father and mother who looked on. Besides
these, the ground was peopled by vendors of refreshments; and, in
diverse corners, jugglers and posture-masters were busy with their
tricks before knots of wondering mechanics. So keenly were all engaged,
that the Royal hunting party, carefully as the order of its march had
been prepared, passed by unheeded, or, if noticed at all, it was by a
secret curse from some of the disaffected, who grudged to see that
Richard had been hunting in that part of the forest which it was more
particularly the privilege of the citizens of London to use. Nor did
the haughty courtiers regard these humbler people, except to indulge in
many a cutting jest at their expense, which Richard’s ready laugh of
approbation showed they were thoroughly licensed to do.
“We have seen some such jousting as this before,” said Courtenay, with
a sly toss of his head, immediately after an awkward exhibition that
had accidentally attracted notice.
“Yea, so have I too,” observed Dalzel calmly; “I did once see ane
English knight tilt so on the Mead of St. John’s.”
Crossing the broad ditch of the city by a drawbridge, they made their
entry between the towers of Cripplegate, having its name from the
swarms of beggars by which it was generally infested, and they
immediately found themselves in narrow streets of wooden houses,
uncouthly projecting as they rose upwards, and detached shops, which
were already shut up for the day. Here and there the windows were
decorated with coloured cloth or carpets, and some few idle vagabonds
ran after the cavalcade crying out, “Long live King Richard!” looking
to be recompensed for their mercenary loyalty by liberal largess. But
the respectable citizens were already enjoying their own recreation in
the Moorfields, those who did remain having little inclination to join
in the cry where the Monarch was so unpopular; and many a sturdy black
muzzled mechanic went scowling off the street to hide in some dark lane
as he saw the procession approaching, bestowing his malediction on that
heartless prodigality and luxury which robbed him and his infants to
supply its diseased appetite. Hepborne and Halyburton, who rode
together, could not help remarking this want of loyal feeling towards
the young English Monarch; and, calling to mind the enthusiasm with
which they had seen the aged King Robert of Scotland, in his grey
woollen hose, greeted by his people, they began to suspect that there
must be faults of no trifling sort in a Prince to whom nature had given
so pleasing an exterior.
Having got within the fortifications of the Tower, the Scottish knights
were astonished with the immense army of the minions of luxury who
filled its courts. The King himself signified his pleasure to Sir David
Lindsay and his friends that they should enter the Royal apartments,
where they partook of wine and spices, handed about in rich golden
cups; after which a banquet followed in a style of magnificence
calculated to make everything they had before seen to be altogether
forgotten in comparison with it. The King honoured them with his
peculiar attention, and even deigned to attend to making provision for
their proper accommodation. For this purpose, he called for the Lord
Welles, and gave him a list of those persons who were to be honoured
with the expense of lodging and entertaining these strangers and their
people. With singular contradiction to his own wish that they should be
treated with exemplary hospitality, he chose to select as their hosts
certain persons who had offended him, and whom he had a desire to
punish, by thus exposing them to great expense; and so the strangers
were thrown into situations where anything but voluntary kindness might
be looked for.
When the King gave them their leave, they found their esquires in
waiting for them. Mortimer Sang led Hepborne into the Vintry, to the
house of a certain Lawrence Ratcliffe, a wine merchant. His dwelling
was within a gateway and courtyard, on each side of which there were
long rows of warehouses and vaults extending nearly quite down to the
river wall.
It was dark when Sir Patrick entered the court-yard, and as he passed
onwards to where he saw a lamp burning within the doorway of the
dwelling house, he heard the voice of a man issuing from an
outbuilding.
“Jehan Petit,” said the person, who spoke to some one who followed him,
“see that thou dost give out no wine to this Scot but of that cargo,
the which did ship the sea water, and that tastes brackish. An the King
will make us maintain all his strange cattle, by St. Paul, but as far
as I have to do with them they shall content themselves with such
feeding as it may please me to bestow. Let the esquire and the other
trash have sour ale, ’tis good enow for the knaves; and I promise thee
it will well enow match the rest of their fare, and the herborow they
shall have. Alas, poor England! ay, and above all, alas, poor London!
for an we have not a change soon, we shall be eaten up by the King’s
cormorants—a plague rot ’em!”
By this time Hepborne and his landlord met in the stream of light that
issued from the open doorway. Hepborne made a courteous though
dignified obeisance to Master Ratcliffe, a stout elderly man, whose
face showed that he had not been at all negligent during his life in
tasting, that he might have personal knowledge of what was really good
before he ventured to give it to his friends. The wine merchant was
taken somewhat unawares. He had made up his mind to be as cross and as
rude as he well could to the guest that had been thus forced upon him.
But Hepborne’s polite deportment commanded a return from a man who had
been in France, and he bent to the stranger with a much better grace
than he could have wished to have bestowed on him.
“I do address myself to Master Lawrence Ratcliffe, if I err not?” said
Hepborne, in a civil tone.
“Yea, I am that man,” replied the other, recovering something of his
sulky humour.
“Master Ratcliffe,” said Hepborne, with great civility of manner, “I
understand that His Majesty the King of England’s hospitality to
strangers hath been the cause of throwing me to thy lot. But I cannot
suffer his kindness to a Scottish knight to do injury to a worthy
citizen of his own good city of London. To keep me and my people in thy
house, would run thee into much trouble, not to talk of the expense,
the which no man of trade can well bear. I come, therefore, to entreat
thee to permit me to rid thee and thy house of unbidden guests, who
cannot choose but give thee great annoy, and to crave thine advice as
to what inn or hostel I should find it most convenient to remove to. By
granting me this, thou wilt make me much beholden to thee.”
Master Lawrence Ratcliffe looked at Hepborne with no small
astonishment. This was a sort of behaviour to which he had been but
little used, and for which he was by no means prepared.
“Nay, by St. Stephen, Sir Knight, thou shalt not move,” said he at
last; “by all the blessed saints, thou shalt have the best bed and the
best food that London can furnish; yea, and wine, too, the which let me
tell thee, the King himself cannot command. Go, get the key of the trap
cellar, Jehan Petit,” said he, turning briskly to his attendant; “bring
up some flasks of the right Bourdeaux and Malvoisie. Thou dost well
know their marks, I wot.”
“Nay, send him not for wine, I pray thee, good Master Ratcliffe,” cried
Hepborne; “I trow I have already drank as much as may be seemly for
this night.”
“Chut,” cried the wine merchant, with a face of glee, “all that may be;
yet shall we drain a flask to our better acquaintance. Fly, sirrah
Jehan! This way, Sir Knight. Would that Heaven mought send us a flight
of such rare birds as thou art; thine ensample mought peraunter work a
change on these all-devouring vultures of King Richard’s Court. This
way, Sir Knight. Have a care, there be an evil step there.”
Master Lawrence Ratcliffe ushered Hepborne into a very handsomely
furnished apartment, the walls of which were hung round with costly
cloths. It was largely supplied with velvet and silk covered chairs,
and with many an ancient cabinet, and it was lighted by a small silver
lamp. They were hardly seated, when a lacquey brought in a silver
basket of sweetmeats and dried fruits, and soon afterwards Jehan Petit
appeared with the venerable flasks for which Master Ratcliffe had
despatched him. It was with some difficulty that Hepborne could prevent
the liberal Englishman from ordering a sumptuous banquet to be
prepared, by declaring that repose, not food, was what he now required;
but he made up for this check on his hospitality by giving ample
directions for the comfort of all the members of Hepborne’s retinue,
quadrupeds as well as bipeds. The wine was nectar, yet Hepborne drank
but little of it; but Master Ratcliffe did ample duty for both.
“I fear, Sir Knight, that thy people were but scurvily treated ere thou
camest,” said he to Hepborne; “but, in good verity, I have too much of
this free quartering thrust upon me by the Court. I promise thee, King
Richard is not always content with his two tuns out of each of my wine
ships. By’r Lady, he doth often help himself to ten tuns at a time from
these cellars of mine, and that, too, as if he were doing me high
honour all the while. It did so happen lately that he lacked some
hundred of broad pieces for his immediate necessities. Down came my
Lord of Huntingdon with his bows and fair words. ‘Master Lawrence
Ratcliffe,’ said he, ‘it is His Majesty’s Royal pleasure to do thee an
especial honour.’ ‘What,’ cried I, ‘my Lord of Huntingdon, doth the
King purpose to make an Earl of me?’ ‘Nay, not quite that,’ replied his
Lordship, somewhat offended at my boldness, ‘not quite that, Master
Ratcliffe, but, knowing that thou art one of the richest merchants of
his good city of London, he hath resolved to prefer thee to be his
creditor rather than any other. Lend him, therefore, five hundred
pieces for a present necessity. And seeing it was I who did bring this
high honour upon thy shoulders, by frequently enlarging to the King of
thy princely wealth, thou mayest at same time lend me fifty pieces from
thine endless hoards, for mine own private use.’ ‘My Lord,’ replied I,
‘seeing that thou thyself hast been altogether misinformed as to my
wealth, thou mayest hie thee back speedily to undeceive the King, else
may the Royal wrath peradventure be poured out upon thee, for filling
his ear with that which lacketh foundation. I have no money hoards to
play the Jew withal.’ ‘Nay, then,’ replied Huntingdon, with a
threatening aspect, ‘thou mayest look for the King’s wrath falling on
thine own head, not on mine. By St. Paul, thou shalt repent thee of
this thy discourteous conduct to the King.’ The profligate Earl was
hardly gone when I felt that I had permitted my indignation to carry me
too far, and that it would have been wiser to have paid five times the
demand, and I soon had proof of this. I judged it best to pay the
money; yet hardly hath a week elapsed sithence that I have not been
tormented in a thousand ways by orders from the Court. But, by’r Lady,
such a state of things may not last,” said he, after a pause; and then
starting, as if he thought he had perhaps said too much, “for what poor
merchant’s coffers may stand out against such drafts as these? And now,
Sir Knight, thou mayest judge why I was resolved to receive thee so
vilely. But thou mayest thank thine own courtesy for so speedily
disarming my resolution.”
On the ensuing morning the Lord Welles came, by the King’s order, to
wait on Sir David Lindsay, and to invite him and his companions to a
Royal banquet, to be given that day at the Palace of Westminster,
whither they were to go in grand procession by land, and to return by
water to the Tower at night. The Scottish knights, therefore, joined
the Royal party, and leaving the city by Ludgate, descended into the
beautiful country which bordered the Thames, their eyes delighted, as
they rode along, by the appearance of the suburban palaces and gardens
which lay scattered along the river’s bank. Passing through the village
of Charing, they approached the venerable Abbey and Palace of
Westminster, and were received within the fortified walls of the
latter. The entertainment given in the magnificent hall was on a scale
of extravagance perfectly appalling, both as to number of dishes and
rarity of the viands; and the aquatic pageant of painted boats was no
less wonderful. It was impossible for the poor commons to behold the
money wrenched from their industry thus scattered in a useless luxury
that but little nourished their trade or manufactures, or at least
could not appear to their ignorance to have such a tendency, without
their becoming disaffected; and, accordingly, every new pageant of this
kind only added to the mass of the malcontents.
The handsome Courtenay had this day outshone all his former splendour
of attire.
“Didst thou mark that popinjay Sir Piers Courtenay?” demanded Sir
William de Dalzel, as they were returning in the boat; “didst thou mark
the bragging device on his azure silk surcoat?”
“I did note it,” replied Halyburton; “a falcon embroidered in divers
silks, that did cunningly ape the natural colours of the bird.”
“Yea, but didst thou note the legend, too?” continued Sir William de
Dalzel. “It ran thus, methinks—
I bear a falcon fairest of flight:
Whoso pinches at her his death is dight,
In graith.”
“Ha,” said Hepborne, “by St. Andrew, a fair challenge to us all; the
more, too, that it doth come after the many taunts he did slyly throw
out against Scottish chivalry at Tarnawa. But he shall not lack a hand
to pinch at his falcon, for I shall do it this night, lest the braggart
shall change his attire.”
“Nay, nay, leave him to me, I entreat thee,” said Sir William de
Dalzel. “He is mine by right, seeing I did first note his arrogant
motto. Trust me, I shall not leave London without bringing down this
empty peacock, so that he shall be the laughing-stock of his own
companions.”
On the plea of giving sufficient repose to the Scottish champion,
Richard ordained that yet three more days should pass ere the joust
should take place between Sir David Lindsay and the Lord Welles; and
the time was spent in divers amusements, and in balls, masquings, and
feastings.
At length the day of the tilting arrived, and everything had been done
to make the exhibition a splendid one. Triumphal arches had been
erected in several parts of Thames Street; and the inhabitants were
compelled by Royal proclamation to garnish their windows with flowers
and boughs, and to hang out cloths and carpets; while many of those who
had houses on London Bridge were forced by an edict to vacate their
dwellings, for the use of the King and such of his courtiers and
attendants as he chose to carry thither with him. These houses were
wretched enough in themselves, being frail wooden tenements, arising
from each side of the Bridge, partly founded on it, so as to narrow its
street to about twenty-three feet, and partly resting on posts driven
in to the bed of the stream, so that they hung half over the water, and
were, in some cases, only saved from falling backwards into it by
strong wooden arches that crossed the street from one house to another,
and bound them together.
The Royal procession was to be arranged in the Tower-yard, and in
obedience to the commands of King Richard, the Scottish knights
repaired thither to take their place in it. The banner of Sir David
Lindsay, bearing gules, a fess cheque argent and azure, with his crest
an ostrich proper, holding in his beak a key or, appeared conspicuous;
and his whole party, esquires as well as knights, were mounted and
armed in a style that was by no means disgraceful to poor Scotland,
though in costliness of material and external glitter they were much
eclipsed by the English knights. Of these Sir Piers Courtenay, who was
to perform the part of second to the Lord Welles, seemed resolved to be
second to none in outward show. His tilting-helmet was surmounted by a
plume that was perfectly matchless, and there the falcon, which on this
occasion he had chosen as his crest, was proudly nestled. His coat of
mail was covered with azure silk. The belt for his shield, and the
girdle-stead for his sword, were of crimson velvet, richly ornamented
with golden studs and precious stones. The roundels on his shoulders
and elbows were, or at least appeared to be, of gold. His mamillieres
were of wrought gold ornamented with gems, and heavy golden chains, of
sufficient length not to impede his full action when using the weapon,
depended from them, so as to attach the hilt of his sword to his right
breast, and the scabbard of it to his left. His sword and his dagger
were exquisite both as to materials and workmanship; but what most
attracted attention was the azure silken surcoat embroidered with the
falcon upon it, and the vaunting motto—
I bear a falcon fairest of flight:
Whoso pinches at her his death is dight,
In graith.
Courtenay rode about, making his horse perform many a fanciful curvet,
full of self-approbation, and throwing many a significant glance
towards the Scottish party, as he capered by them, evidently with the
desire of provoking some one among them to accept the mute and general
challenge he gave, and winking to his friends at the same time, as if
he believed that there was little chance of its being noticed. The
sagacious Sir John Constable and some others said all they could to
check his impertinent foolery, but their friendly advices were thrown
away on the coxcomb.
All being prepared, King Richard was becoming impatient to move off,
when it was signified to him that Sir William de Dalzel, who was to be
second to Sir David de Lindsay, had not yet appeared. The King ordered
an esquire to hasten to his lodgings to tell him he was waited for,
when just at that moment a knight appeared attired in a style of
splendour that was only to be equalled by Sir Piers Courtenay himself;
but what was more wonderful, he seemed to be in every respect the very
double of that magnificent cavalier. All eyes were directed towards
him, and when he came nearer, the King himself gave way to immoderate
fits of laughter, in which he was heartily joined by every one in the
court-yard, down to the lowest groom; in short, by all save one, and
that was Sir Piers Courtenay.
This second edition of the English exquisite was Sir William de Dalzel,
who, having found out beforehand what Courtenay was to appear in, had
contrived, with great exertion, pains, and expense, to fit himself with
a surcoat and appendages exactly resembling those of the coxcomb; with
this difference only, that his azure silk surcoat had on it a magpie,
embroidered with divers coloured threads, with this motto—
I bear a pyet pykkand at ane piece:
Whasa pykes at her I sall pyke at his nese,
In faith.
The laugh continued, whilst the square-built Dalzel rode about with his
vizor up, wearing a well-dissembled air of astonishment, as if he could
by no means divine what it was that gave rise to so much merriment. But
Courtenay could bear it no longer. He even forgot the Royal presence of
Richard, which, however, was but seldom wont to throw much awe over
those with whom he was in the habit of being familiar.
“By the body of Saint George,” exclaimed Courtenay, riding up to
Dalzel, “thou hast attired thyself, Sir Scot, but in mockery of me. By
the Holy St. Erkenwold, thou shalt speedily answer for thine unknightly
rudeness.”
“Nay, by the body of St. Andrew, Sir Englishman, the which I do take to
be an oath that ought to match thine,” said Dalzel, with great
coolness, seasoned with an air of waggery, “I do in nowise insult thee
by mine attire more than thine attire doth insult me. Perdie, on the
contrarie, I do but give thee infinite honour, in the strict observance
of thine excellent fashion. Didst thou not, with great condescension,
bestow upon the Scottish chivauncie at Tarnawa, myself being one, full
many a wise saw on the supereminent judgment of English knights, or
rather of thyself, the cream of all English knighthood, in matters of
dress and arming? Didst thou not discuss it, buckle by buckle? Hither
then am I come, in all my clownishness, to profit by thy wisdom; and
such being mine errand, how, I pray thee, can I do better than copy
thee to the nail—thou, I say, who canst so well teach me to put on a
brave golden outside, where peradventure the inner metal may be but
leaden?”
“By the rood of St. Paul,” cried Courtenay, “thine evil chosen
attirement was but small offence, compared to that thou hast now heaped
on me by thy sarcastic commentary on it. I will hear no more. There!”
said he, dashing down his gauntlet on the pavement. “With permission of
the Royal presence, in which I now am, I do hereby challenge thee to
combat of outrance, to be fought after the tilting-match.”
“Nay, sith that thou wilt fly thy fair falcon at my poor pie,” said
Dalzel, “and run his head into my very talons with thy eagerness, by
the blessed bones of St. Dunstan, I will pinch her as well as ever the
monk did the beak of the Evil One;” and saying so, he leaped from his
saddle, and taking up the gauntlet stuck it in his helmet.
The procession being now formed, moved off in order and with sound of
trumpet by the Tower-gate, and so along Thames Street, towards the
bridge, where the Royal party were accommodated in the balconies and
windows of the central houses, close to where the shock of the
encounter was expected to take place. The bridge was then cleared of
all obstacles, and the gates at either end were shut so as to act as
barriers to keep out all but the combatants or those who waited on
them.
The scene was now very imposing. The antique wooden fronts of the
houses, of different projections and altitudes, approaching nearer and
nearer to each other, as they rose storey above storey, till they came
so close at top as to leave but a mere riband’s breadth of sky visible;
the endless variety of windows and balconies, decorated with webs of
various-coloured cloths, tapestry, and painted emblazonments; the
arches that crossed from one side of the way to the other, hung with
pennons and streamers of every possible shade; the Gothic tower that
rose from one part of the bridge, where the banner of England waved
from a flag-staff set among the grizzly heads of many a victim of
tyranny, as well as many a traitor, among which last that of Wat Tyler
was then conspicuous; and these, contrasted with the crowds of gay
knights and ladies who shone within the lattices and balconies, the
gorgeous band of heralds, the grotesque trumpeters, and musicians of
all kinds, and the whimsical attire of the numerous attendants on the
lists were objects singularly romantic in themselves, and the effect of
them was heightened by the courtly-subdued whisper that murmured along
on both sides, mingling with the deafened sound of the river dashing
against the sterlings of the bridge underneath.
It being signified to the King that the knights were ready, he ordered
the speaker of the lists to give the word, “Hors, chevaliers!” and the
heralds’ trumpets blew. The barriers at both ends of the bridge were
then opened, and Sir David Lindsay entered from the north, attended by
Sir William de Dalzel. The Lord Welles and Sir Piers Courtenay, who had
purposely crossed into what is now Southwark, appeared from that
direction. The trumpets then sounded from both ends of the lists, and
the challenge was proclaimed by one herald on the part of the Lord
Welles, and accepted by another on the part of Sir David de Lindsay,
while the articles of agreement as to the terms of combat, which had
been regularly drawn up and signed by both parties at Tarnawa, were
read from the balcony of the heralds. The combatants then rode slowly
from each end until they met and measured lances, when their arms were
examined by the marshal, and their persons searched to ascertain that
neither carried charms or enchantments about him. The knights then
crossed each other, and each attended by his companion and one esquire,
rode slowly along to the opposite end of the bridge, and then returned
each to his own place, by this means showing themselves fully to the
spectators. The Lord Welles was mounted on a bright bay horse, and Sir
David Lindsay rode a chestnut, both of great powers. But the figures,
and still more the colours, of the noble animals, were hid beneath
their barbed chamfronts and their sweeping silken housings.
The King now gave his Royal signal for the joust to begin by the usual
words, “Laissez les aller,” and the heralds having repeated them aloud,
the trumpets sounded, and they flew towards each other with furious
impetus, the fire flashing from the stones as they came on. An anxious
murmur rushed along the line of spectators, eagerly were their heads
thrust forward to watch the result. The combatants met, and both lances
were shivered. That of Sir David Lindsay took his opponent in the
shield, and had nearly unseated him, whilst he received the point of
the Lord Welles’ right in the midst of his ostrich-crested casque; but
although the concussion was so great as to make both horses reel
backwards, yet the Scottish knight sat firm as a rock. The seconds now
came up, and new lances being given to the combatants, each rode slowly
away to his own barrier to await the signal for the next course.
It was given, and again the two knights rushed to the encounter, and
again were the lances shivered with a similar result. Sir David Lindsay
received his adversary’s point full in the bars of his vizor, yet he
sat unmoved as if he had been but the human half of a Centaur. A murmur
ran along among the spectators; with some it was applause for his
steadiness of seat, but with by far the greater number it was
dissatisfaction. It grew in strength, and at length loud murmurs arose.
“He is tied to his saddle—Sir David de Lindsay is tied to his saddle.
Never had mortal man a seat so firm without the aid of trick or fallas.
Prove him, prove him—let him dismount if he can!”
Sir David Lindsay soon satisfied them. He sprung to the ground, making
the bridge ring again with the weight of his harness, and walking up
opposite to the balcony where the King sat, he made his obeisance to
Majesty. His well-managed horse followed him like a dog, and the
knight, after thus satisfying the Monarch and every one of the
falsehood of the charge that had been made against him, leaped again
into his saddle, armed as he was. Hitherto the choice breeding of those
who were present had confined the applause to the mere courtly clapping
of hands. But now they forgot that they were nobles, knights, and
ladies of high degree, and the continued shout that arose might have
done honour to the most plebeian lungs.
The combatants now again returned each to his barrier. The trumpets
again sounded, and again the generous steeds sprang to their full
speed. But now it was manifest that Sir David Lindsay was in earnest,
and that he had hardly been so before, was proved by the tremendous
violence of the shock with which his blunt lance head came in contact
with the neck-piece of the Lord Welles, who was lifted as it were from
his saddle, and tossed some yards beyond his horse. So terrific was the
effect of Sir David Lindsay’s weapon that the operation of the lance
borne by the Lord Welles was so absolutely overlooked that no one could
tell what it had been, and so admirably was Lindsay’s skill and
strength displayed by this sudden and terrible overthrow of his
opponent, that the spectators, with all the honest impartiality of
Englishmen and Englishwomen, shouted as loudly as if the triumph had
been with their own champion, when the trumpets proclaimed the victory
of the Scottish Knight.
The gallant Lindsay leaped from his horse, and, altogether unheeding
the praises that were showering upon him, ran to lift up his opponent,
who lay without motion. With the assistance of the seconds and
esquires, he raised him, and his helmet being unlaced, he was
discovered to be in a swoon, and it was judged that he was severely
bruised. A litter was immediately brought, and the discomfited knight
speedily carried off to his lodgings in the Tower. Meanwhile Lindsay’s
attention was called by the voice of the King.
“Sir David de Lindsay,” said he, addressing him from his balcony, “we
do heartily give thee joy of thy victory. Thou hast acquitted thyself
like a true and valiant knight. Come up hither that we may bestow our
Royal guerdon on thee.”
Lindsay ran up stairs to the balcony where the King sat, and kneeling
on one knee before him—
“Accept this gemmed golden chain, in token of Richard’s approbation of
thy prowess,” said the Monarch, throwing the chain over his neck; “and
now thou hast full leave to return to thine own country when thou
mayest be pleased so to do, bearing with thee safe-conduct through the
realm of England.”
“Most Royal Sir,” said Lindsay, “I shall bear this thy gift as my
proudest badge; but may I crave thy gracious leave to tarry at thy
Court until I do see that the Lord Welles is restored to health by the
leeches? Verily, I should return but sadly into Scotland did I believe
that I had caused aught of serious evil to so brave a lord.”
“Nay, that at thy discretion, Sir Knight,” replied Richard; “our Court
shall be but the prouder while graced by such a flower of chivalry as
thyself.”
Lindsay bowed his thanks, and then retreated from the applauses which
rang in his ears, that he might hasten to follow the Lord Welles to his
lodgings, where he took his place by his bed-side, and began to execute
the duties of a nurse, rarely quitting him for many days, that is,
until his cure was perfected.
Lindsay was no sooner gone than the gay Sir Piers Courtenay, who had by
this time mounted, and who had been all along writhing under the
ridicule which Sir William de Dalzel had thrown upon him, now prepared
to give his challenge in form. Bringing his horse’s head round to front
the Royal balcony, and backing him with the most perfect skill, he rose
in his stirrups, and made a most graceful obeisance to his King.
“What wouldst thou with us, Courtenay?” said Richard, with a smile
playing about his mouth.
“My liege,” replied Courtenay, bowing again with peculiar grace, “I
have to ask a boon of your Royal favour.”
“Speak, then, we give thee license,” replied the King.
“So please your Majesty, I do conceive myself grossly insulted by a
Scottish knight; in such wise, indeed, that the blood of one of us must
wash out the stain. May we then have thy Royal leave to fight before
thee even now, to the outrance?”
“Name the Scottish knight of whom thou dost so complain,” said the
King, with difficulty composing his features; “thou hast our full
license to give him thy darreigne.”
“’Tis he who now rideth this way,” replied Courtenay, “Sir William de
Dalzel.”
“Ha! what wouldst thou with me, most puissant Sir Piers?” said Dalzel,
who just then returned from riding slowly along the whole length of the
bridge, with his vizor up, a grave face, and a burlesque attitude, so
as to show his pie off to the greatest advantage, bringing a roar of
laughter along with him from the balconies and open lattices on both
sides of the way, and who now approached Courtenay with a bow so
ridiculous, that it entirely upset the small portion of gravity that
the young King was blessed with; “what wouldst thou with me, I say,
most potent paragon of knighthood?”
“I would that thou shouldst redeem thy pledge,” replied Courtenay, with
very unusual brevity.
“What, then, Sir Piers,” replied Dalzel, “must it then be pie against
popinjay? Nay, cry you mercy, I forgot. Thy bird, I do believe, is
called a falcon, though, by St. Luke, an ’twere not for the legend,
few, I wis, would take it for aught but an owl, being that it is of
portraiture so villanous.”
“By the blessed St. Erkenwold, but thy bantering doth pass all
bearing,” cried Courtenay impatiently, and perhaps more nettled at this
attack on the merits of his embroidery than he had been with anything
that had yet passed. “Depardieux, my falcon was the admiration of the
Westminster feast. By the holy St. Paul, it was the work of the most
eminent artists the metropolis can boast.”
“Perdie, I am right glad to hear thy character of them,” replied
Dalzel, “for my pie is here by the same hands; nay, and now I look at
it again, ’tis most marvellously fashioned. By the Rood, but it pecks
an ’twere alive.”
“Thou hast contrived to turn all eyes upon me by thy clownish mockery,”
cried Courtenay, getting still more angry, as the laugh rose higher at
every word uttered by his adversary.
“Nay, then,” replied Dalzel, with affected gravity, “methinks thou
shouldst give me good store of thanks, Sir Knight, for having brought
so many bright and so many brave eyes to look upon the high perfections
of thee and thy buzzard.”
“My liege,” replied Courtenay, no longer able to stand the laugh that
ran around from window to window at his expense, “am I to have thy
Royal license?”
“Go, then, without further let,” said the King; “let the heralds of the
lists proclaim the challenge.”
The usual ceremonies were now gone through, and Sir Piers Courtenay
rode off to the barrier lately tenanted by the Lord Welles. Dalzel sat
looking after him for some seconds, until he was master of his
attitude, and then turning his horse, cantered off to his own barrier,
so perfectly caricaturing the proud and indignant seat of the raging
Courtenay, that he carried a peal of laughter along with him. But the
universal merriment was much increased when the banner of the falcon
was contrasted with that of the pie, which was raised in opposition to
it. It was silenced, however, by the trumpets of warning, that now
brayed loudly from either side of the bridge.
A second and a third time they sounded, and Courtenay flew against his
opponent with a fury equal to the rage he felt. Even the serious nature
of the combat could not tame the waggery of the roguish Dalzel, who,
though he failed not to give due attention to the manner in which he
bore his shield, as well as to the firmness of his seat, rode his
career in a manner so ludicrous as altogether to overcome that solemn
silence of expectation that generally awaited the issue of a combat
where death might ensue. The spectators, indeed, were made to forget
the probability of such a consequence, and Courtenay’s ears continued
to be mortified by the loud laugh which, though it followed his
adversary, fell with all its blistering effect upon him. Though much
disconcerted, the English knight bore his lance’s point bravely and
truly against Dalzel’s helmet; but the cunning Scot had left it
unlaced, so that it gave way as it was touched, and fell back on his
shoulders without his feeling the shock; whilst his own lance passed
high over the head of his antagonist.
This appeared to be the result of accident, and they prepared to run
again. The signal was given, the encounter came, Dalzel’s helmet gave
way a second time, whilst he with great adroitness pierced the silken
wreath supporting the falcon that soared over Courtenay’s casque, and
bore it off in triumph.
“Ha!” exclaimed he, “by St. Andrew, but I have the popinjay!” And so
saying, he waited not for further talk, but rode off along the bridge
with pompous air, and returned bearing it on high, to the great
mortification of Courtenay, and the no small amusement of the
spectators.
Courtenay’s ire was now excited to the utmost. The trumpet sounded for
the third career, and he ran to Dalzel with the fullest determination
to unhorse him; but again the treacherous helmet defeated him, while he
received the point of his adversary’s lance so rudely on the bars of
the vizor, that they gave way before it.
“Come hither, come hither quickly,” cried Courtenay to his esquire. “By
the blessed St. George, I have suffered most fatal damage, the which
the clownish life of that caitiff Scot would but poorly compensate.”
All eyes were now turned towards him; and his esquire having released
him from his helmet, showed his mouth bleeding so profusely, that those
who were near him began seriously to fear that he had really suffered
some fatal injury.
“As I am a true knight, my liege, I shall never lift my head again,”
said Courtenay. “I have lost the most precious ornaments of my face,
two pearls from my upper jaw—see here they are,” said he, holding them
out, “fresh, oriental, and shaped by nature with an elegance so
surprisingly and scrupulously accurate, that they were the admiration
of all who saw them. What shall I do without them?”
“Nay, in truth, thou must even make war on thy food with the wings of
thine army, instead of nibbling at it with the centre, as I did remark
thou were wont to do,” said Sir William Dalzel, looking over his
shoulder.
“Dost thou sit there, my liege, to see one of thy native knights made a
mock of? Had not the traitor’s helmet been left unclosed, by the holy
shrine of St. Erkenwold, but he should have bit the dust ere now. I
demand justice.”
“Nay, of a truth I did greatly err, most valiant sir,” said Sir William
Dalzel, with mock penitence. “It was that hawk-shaped nese of thine
that my pie would have pyked at.”
“Give me but one course all fair, and thou mayest pick as it may please
thee,” replied Courtenay.
“Nay, I am willing to pleasure thee with six courses, if thou wouldst
have them, good Sir Knight of the Howlet,” replied Dalzel; “but then,
mark me, it must be on equal terms. Hitherto thou hast fought me with a
secret vantage on thy side.”
“Vantage!” cried Courtenay with indignation; “nay, methinks the vantage
hath been all thine own, Sir Scot.”
“In truth, it must be owned I have had the best of it, Sir Englishman,”
said Dalzel with a sarcastic leer; “natheless, ’tis thou who hast had
the secret vantage.”
“Let us be judged then by the Royal Richard,” said Courtenay.
“Agreed,” said Dalzel. “But let each of us first pledge in the Royal
hands two hundred pieces of gold, to be incontinently forfaulted by him
who shall be found to have borne the secret vantage.”
“Agreed,” cried Courtenay confidently.
A murmur of highly-excited curiosity now ran along the lists, and the
knights despatched their esquires for the money. Dalzel gave a private
hint to his as he went. In a short time the two esquires returned, each
carrying a purse on a pole, both of which were put up in the balcony
where the King sat. But what surprised every one was the appearance of
a farrier, who followed Dalzel’s squire, bearing a burning brand in his
hand.
“And now,” said Dalzel aloud, “I do boldly accuse Sir Piers Courtenay,
the knight of the How——, nay, he of the Falcon, I mean, of having
fought against me with two eyes, whilst one of mine was scooped out at
Otterbourne, doubtless by one of the hot-spurring sons of
Northumberland’s Earl. I do therefore claim his forfaulted purse. But
as I do fully admit the bravery of the said Sir Piers, the goodness of
whose metal is sufficiently apparent, though it be besprent with so
much vain tinsel, I am willing to do further battle with him, yea, for
as many as six courses, or sixty times six, if he be so inclined, but
this on condition that he doth resign that unfair vantage the which he
hath hitherto had of me, and cheerfully submit to have one of his eyes
extinguished by the brand of this sooty operator.”
“Sir Piers Courtenay,” said Richard, laughing heartily at a joke so
well suited to the times, and which had renewed the convulsions of
laughter so severely felt by Dalzel’s antagonist, “art thou prepared to
agree to this so reasonable proposal?”
But Sir Piers Courtenay was so chagrined that he wanted words. He hung
his head, and was silent.
“Then must we of needscost forbid all further duel, and forthwith
decide incontinently against thee. The purses are thine, Sir William de
Dalzel, for, sooth to say, thou hast well earned them by thy merry
wit.”
“Nay, then, Sir Piers Courtenay,” said Dalzel, riding up to his
opponent, “let not this waggery of mine cause me to tyne thy good will.
Trust me, I will have none of thy money; but if thou art disposed to
confess that thou hast no longer that contempt for Scottish knights the
which thou hast been hitherto so much inclined to manifest, let it be
laid out in some merry masquing party of entertainment, the which shall
be thine only penance. When all else, from the Royal Richard downwards,
have been so hospitable, why should we have to complain of the despisal
of one English knight? Let us shake hands, then, I pray thee.”
“Sir William de Dalzel, though thou hast worked me a grievous loss, the
which can never be made good,” replied Courtenay, laying his hand on
his mouth, “verily I do bear thee no unchristian ill-will; and sith
that his Majesty hath absolved us of our duel, I do hereby cheerfully
give thee the right hand of good fellowship.”
“’Tis well,” said Dalzel. “Instead of fighting thee, I will strive with
thee in that for the which neither eyes nor teeth may be much needed. I
will dance a bargaret with thee, yea, or a fandango, if that may please
thee better, and there I shall ask for no favour.”