In the morn, next after the King came to Kenilworth, there was tilting
in the great yard of the castle, at which his Highness, with the Queen
and her court, were present. This was the day of Turney; but, although
this noble company made a goodly show, they were not apparelled with
that splendour they showed on the chief day, as will be hereafter
rehearsed.
Among the ladies of the court, none surpassed for beauty the lady
Barbara, daughter of the Earl of Huntingdon and a favourite damsel of
the Queen; her the King intended to bestow in marriage, during his
sojourn in Ardenn. She was innocent and graceful, as the fawns that
bound in our forest, and excelled in all the accomplishments of the
court. She had fixed her heart on Sir Gaston de Blondeville, a young
knight of the King’s household, who had entreated her of her father in
vain; for, though he was of a good family, it was a foreign one, being
of the Queen’s country, and he had little besides the favour of his
master to depend on. The youth was of a comely person and gallant
bearing; well practised in all martial exercises of war, of which he had
given some proof in exploits, and had latterly so much displayed himself
in a fierce adventure against some of King Henry’s rebellious subjects,
beyond sea, that his Highness had incontinently advanced him to be one
of his own knights. Moreover, the King, on hearing of his ill-faring
suit, had taken that matter into his special cognizance; and the King
knew so well how to command the earl, that he consented to give his
daughter to the knight, and his Highness determined the marriage should
be solemnized forthwith.
But, on this very first day, after his arrival, his spirit was ruffled
by a strange accident. As his Highness was returning from the Tilt-yard,
accompanied by the Queen, and attended by the whole court, his harpers
playing before him, a stranger came forth of the crowd, and falling at
his feet, called out boldly for justice. Many there present knew him for
the man who, the night before, had showed such striking signs of a
disturbed mind; and now, noting his unseemly vehemence, they stopped and
asked for what offence he demanded justice. The King, too, remembered
him; and listening what he should say, the man, observing that,
addressed his looks and his voice eagerly to him, and exclaimed, that he
demanded justice upon robbers and murderers who infested the highways of
his kingdom with more violence and frequency than was ever known before,
so that none of his peaceable subjects were safe from them.
The King, seeing the wildness of his look and the strangeness of his
gesture, guessed the man was not rightly himself; yet he commanded him
forthwith into the castle, there to wait, till he should speak with him,
or order some others to do so; and the procession passed on.
Meanwhile, the King determined not to leave this matter, till he should
have seen something more about it, with his own discernment. He went
speedily into the white hall, which was the court of justice, keeping
only a few of his nobles and other attendants, where he summoned the
stranger before him, and had question put to him, who he was and of what
particular grievance he had to complain.
The man answered, that his name was Hugh Woodreeve, a merchant of
Bristol: and then he told his story—that, three years before, travelling
with a very large sum of money in his possession, and, being in company
with three other travellers, two of them merchants of good repute, and
the other a kinsman of his own, they were attacked in the forest of
Ardenn, when about two miles from Kenilworth, and robbed of nearly all
they carried. They did not part with it quietly, it was so much. His
kinsman, however, was the only one of the party that had good arms; he
had served in the wars, and he now manfully resisted the ruffians, who
directed most of their vengeance to him; he was murdered on the spot;
for the rest of his company, they escaped with some hurts. No one of the
robbers was killed, but two or three were wounded.
Here the merchant stopped and seemed ready to sink. His Highness, having
declared his indignation at this villany, assured the merchant, that
justice should be done upon the guilty, if they could be found, and
asked whether he could swear to them, if he should see them again. The
stranger straight replied, that he could truly swear to the murderer,
and that he had seen him in the very court, nay, that he saw him at that
very instant, standing even beside the King’s chair.
King Henry, struck with astonishment, fixed his eyes sternly on the
stranger, for a moment, and then looked at those around him. On his
right hand, was his son, Prince Edward, and, on his left, his young
favourite, Gaston de Blondeville, upon whom all eyes were fastened; for
to him the answer pertayned, and to him the accuser pointed, with a look
of horror, which convinced every one present, except his Highness, he
did indeed believe he saw before him the murderer of his friend, whether
his fancy deceived him, or not. For the King himself, he inclined to
think the accuser was either disordered in his mind, or that, from some
unknown cause, he was the enemy of Sir Gaston; and his Highness knew
well of the unreasonable and deadly abhorrence, in which many of his
subjects of Britain held some of those strangers from France, who had
risen into favour.
At the boldness of this accusation, Sir Gaston stood, at first, like one
stricken with dismay; then, moving his hand towards his sword, he said,
“but for the presence of the King, my master, I should soon avenge me
for so foul a slander.”
To which the merchant, now much more tranquil than he had been, said,
“The same reason must restrain all; but I do not need it: I would not
set my life against that of an assassin! I ask for justice from his
Highness.”
At these words, Sir Gaston was hardly withheld from his accuser. King
Henry commanded silence: and, as soon as all noise had ceased, he turned
with a severe countenance to the stranger, and said, “Know you not, that
he, whom you accuse is a knight of my household, advanced to honour for
his valour?”
“Yea, noble King Henry,” replied the merchant, “I have heard so; but, I
repeat, he is the man who killed my kinsman! I never can forget that
face: if I had met him in a distant land, I should have seized him for
the murderer!”
The King, more fully convinced of the unsoundness of his mind, said,
“Your passion has deceived you; thus far I am willing to pardon you; if
you go farther, you must be taught what it is to dishonour a gentleman
and a knight.”
Upon this, the merchant fell at the King’s feet; and, with uplifted
hands, again cried out for justice! Henry, hardly less astonished at the
resolution of the man, than that one of his household should be thus
accused, (although he might have bethought him of the law he had himself
found it expedient to make heretofore at Kenilworth, respecting
robberies then committed in a very extraordinary manner on the
highways)—King Henry, though astonished, began to doubt. He fixed a
look, in which there was somewhat of inquiry, upon Sir Gaston, whose
visage was pale, though his eye was fierce; but who may say, whether
fear or anger maketh some men pale?
The King held it to be the last; a momentary doubt had entered his mind;
but he promptly dismissed it. His Highness was commanding, that the
stranger should be removed; and, for the present, confined in the
castle; when Prince Edward, who, young as he was, had closely observed
all that had passed, craved humbly of the King, his father, to suffer
the merchant to be further questioned; and the King consented thereto.
Then the man was asked, whether he could tell the year and the month,
when the robbery he spoke of had been committed. He was ready enough
with his answers, and said it was on the eighteenth of October, in the
year twelve hundred and fifty-three, and on the chase; that he was sure
of the time, because it was within three days of that, when he should
have paid to a goldsmith the most part of the money, whereof he was
robbed. Upon this, the King seemed to consider awhile, for he knew,
that, about that time, a camp lay in the neighbourhood of Warwick and on
the edge of the forest, and that Sir Gaston was there, he being then
serving as esquire to Sir Pierse Mallory.
At the last words of the merchant, Sir Gaston moved towards the King, as
though he would privily say something; but his Highness reproved him
with a frown; and asked the merchant at what hour the robbery was
committed, and what were the array and appearance of the robbers?
The knight interrupting the reply, then said aloud, “Sire! I entreat
you, be mindful of the condition of disgrace, in which I must stand, if
you seem to give countenance to this scandalous accusation. I know not,
that I shall be able to breathe, if it be thought, that your Highness
could, for one minute, think it possible I could have committed so foul
a deed.”
King Henry, looking kindly upon him said, “It is right you should be
cleared with those, who know you not so well as I do; and chiefly with
those, who love not men of your country; and, therefore, would I examine
this witless charge to the uttermost.” His Highness then made all his
questions over again.
The merchant considered awhile, and somewhat of his boldness seemed to
forsake him: he then answered, “the number of the robbers was three;
they were most of them tall in stature; they wore cloaks about them, and
had masks on their faces.”
“Masks?” said the King.
“Masks!” murmured the courtiers, with one voice.
The King, daunting the accuser with the anger of his countenance, said,
“You could swear to this knight, as one of the robbers, and yet you say,
he had a mask on his face! I suspect you now for an impostor more than
for a moody man. If it prove so, tremble! for I swear by my sword you
shall not escape. I give you one more warning, to stop before you
totally plunge into your ruin.”
At these words, delivered with vehemence, the paleness left Sir Gaston’s
face, and he made a profound obeisance, showing his gratitude to the
King. The accuser, dismayed, could not immediately find his voice, as it
seemed. Haply, he could not so speedily send back his thoughts to the
rest of his story. Incontinently, the most of the assemblage began to
look ychon in other’s face.
By-and-bye, the merchant said, that in the struggle between his
companions and the robbers, two of the vizors fell off, and so he saw
plainly the faces of the robbers, and he perfectly remembered the face
of the knight. His Highness, without telling his thoughts on this, which
many there present scrupled not to hold an after-invention of the
accuser, commanded him to begin his tale anew, and to tell, one by one,
every particular he could bring to mind of the alleged adventure; but
before he began, Sir Gaston, surveying him, asked whether, about four
years back, he was not at Embrun, in the Dauphiné.
Denying, that he had been at that place, the accuser then renewed his
story, which purported, that he and his companions were travelling,
about the close of day, through the forest, or chase, of Kenilworth,
when they were attacked by robbers. He was bidden to repeat the number
of them and of his company, which he did, without varying his tale. The
King asked how long after sunset it was when the assault began? which he
could not readily tell; but said it was so nearly dark, that hardly
could he see the figures of the robbers under the shade of the woods,
from which they burst: the merchant paused a moment—
“Go on,” said the King, impatiently:—
“But I could, afterwards, see them plainly enough by a torch I took from
my companions, who had lighted it, at a smith’s in a village by the
way-side; an iron-smith’s.”
The King asked him if he knew the name of this village, but he knew it
not; and whether he should know the smith again? and he answered, he
thought he should. Then he was ordered to proceed with his story:
“My kinsman,” said he, “was the only one of us, who was well-armed; and
a braver spirit never lived. He fought with his sword that man, who now
stands beside your Highness; it was a trusty weapon, and had done him
good service in Syria, where he had it for booty, after a skirmish, as I
heard. When my kinsman first made up to that man, I followed him with
the torch, and to aid him, as I might, with an oaken staff I had in my
hand; but I received a blow upon the arm, that held the torch, which was
knocked to the ground, and the vizor of the man fell also, that very
man, who now presses behind your Highness’s chair. The torch was not
extinguished, and, by its light, I plainly saw that same countenance,
that now glares upon me so vengefully. I saw it while he aimed the blow,
which penetrated the head of my unfortunate kinsman, Reginald de
Folville.”
The merchant paused, seemingly overcome by the remembrance of this
event, while Sir Gaston exclaimed,—“Was it Reginald de Folville? He was
esquire to a knight of Saint John, and was then at Lydda: so much for
the truth of your story in that main point.”
At the first words of Sir Gaston, the King and the courtiers had turned
their faces upon him; but though his words were so strong and
sufficient, they beheld in his countenance paleness and consternation.
But he soon recovered; and, asking pardon of his Highness for the
emotion with which he had spoken, accounted for it by saying, that
Reginald de Folville had been his earliest friend.
“Your father’s friend, you must surely mean,” said the merchant; “for he
was at the wars at a time, that would have made that possible. You must
have been a child, when he went there.”
“I _was_ then a child,” said Sir Gaston, averting his eyes from the
stranger; “and I must ever remember the kindness he showed me after the
death of my father; I owe him much. He went from Provence to Syria; I
heard he fell in battle there. Sure I am he never returned: he died in
battle there.”
“He died in the forest of Ardenn,” said the merchant with solemnity,
“and lies buried in the priory of Saint Mary here. He died by your hand:
that is his very sword by your side; I remember it now.”
The audacity of this assertion struck all present and none more than the
King himself. His Highness desired to examine the sword, and asked the
merchant why he had not sooner challenged it; to which he answered
nothing. Sir Gaston, as he delivered it on his knee to the King,
said—“If I know my accuser, which I think I do, he is no stranger to
this weapon: he knows well that I usually wear it; but it never belonged
to Reginald de Folville. My liege, it was my father’s sword; he won it
in the plains of Palestine.”
The King examined it with attention. It was of eastern shape and finely
wrought. In the hilt were a few jewels. Prince Edward, as he leaned over
it, pointed out to his father a motto in an unknown tongue; and then, at
some distance below it, a date, with the Roman letters, H. A.,
remarking, that probably these letters alluded to some exploit achieved
in the year noted. The King addressed himself to Sir Gaston for the
meaning of the motto and of these letters; but he knew not their
meaning, and said they were as when his father won the sword from his
enemy.
Then the King addressed the merchant with the same question, observing,
that, as the sword seemed to be familiar to him, he probably had been
told the signification of the letters on it. With that, the merchant was
hastily advancing to receive it of one, to whom his Highness had
delivered it; when he suddenly drew back, covered his eyes with his
hand, and stood immovable. Those near almost expected to see him fall,
as he had done before in the castle court on the night last past. Sir
Gaston, at the same time, stepping forward, presumed to take it, and to
deliver it again to the King, with these words:—“Your Highness will not
tempt the villany of this man by putting him in possession of the sword
he falsely claims.”
But the merchant claimed it not; nor could he even endure to look upon
it. Heavy sighs burst from him, while with eyes still covered with his
hands, he said,—“That was the sword, with which the villain murdered
him; and can I endure to take it in my hand, and to look upon the blade,
on which his life blood flowed?” and he groaned more piteously than
before.
There were some in the hall, who instantly thought this sorrow of the
merchant was a mimickry, and asked how it could happen, that his kinsman
was killed by his own weapon; to which, soon as he could recollect his
thoughts, he made answer, that the robber, on wrenching the sword from
his friend, struck him his death-wound with it. The King, returning the
sword to the young knight, bade him keep it forthcoming till he should
demand it of him again, and then said to the stranger these or such-like
words:—
“You, a man unknown to me and to mine, and without a name, except as far
as you have declared one, have dared to come into my court, and to
accuse to me one of my own servants, a gentleman and a knight, of a
crime most foul and incredible. You have related your story, and I have
waited patiently for some evidence, that the murderer of your kinsman,
if, in truth, he were ever destroyed by violence, was Sir Gaston de
Blondeville. I find none, except your story. And in this you have not
scrupled to affirm, that you would have seized him for the murderer,
even in a distant land, though you also say, that your knowledge of his
countenance was obtained only from the sudden (and, therefore, the
uncertain) light of a torch lying on the ground, at a moment, when the
danger you were yourself exposed to, might, it may be readily believed,
have prevented you from closely observing any face whatsoever. You must
be held unworthy of credit; and I commit you into safe custody, till it
shall be discovered who you are, and who those are, who urged you to
this base accusation.”
When his Highness had ended, they were going to convey away the merchant
from his presence, but he craved leave to speak, and it was granted.
“My liege,” said he, “at any other than that moment of horror, I might
have seen the face of this stranger, without remembering it the next;
but the impression made, at that moment, will remain with me, as long as
the strong feelings, which then struck me, shall return with the
recollection of my kinsman’s fate. On seeing the same face, I was seized
with the same horror; your Highness’s people can be witnesses, that
yester-eve, when I saw that knight, I fell into convulsions, and was
carried senseless from your presence.”
His Highness, remembering what had happened, and, on inquiry, finding,
that this was the very man, who had then fallen senseless, perceived,
that the merchant had not spoken this untruly. He asked again whether he
was known to any person in Kenilworth, also whether either of the
merchants, travelling in his company, at the period of the alleged
murder, was at hand. The accuser stood, for a while, bewildered, and
then repeating, that he was a stranger, having only passed through the
place, a few times, on his way to or from Coventry, said, that of his
two companions one was dead, and the other following his merchandize, in
a distant land.
“Then,” said the King, “it appears you cannot bring any evidence of the
truth of your story; even so far, as that a robbery was actually
committed. Your accusation of this knight is, therefore, likely to be
impelled either by malice, or by some other bad motive. If it shall
prove so, dread the punishment that awaits you.”
“My liege,” said Sir Gaston, “I think I know the man, and also his
motive. He wronged my father at Embrun; and now his malice,—but this
story is connected with family circumstances, that should only be
divulged to your Highness; and, if you will suffer me to unfold them in
private, I shall prove, not mine innocence only—for of that your
Highness does not doubt—but that man’s former and present guilt.”
At these words, the stranger fell again on his knees, and besought aloud
justice on “a villain.”
The King looked long upon him and upon Sir Gaston, and sat pondering
awhile. He then turned to the merchant, and, bidding him rise, asked
him, a second time, if he were not known to any one person in
Kenilworth? and received for answer, “Only as a traveller.”
“An adventure as remarkable as that you have related,” pursued his
Highness, “must have been known here at the time it happened, and must
be remembered now. It is strange, if there be none who can recollect you
also.”
“My lord,” observed Prince Edward, “he said his friend was buried here
in the priory. If so, the prior must know him and his strange history.”
“Said he so?” quoth the King; and, turning to the stranger, he inquired
how it happened, that he was not known to the prior? and who it was that
commanded the burial of his kinsman.
The merchant said, he had himself ordered it, and had conversed with a
monk and even with the Prior himself.
“Then you are known to the Prior, at least,” said the King; “he will
surely recollect your story: let him be sent for. It is strange you
should have said you were unknown: you are either guilty of falsehood,
or your senses are unsettled.”
The stranger raised his hand to his head and sighed. “I recollect the
Prior,” said he, “but he may not remember me.”
“We shall see!” said the King, calmly, as he rose from his chair: “If
you are innocent, fear not! if you are guilty, you will lose your life,
in seeking that of an innocent man.”
As his Highness left the hall, he looked somewhat sternly upon the
accuser, and commanded, that he should be held in close custody, while
more inquiry should be made. He then ordered Sir Gaston to attend him in
his privy-chamber, and so departed forth of the hall, leaving the
accuser speechless and dismayed.
As the merchant was led through this court of the castle to the tower,
where was his prison, the lady Barbara, sitting in her bower-window
above, saw the passing crowd, and inquired the occasion of it; but none
would inform her. While she gazed with curiosity, she observed Sir
Gaston going to the King’s privy-chamber; he looked not at her window,
but went his way with a hurried step, and with such a countenance as she
had never witnessed in him, till this time. At length, word was brought
to my lady, her mother, of what had passed before his Highness. The
Earl, her father, was promptly filled with disgust; and thought the
occurrence would be sufficient to prevent the marriage, which neither
his English heart, nor his pride of ancient blood, had suffered him to
approve. His daughter, the lady Barbara, was differently minded; she
would not believe him she loved capable of even a dishonourable action,
much less of so foul a one; and, assured of his innocence, she would
have thrown herself at the King’s feet, had that seemed always, as it
did at first, proper, to urge his Highness to clear Sir Gaston instantly
from the suspicion.
But truly the King needed no advocate for Sir Gaston de Blondeville; and
so she thought, at last. His Highness’s own inclination was sufficient;
and so angered was his generous spirit by what he held to be not only a
false, but a malicious accusation, that he had determined after proof of
this, to give a signal warning by the accuser’s doom; and this not only
to prevent other false accusations proceeding from private motives, but
to reprove and caution those of his subjects, who had a public prejudice
against strangers, and were too likely to delight in the ruin of such
especially as had risen to honours.
The King, therefore, willingly gave audience privately to the young
knight, that he might explain to him the circumstances, which should
assure him of his innocence. What Sir Gaston told his Highness was never
assuredly known; some reports went on one side of the matter, some on
the other: there was not one witness of what passed. Who then might
know, unless they could guess by the countenances, and by what passed,
when the hearing was over? But, if they had gone by no other guide, they
would have been all for the knight, since he had made the King quite
convinced; and moreover, the Earl of Huntingdon was summoned to the
closet, where the King promised him the honour of the young knight would
always remain unsullied in his opinion; and so commanded, that the
marriage with the lady Barbara should be solemnized, as had been before
appointed, on the day next following.
The Earl besought, nay, as some say, dared to remonstrate, that the
marriage should be postponed till the stranger should have been lawfully
convicted of falsehood; but his Highness said, “Nay; lest it should seem
that the accusation was probable enough to require such delay. It is
already well-known, as a matter agreed upon, that the nuptials are to be
held on the morrow, the preparations are nearly all made, and they are
public. It is necessary for the honour of Sir Gaston de Blondeville,
that the appointment should be kept. If you are not convinced, still you
will not be required to make disavowal of any thought you may have; for
I myself will lead your daughter to the porch, and will so, by my
presence and by this act of parental kindness, show my estimation both
of the fair bride and of him who shall become your son. Farther proof of
my regard shall not be wanting hereafter.”
His Highness was peremptory, and the Earl, swayed by his master’s
positive opinion, and, it may be, by that promise of regard hereafter,
at last obeyed.
While these things were passing in the King’s chamber, the unhappy
merchant was taken to a turret of the castle, called Cæsar’s Tower; and
there, with nothing but a pallet and the bare walls, was left to think
of his jeopardy. What his thoughts were I know not; but he was heard
sorely to sigh and groan, and with good reason; for, if he knew himself
perjured, he knew also, that he should find no mercy from the King; and,
if innocent, he could expect little justice against so great a
favourite. But, whatever were his meditations, they held not till night,
for he was called and led forth of the tower into the presence of the
King; and, before even-song, the Prior of Saint Mary’s was in attendance
upon his Highness. He was not an aged man, yet was he a stern one. When
he was asked whether ever before he had seen the merchant, he answered
resolutely, that he had no knowledge of him. The same question being put
to the merchant, touching his knowledge of the Prior, he returned a like
answer.
At this seeming self-contradiction, the King could scarcely command his
anger, till it was discovered, that a Prior of Saint Mary’s had died,
since the time when the murder was alleged to have been committed, and
that it must needs be he, whom the merchant meant.
“But, where is the monk, with whom you consulted?” asked the King; “can
you tell his name?”
“His name was Ewdwyn,” replied the merchant.
“He died yesternight!” said the Prior.
At this there was a pause, and a dead silence throughout the chamber.
Sir Gaston looked darkly on his accuser; his accuser directed his eyes
to the King and then on high; but, in a short minute, he fell down, as
though he were a dying man. The King, touched at his sufferings,
commanded him from his chamber, that aid might be administered unto him.
And then, that he might know whether this accusation of Sir Gaston were
through malice, or mistake—for now pity inclined him to think the
last—and also, that Sir Gaston might have mistaken, when he took this
for the man, of whose deeds at Embrun he had talked; that he might know
the truth on all this, he ordered the Prior to make inquiry in his
community, whether the body of any person known to have been murdered in
the forest of Ardenn, three years before, had been deposited in the
chapel, or in the cemetery of the convent. Likewise, he commanded the
Prior to have inquiry made in Kenilworth, whether any person remembered
such an accident, or any house had received the dead body. And this he
ordered, that it might always be seen he had desired to have justice
done towards the wretched merchant, as well as for Sir Gaston de
Blondeville.
This being appointed, the King departed to his great chamber, there to
keep his state; the Prior to his convent, to resume his spiritual
musings; the accused lover to his mistress; and the merchant was
conveyed to his prison tower.
The King kept state, that night, with the Earl of Cornwall, the
Archbishop of York, the Bishop of Winchester, the Bishop of Lincoln,
Henry de Wernham, his chaplain, who also had the custody of the Great
Seal, the Earl of Norfolk, the Earl of Hereford and a number of other
nobles of the realm; but the Queen kept her state apart.
The King’s great chamber was marvellous to behold. There were
twenty-five wax-lights held by esquires of the household, all in the
King’s livery, gentils as they were; also twenty-five wax torches were
fixed high up over the tapestry. The walls were, that night, gorgeous
with the story of Troy-town in ancient tapestries; there you might see
the flames burning and the towers falling, and old King Priam, with
beard as white as snow, his crown upon his head, and his Queen Hecuba
tearing her dishevelled locks for grief. And there was that renowned
son, who carried off his aged father, with his little child holding by
his garment, and his wife following, all disconsolate. This was a
piteous sight to see pourtrayed; but that it were nothing save a heathen
story.
The floor of that chamber was not strewed either with rushes or with
litter of any sort, but was laid in little checquers of divers colours;
and, where his Highness sat, under his cloth of state, was spread a
silken carpet of full crimson, fringed about with gold, as likewise his
chair and canopy of estate. But the finest sight was the cupboards,
piled up with plates and cups of gold and silver, in readiness for the
King, when he should take his VOIDE. These were in that great Oriel,
which his Highness had newly made in this chamber, before the bay; and
which was closed about with painted glass from the highest cup-board to
the arched roof, where hung a silver lamp, that made the whole glow with
its light.
There were, that night, playing in the chamber, the King’s twelve
minstrels, all clothed, for his honour and dignity, in sumptuous livery,
with their virger to order their pipyngs and blowings. There were,
besides, the children of the chapel singing, at times, from the brown
gallery; so that, the doors being open, you might have heard them
through all that side of the castle; and those, who sat afar off in the
great hall, needed none other music.
There also was Maister Henry, the versifier, whose ballad of the Giant
of Cornwall was this night rehearsed to the harp by Richard, the King’s
harper, as was his famous Chronicle of Charlemagne, which lasted, till
his Highness was well nigh weary, when he jocularly called out, having
tasted of his golden cup, that Henry should have a butt of wine with his
wages, if he would shorten his ballads by one-half. Maister Henry, who
was a Frenchman, took this in good part, and, having especial care ever
after to make his ballads nigher to too short than too long, became, in
time, a notable rhymer. But let those do so who can. Some are famous one
way, some another; for mine own part, I must be circumstantial, or else
nothing, as this “Trew Chronique” in due time must show.
That night, the King played at “Checkere” with the Earl of Norfolk, on a
board laid with jasper and chrystal, the check-men being of the same.
Some said the king’s and queens were of ebony, studded over with jewels,
but of this I know not.
But, the finest sight of all was the going of the chamberlain to the
cup-board, accompanied of three nobles of the highest estate in the
realm, that were there present, (save the King’s family) to receive the
King’s cup and spice-plates; and then the bringing up of the voide
before his Highness. And, first, the usher, having assembled the King’s
sewers, their towels about their necks, with the four esquires of the
body and the knights and esquires of the household, to the number of
seventeen; these, with divers other officers, being met at the
cup-board, the Chamberlain took the King’s towel, and, having kissed it,
as the custom is, delivered it to the Earl of Norfolk, he being of the
highest estate, who reverently received the same, and laid it safely
upon his shoulder. Then, the said chamberlain gave the gold spice-plates
covered to the Earl of Hereford; and then the King’s cup of massive
gold, covered also, to the Earl of Warwick. At the same time were given
to the knights of the household the Archbishop’s spice-plate and cup,
covered also, to be carried up, by the space of one minute after the
King’s.
And, certes, it was a goodly sight to see all these nobles and gentils
marching up the great chamber (the minstrels playing the while),
compassed about with esquires, bearing great lights to the number of
thirteen, especial care being taken, as the manner all times has been at
the voide, that the lights were odd in number.
First, then, went the usher, with his torch and rod, making passage; the
chamberlain, with his chain and wand of office; then the five esquires,
of the body, bearing wax-lights before the Earl of Norfolk, with the
towel; then, three esquires about the Lord of Hereford, bearing the
spice-plates; then, other three before the Lord Warwick, bearing the
King’s cup covered; then followed one knight of the household, bearing a
single torch; so making up altogether the just number of lights. Amongst
them went four knights of the household, well renowned for bravery and
noble bearing, with the Archbishop’s spice-plate and cup.
When this array drew near to the King, he, standing up under his cloth
of estate, which was rolled up high, with the young Prince Edward on one
hand and the Archbishop on the other, the Chamberlain taking the covers
from off the spice-plates, gave assaye unto the Earl of Gloucester. The
King, before he took his spice, made a beck to the Archbishop, that he
should take his first; and the knights having advanced, as they well
knew would be seemly, the Archbishop forthwith obeyed.
But, when the Chamberlain uncovered the cup, all the minstrels in the
chamber blew up louder than ever, and so held on till his Highness took
the ypocras, so that every roof in the castle rung with joy.
The King and Archbishop being served, his Highness’s cup and
spice-plates were again covered, but not so the Archbishop’s. Then were
the spice and cup carried to Prince Edward and the Earl of Cornwall, by
the knights; to the bishops by the esquires of the household, and to the
other estates by the esquires also. Which being done, his Highness
forthwith departed for “all night,” the trumpets blowing before him.
Then, were three healths drank, one to the King, one to the Queen, and
one to the Prince Edward; after which it were not meet, that the
assemblage should remain, and straight the great chamber was avoyded of
all there present.
The Queen, that night, sat in her bower with all her ladies. There were
mynstrelsy and dancing to the harp and viol. The Lady Barbara was the
marveil of all, that beheld her moving to the sound of viols like unto
some sprite, rather than to a poor mortal. Prince Edward danced with her
a round, and the Queen often honoured her with her pleasing speech. Sir
Gaston, though he beheld her, showed not his wonted joy. He stood apart
looking on, and, when her Highness spoke to him, he seemed nigh to
senseless of the honour.
The dancing being ended, Pierre, a Norman and the Queen’s chief
minstrel, apparelled in the guise of his country, sang some of his
ballads on the harp, in his own tongue, which, albeit, they were not
esteemed like unto Maister Henry’s, yet did they not displease. The
first tuning was in words which have been thus rendered into English by
one, who had learned much of the new speech, not then familiar, except
with some few.