CLOTH OF GOLD ON THE SEAMY SIDE
Then you lost
The view of earthly glory: men might say
Till this time pomp was single; but now married
To one above itself.”
—Shakespeare.
If Giles Headley murmured at Aldonza’s removal, it was only to
Perronel, and that discreet woman kept it to herself.
In the summer of 1519 he was out of his apprenticeship, and though
Dennet was only fifteen, it was not uncommon for brides to be even
younger. However, the autumn of that year was signalised by a fresh
outbreak of the sweating sickness, apparently a sort of influenza, and
no festivities could be thought of. The King and Queen kept at a safe
distance from London, and escaped, so did the inmates of the pleasant
house at Chelsea; but the Cardinal, who, as Lord Chancellor, could not
entirely absent himself from Westminster, was four times attacked by
it, and Dean Colet, a far less robust man, had it three times, and sank
at last under it. Sir Thomas More went to see his beloved old friend,
and knowing Ambrose’s devotion, let the young man be his attendant. Nor
could those who saw the good man ever forget his peaceful farewells,
grieving only for the old mother who had lived with him in the Deanery,
and in the ninetieth year of her age, thus was bereaved of the last of
her twenty-one children. For himself, he was thankful to be taken away
from the evil times he already beheld threatening his beloved St.
Paul’s, as well as the entire Church both in England and abroad;
looking back with a sad sweet smile to the happy Oxford days, when he,
with More and Erasmus,
“Strained the watchful eye
If chance the golden hours were nigh
By youthful hope seen gleaming round her walls.”
“But,” said he, as he laid his hand in blessing for the last time on
Ambrose’s head, “let men say what they will, do thou cling fast to the
Church, nor let thyself be swept away. There are sure promises to her,
and grace is with her to purify herself, even though it be obscured for
a time. Be not of little faith, but believe that Christ is with us in
the ship, though He seem to be asleep.”
He spoke as much to his friend as to the youth, and there can be no
doubt that this consideration was the restraining force with many who
have been stigmatised as half-hearted Reformers, because though they
loved truth, they feared to lose unity.
He was a great loss at that especial time, as a restraining power,
trusted by the innovators, and a personal friend both of King and
Cardinal, and his preaching and catechising were sorely missed at St.
Paul’s.
Tibble Steelman, though thinking he did not go far enough, deplored him
deeply; but Tibble himself was laid by for many days. The epidemic went
through the Dragon court, though some had it lightly, and only two
young children actually died of it. It laid a heavy hand on Tibble, and
as his distaste for women rendered his den almost inaccessible to Bet
Smallbones, who looked after most of the patients, Stephen Birkenholt,
whose nursing capacities had been developed in Newgate, spent his spare
hours in attending him, sat with him in the evenings, slept on a pallet
by his side, carried him his meals and often administered them, and
finally pulled him through the illness and its effects, which left him
much broken and never likely to be the same man again.
Old Mistress Headley, who was already failing, did not have the actual
disease severely, but she never again left her bed, and died just after
Christmas, sinking slowly away with little pain, and her memory having
failed from the first.
Household affairs had thus shipped so gradually into Dennet’s hands
that no change of government was perceptible, except that the keys hung
at the maiden’s girdle. She had grown out of the child during this
winter of trouble, and was here, there, and everywhere, the busy nurse
and housewife, seldom pausing to laugh or play except with her father,
and now and then to chat with her old friend and playfellow, Kit
Smallbones. Her childish freedom of manner had given way to grave
discretion, not to say primness, in her behaviour to her father’s
guests, and even the apprentices. It was, of course, the unconscious
reaction of the maidenly spirit, aware that she had nothing but her own
modesty to protect her. She was on a small scale, with no pretensions
to beauty, but with a fresh, honest, sensible young face, a clear skin,
and dark eyes that could be very merry when she would let them, and her
whole air and dress were trimness itself, with an inclination to the
choicest materials permitted to an alderman’s daughter.
Things were going on so smoothly that the alderman was taken by
surprise when all the good wives around began to press on him that it
was incumbent on him to lose no time in marrying his daughter to her
cousin, if not before Lent, yet certainly in the Easter holidays.
Dennet looked very grave thereon. Was it not over soon after the loss
of the good grandmother? And when her father said, as the gossips had
told him, that she and Giles need only walk quietly down some morning
to St. Faith’s and plight their troth, she broke out into her girlish
wilful manner, “Would she be married at all without a merry wedding?
No, indeed! She would not have the thing done in a corner! What was the
use of her being wedded, and having to consort with the tedious old
wives instead of the merry wenches? Could she not guide the house, and
rule the maids, and get in the stores, and hinder waste, and make the
pasties, and brew the possets? Had her father found the crust hard, or
missed his roasted crab, or had any one blamed her for want of
discretion? Nay, as to that, she was like to be more discreet as she
was, with only her good old father to please, than with a husband to
plague her.”
On the other hand, Giles’s demeanour was rather that of one prepared
for the inevitable than that of an eager bridegroom; and when orders
began to pour in for accoutrements of unrivalled magnificence for the
King and the gentlemen who were to accompany him to Ardres, there to
meet the young King of France just after Whitsuntide, Dennet was the
first to assure her father that there would be no time to think of
weddings till all this was over, especially as some of the
establishment would have to be in attendance to repair casualties at
the jousts.
At this juncture there arrived on business Master Tiptoff, husband to
Giles’s sister, bringing greetings from Mrs. Headley at Salisbury, and
inquiries whether the wedding was to take place at Whitsuntide, in
which case she would hasten to be present, and to take charge of the
household, for which her dear daughter was far too young. Master
Tiptoff showed a suspicious alacrity in undertaking the forwarding of
his mother-in-law and her stuff.
The faces of Master Headley and Tib Steelman were a sight, both having
seen only too much of what the housewifery at Salisbury had been. The
alderman decided on the spot that there could be no marriage till after
the journey to France, since Giles was certainly to go upon it; and
lest Mrs. Headley should be starting on her journey, he said he should
despatch a special messenger to stay her. Giles, who had of course been
longing for the splendid pageant, cheered up into great amiability, and
volunteered to write to his mother, that she had best not think of
coming, till he sent word to her that matters were forward. Even thus,
Master Headley was somewhat insecure. He thought the dame quite capable
of coming and taking possession of his house in his absence, and
therefore resolved upon staying at home to garrison it; but there was
then the further difficulty that Tibble was in no condition to take his
place on the journey. If the rheumatism seized his right arm, as it had
done in the winter, he would be unable to drive a rivet, and there
would be every danger of it, high summer though it were; for though the
party would carry their own tent and bedding, the knights and gentlemen
would be certain to take all the best places, and they might be driven
into a damp corner. Indeed it was not impossible that their tent itself
might be seized, for many a noble or his attendants might think that
beggarly artisans had no right to comforts which he had been too
improvident to afford, especially if the alderman himself were absent.
Not only did Master Headley really love his trusty foreman too well to
expose him to such chances, but Tibble knew too well that there were
brutal young men to whom his contorted-visage would be an incitement to
contempt and outrage, and that if racked with rheumatism, he would only
be an incumbrance. There was nothing for it but to put Kit Smallbones
at the head of the party. His imposing presence would keep off wanton
insults, but on the other hand, he had not the moral weight of
authority possessed by Tibble, and though far from being a drunkard, he
was not proof against a carouse, especially when out of reach of his
Bet and of his master, and he was not by any means Tib’s equal in fine
and delicate workmanship. But on the other hand, Tib pronounced that
Stephen Birkenholt was already well skilled in chasing metal and the
difficult art of restoring inlaid work, and he showed some black and
silver armour, that was in hand for the King, which fully bore out his
words.
“And thou thinkst Kit can rule the lads!” said the alderman, scarce
willingly.
“One of them at least can rule himself,” said Tibble. “They have both
been far more discreet since the fright they got on Ill May day; and,
as for Stephen, he hath seemed to me to have no eyes nor thought save
for his work of late.”
“I have marked him,” said the master, “and have marvelled what ailed
the lad. His merry temper hath left him. I never hear him singing to
keep time with his hammer, nor keeping the court in a roar with his
gibes. I trust he is not running after the new doctrine of the hawkers
and pedlars. His brother was inclined that way.”
“There be worse folk than they, your worship,” protested Tib, but he
did not pursue their defence, only adding, “but ’tis not that which
ails young Stephen. I would it were!” he sighed to himself, inaudibly.
“Well,” said the good-natured alderman, “it may be he misseth his
brother. The boys will care for this raree-show more than thou or I,
Tib! We’ve seen enough of them in our day, though verily they say this
is to surpass all that ever were beheld!”
The question of who was to go had not been hitherto decided, and Giles
and Stephen were both so excited at being chosen that all low spirits
and moodiness were dispelled, and the work which went on almost all
night was merrily got through. The Dragon court was in a perpetual
commotion with knights, squires, and grooms, coming in with orders for
new armour, or for old to be furbished, and the tent-makers, lorimers,
mercers, and tailors had their hands equally full. These lengthening
mornings heard the hammer ringing at sunrise, and in the final rush,
Smallbones never went to bed at all. He said he should make it up in
the waggon on the way to Dover. Some hinted that he preferred the clang
of his hammer to the good advice his Bet lavished on him at every
leisure moment to forewarn him against French wine-pots.
The alderman might be content with the party he sent forth, for Kit had
hardly his equal in size, strength, and good humour. Giles had
developed into a tall, comely young man, who had got rid of his country
slouch, and whose tall figure, light locks, and ruddy cheeks looked
well in the new suit which gratified his love of finery, sober-hued as
it needs must be. Stephen was still bound to the old prentice garb,
though it could not conceal his good mien, the bright sparkling dark
eyes, crisp black hair, healthy brown skin, and lithe active figure.
Giles had a stout roadster to ride on, the others were to travel in
their own waggon, furnished with four powerful horses, which, if
possible, they were to take to Calais, so as to be independent of
hiring. Their needments, clothes, and tools, were packed in the waggon,
with store of lances, and other appliances of the tourney. A carter and
Will Wherry, who was selected as being supposed to be conversant with
foreign tongues, were to attend on them; Smallbones, as senior
journeyman, had the control of the party, and Giles had sufficiently
learnt subordination not to be likely to give himself dangerous airs of
mastership.
Dennet was astir early to see them off, and she had a little gift for
each. She began with her oldest friend. “See here, Kit,” she said,
“here’s a wallet to hold thy nails and rivets. What wilt thou say to me
for such a piece of stitchery?”
“Say, pretty mistress? Why this!” quoth the giant, and he picked her up
by the slim waist in his great hands, and kissed her on the forehead.
He had done the like many a time nine or ten years ago, and though
Master Headley laughed, Dennet was not one bit embarrassed, and turned
to the next traveller. “Thou art no more a prentice, Giles, and canst
wear this in thy bonnet,” she said, holding out to him a short silver
chain and medal of St. George and the Dragon.
“Thanks, gentle maid,” said Giles, taking the handsome gift a little
sheepishly. “My bonnet will make a fair show,” and he bent down as she
stood on the step, and saluted her lips, then began eagerly fastening
the chain round his cap, as one delighted with the ornament.
Stephen was some distance off. He had turned aside when she spoke to
Giles, and was asking of Tibble last instructions about the restoration
of enamel, when he felt a touch on his arm, and saw Dennet standing by
him. She looked up in his face, and held up a crimson silken purse,
with S. B embroidered on it with a wreath of oak and holly leaves.
With the air that ever showed his gentle blood, Stephen put a knee to
the ground, and kissed the fingers that held it to him, whereupon
Dennet, a sudden burning blush overspreading her face under her little
pointed hood, turned suddenly round and ran into the house. She was out
again on the steps when the waggon finally got under weigh, and as her
eyes met Stephen’s, he doffed his flat cap with one hand, and laid the
other on his heart, so that she knew where her purse had taken up its
abode.
Of the Field of the Cloth of Gold not much need be said. To the end of
the lives of the spectators, it was a tale of wonder. Indeed without
that, the very sight of the pavilions was a marvel in itself, the blue
dome of Francis spangled in imitation of the sky, with sun, moon, and
stars; and the feudal castle of Henry, a three months’ work, each
surrounded with tents of every colour and pattern which fancy could
devise, with the owners’ banners or pennons floating from the summits,
and every creature, man, and horse, within the enchanted precincts,
equally gorgeous. It was the brightest and the last full display of
magnificent pseudo chivalry, and to Stephen’s dazzled eye, seeing it
beneath the slant rays of the setting sun of June, it was a fairy tale
come to life. Hal Randall, who was in attendance on the Cardinal,
declared that it was a mere surfeit of jewels and gold and silver, and
that a frieze jerkin or leathern coat was an absolute refreshment to
the sight. He therefore spent all the time he was off duty in the forge
far in the rear, where Smallbones and his party had very little but
hard work, mending, whetting, furbishing, and even changing devices.
Those six days of tilting when “every man that stood, showed like a
mine,” kept the armourers in full occupation night and day, and only
now and then could the youths try to make their way to some spot whence
they could see the tournament.
Smallbones was more excited by the report of fountains of good red and
white wines of all sorts, flowing perpetually in the court of King
Henry’s splended mock castle; but fortunately one gulp was enough for
an English palate nurtured on ale and mead, and he was disgusted at the
heaps of country folk, men-at-arms, beggars and vagabonds of all kinds,
who swilled the liquor continually, and, in loathsome contrast to the
external splendours, lay wallowing on the ground so thickly that it was
sometimes hardly possible to move without treading on them.
“I stumbled over a dozen,” said the jester, as he strolled into the
little staked inclosure that the Dragon party had arranged round their
tent for the prosecution of their labours, which were too important to
all the champions not to be respected. “Lance and sword have not laid
so many low in the lists as have the doughty Baron Burgundy and the
heady knight Messire Sherris Sack.”
“Villain Verjuice and Varlet Vinegar is what Kit there calls them,”
said Stephen, looking up from the work he was carrying on over a pan of
glowing charcoal.
“Yea,” said Smallbones, intermitting his noisy operations, “and the
more of swine be they that gorge themselves on it. I told Jack and Hob
that ’twould be shame for English folk to drown themselves like French
frogs or Flemish hogs.”
“Hogs!” returned Randall. “A decent Hampshire hog would scorn to be
lodged as many a knight and squire and lady too is now, pigging it in
styes and hovels and haylofts by night, and pranking it by day with the
best!”
“Sooth enough,” said Smallbones. “Yea, we have had two knights and
their squires beseeching us for leave to sleep under our waggon! Not an
angel had they got among the four of them either, having all their
year’s income on their backs, and more too. I trow they and their heirs
will have good cause to remember this same Field of Gold.”
“And what be’st thou doing, nevvy?” asked the jester. “Thy trade seems
as brisk as though red blood were flowing instead of red wine.”
“I am doing my part towards making the King into Hercules,” said
Stephen, “though verily the tailor hath more part therein than we have;
but he must needs have a breastplate of scales of gold, and that by
to-morrow’s morn. As Ambrose would say, ‘if he will be a pagan god, he
should have what’s-his-name, the smith of the gods, to work for him.’”
“I heard of that freak,” said the jester. “There be a dozen tailors and
all the Queen’s tirewomen frizzling up a good piece of cloth of gold
for the lion’s mane, covering a club with green damask with pricks,
cutting out green velvet and gummed silk for his garland! In sooth,
these graces have left me so far behind in foolery that I have not a
jest left in my pouch! So here I be, while my Lord Cardinal is shut up
with Madame d’Angoulême in the castle—the real old castle, mind
you—doing the work, leaving the kings and queens to do their own
fooling.”
“Have you spoken with the French King, Hal?” asked Smallbones, who had
become a great crony of his, since the anxieties of May Eve.
“So far as I may when I have no French, and he no English! He is a
comely fellow, with a blithe tongue and a merry eye, I warrant you a
chanticleer who will lose nought for lack of crowing. He’ll crow louder
than ever now he hath given our Harry a fall.”
“No! hath he?” and Giles, Stephen, and Smallbones, all suspended their
work to listen in concern.
“Ay marry, hath he! The two took it into their royal noddles to try a
fall, and wrestled together on the grass, when by some ill hap, this
same Francis tripped up our Harry, so that he was on the sward for a
moment. He was up again forthwith, and in full heart for another round,
when all the Frenchmen burst in gabbling; and, though their King was
willing to play the match out fairly, they wouldn’t let him, and my
Lord Cardinal said something about making ill blood, whereat our King
laughed and was content to leave it. As I told him, we have given the
French falls enough to let them make much of this one.”
“I hope he will yet give the mounseer a good shaking,” muttered
Smallbones.
“How now, Will! Who’s that at the door? We are on his grace’s work and
can touch none other man’s were it the King of France himself, or his
Constable, who is finer still.”
By way of expressing “No admittance except on business,” Smallbones
kept Will Wherry in charge of the door of his little territory, which
having a mud wall on two sides, and a broad brook with quaking banks on
a third, had been easily fenced on the fourth, so as to protect tent,
waggon, horses, and work from the incursions of idlers. Will however
answered, “The gentleman saith he hath kindred here.”
“Ay!” and there pushed in, past the lad a tall, lean form, with a gay
but soiled short cloak over one shoulder, a suit of worn buff, a cap
garnished with a dilapidated black and yellow feather, and a pair of
gilt spurs. “If this be as they told me, where Armourer Headley’s folk
lodge—I have here a sort of a cousin. Yea, yonder’s the brave lad who
had no qualms at the flash of a good Toledo in a knight’s fist. How
now, my nevvy! Is not my daughter’s nevvy—mine?”
“Save your knighthood!” said Smallbones. “Who would have looked to see
you here, Sir John? Methought you were in the Emperor’s service!”
“A stout man-at-arms is of all services,” returned Fulford. “I’m here
with half Flanders to see this mighty show, and pick up a few more
lusty Badgers at this encounter of old comrades. Is old Headley here?”
“Nay, he is safe at home, where I would I were,” sighed Kit.
“And you are my young master his nephew, who knew where to purvey me of
good steel,” added Fulford, shaking Giles’s hand. “You are fain,
doubtless, you youngsters, to be forth without the old man. Ha! and
you’ve no lack of merry company.”
Harry Randall’s first impulse had been to look to the right and left
for the means of avoiding this encounter, but there was no escape; and
he was moreover in most fantastic motley, arrayed in one of the many
suits provided for the occasion. It was in imitation of a parrot,
brilliant grass-green velvet, touched here and there with scarlet,
yellow, or blue. He had been only half disguised on the occasion of
Fulford’s visit to his wife, and he perceived the start of recognition
in the eyes of the Condottiere, so that he knew it would be vain to try
to conceal his identity.
“You sought Stephen Birkenholt,” he said. “And you’ve lit on something
nearer, if so be you’ll acknowledge the paraquito that your Perronel
hath mated with.”
The Condottiere burst into a roar of laughter so violent that he had to
lean against the mud wall, and hold his sides. “Ha, ha! that I should
be father-in-law to a fool!” and then he set off again. “That the
sober, dainty little wench should have wedded a fool! Ha! ha! ha!”
“Sir,” cried Stephen hotly, “I would have you to know that mine uncle
here, Master Harry Randall, is a yeoman of good birth, and that he
undertook his present part to support your own father and child!
Methinks you are the last who should jeer at and insult him!”
“Stephen is right,” said Giles. “This is my kinsman’s tent, and no man
shall say a word against Master Harry Randall therein.”
“Well crowed, my young London gamebirds,” returned Fulford, coolly. “I
meant no disrespect to the gentleman in green. Nay, I am mightily
beholden to him for acting his part out and taking on himself that
would scarce befit a gentleman of a company—_impedimenta_, as we used
to say in the grammar school. How does the old man?—I must find some
token to send him.”
“He is beyond the reach of all tokens from you save prayers and
masses,” returned Randall, gravely.
“Ay? You say not so? Old gaffer dead?” And when the soldier was told
how the feeble thread of life had been snapped by the shock of joy on
his coming, a fit of compunction and sorrow seized him. He covered his
face with his hands and wept with a loudness of grief that surprised
and touched his hearers; and presently began to bemoan himself that he
had hardly a mark in his purse to pay for a mass; but therewith he
proceeded to erect before him the cross hilt of poor Abenali’s sword,
and to vow thereupon that the first spoil and the first ransom, that it
should please the saints to send him, should be entirely spent in
masses for the soul of Martin Fulford. This tribute apparently stilled
both grief and remorse, for looking up at the grotesque figure of
Randall, he said, “Methought they told me, master son, that you were in
the right quarters for beads and masses and all that gear—a varlet of
Master Butcher-Cardinal’s, or the like—but mayhap ’twas part of your
fooling.”
“Not so,” replied Randall. “’Tis to the Cardinal that I belong,”
holding out his sleeve, where the scarlet hat was neatly worked, “and
I’ll brook no word against his honour.”
“Ho! ho! Maybe you looked to have the hat on your own head,” quoth
Fulford, waxing familiar, “if your master comes to be Pope after his
own reckoning. Why, I’ve known a Cardinal get the scarlet because an
ape had danced on the roof with him in his arms!”
“You forget! I’m a wedded man,” said Randall, who certainly, in private
life, had much less of the buffoon about him than his father-in-law.
“_Impedimentum_ again,” whistled the knight. “Put a halter round her
neck, and sell her for a pot of beer.”
“I’d rather put a halter round my own neck for good and all,” said Hal,
his face reddening; but among other accomplishments of his position, he
had learnt to keep his temper, however indignant he felt.
“Well—she’s a knight’s daughter, and preferments will be plenty.
Thou’lt make me captain of the Pope’s guard, fair son—there’s no post I
should like better. Or I might put up with an Italian earldom or the
like. Honour would befit me quite as well as that old fellow, Prosper
Colonna; and the Badgers would well become the Pope’s scarlet and
yellow liveries.”
The Badgers, it appeared, were in camp not far from Gravelines, whence
the Emperor was watching the conference between his uncle-in-law and
his chief enemy; and thence Fulford, who had a good many French
acquaintance, having once served under Francis I., had come over to see
the sport. Moreover, he contrived to attach himself to the armourer’s
party, in a manner that either Alderman Headley himself, or Tibble
Steelman, would effectually have prevented; but which Kit Smallbones
had not sufficient moral weight to hinder, even if he had had a greater
dislike to being treated as a boon companion by a knight who had seen
the world, could appreciate good ale, and tell all manner of tales of
his experiences.
So the odd sort of kindred that the captain chose to claim with Stephen
Birkenholt was allowed, and in right of it, he was permitted to sleep
in the waggon; and thereupon his big raw-boned charger was found
sharing the fodder of the plump broad-backed cart horses, while he
himself, whenever sport was not going forward for him, or work for the
armourers, sat discussing with Kit the merits or demerits of the
liquors of all nations, either in their own yard or in some of the
numerous drinking booths that had sprung up around.
To no one was this arrangement so distasteful as to Quipsome Hal, who
felt himself in some sort the occasion of the intrusion, and yet was
quite unable to prevent it, while everything he said was treated as a
joke by his unwelcome father-in-law. It was a coarse time, and Wolsey’s
was not a refined or spiritual establishment, but it was decorous, and
Randall had such an affection and respect for the innocence of his
sister’s young son, that he could not bear to have him exposed to the
company of one habituated to the licentiousness of the mercenary
soldier. At first the jester hoped to remove the lads from the danger,
for the brief remainder of their stay, by making double exertion to
obtain places for them at any diversion which might be going on when
their day’s work was ended, and of these, of course, there was a wide
choice, subordinate to the magnificent masquing of kings and queens. On
the last midsummer evening, while their majesties were taking leave of
one another, a company of strolling players were exhibiting in an
extemporary theatre, and here Hal incited both the youths to obtain
seats. The drama was on one of the ordinary and frequent topics of
that, as of all other times, and the dumb show and gestures were far
more effective than the words, so that even those who did not
understand the language of the comedians, who seemed to be Italians,
could enter into it, especially as it was interspersed with very
expressive songs.
An old baron insists on betrothing his daughter and heiress to her
kinsman freshly knighted. She is reluctant, weeps, and is threatened,
singing afterwards her despair (of course she really was a black-eyed
boy). That song was followed by a still more despairing one from the
baron’s squire, and a tender interview between them followed.
Then came discovery, the baron descending as a thunderbolt, the
banishment of the squire, the lady driven at last to wed the young
knight, her weeping and bewailing herself under his ill-treatment,
which extended to pulling her about by the hair, the return of the
lover, notified by a song behind the scenes, a dangerously affectionate
meeting, interrupted by the husband, a fierce clashing of swords,
mutual slaughter by the two gentlemen, and the lady dying of grief on
the top of her lover.
Such was the argument of this tragedy, which Giles Headley pronounced
to be very dreary pastime, indeed he was amusing himself with an
exchange of comfits with a youth who sat next him all the time—for he
had found Stephen utterly deaf to aught but the tragedy, following
every gesture with eager eyes, lips quivering, and eyes filling at the
strains of the love songs, though they were in their native Italian, of
which he understood not a word. He rose up with a heavy groan when all
was over, as if not yet disenchanted, and hardly answered when his
uncle spoke to him afterwards. It was to ask whether the Dragon party
were to return at once to London, or to accompany the Court to
Gravelines, where, it had just been announced, the King intended to pay
a visit to his nephew, the Emperor.
Neither Stephen nor Giles knew, but when they reached their own
quarters they found that Smallbones had received an intimation that
there might be jousts, and that the offices of the armourers would be
required. He was very busy packing up his tools, but loudly hilarious,
and Sir John Fulford, with a flask of wine beside him, was swaggering
and shouting orders to the men as though he were the head of the
expedition.
Revelations come in strange ways. Perhaps that Italian play might be
called Galeotto to Stephen Birkenholt. It affected him all the more
because he was not distracted by the dialogue, but was only powerfully
touched by the music, and, in the gestures of the lovers, felt all the
force of sympathy. It was to him like a kind of prophetic mirror,
revealing to him the true meaning of all he had ever felt for Dennet
Headley, and of his vexation and impatience at seeing her bestowed upon
a dull and indifferent lout like her kinsman, who not only was not good
enough for her, but did not even love her, or accept her as anything
but his title to the Dragon court. He now thrilled and tingled from
head to foot with the perceptions that all this meant love—love to
Dennet; and in every act of the drama he beheld only himself, Giles,
and Dennet. Watching at first with a sweet fascination, his feelings
changed, now to strong yearning, now to hot wrath, and then to horror
and dismay. In his troubled sleep after the spectacle, he identified
himself with the lover, sang, wooed, and struggled in his person, woke
with a start of relief, to find Giles snoring safely beside him, and
the watch-dog on his chest instead of an expiring lady. He had not made
unholy love to sweet Dennet, nor imperilled her good name, nor slain
his comrade. Nor was she yet wedded to that oaf, Giles! But she would
be in a few weeks, and then! How was he to brook the sight, chained as
he was to the Dragon court—see Giles lord it over her, and all of them,
see her missing the love that was burning for her elsewhere. Stephen
lost his boyhood on that evening, and, though force of habit kept him
like himself outwardly, he never was alone, without feeling dazed, and
torn in every direction at once.