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WOODSTOCK
“You shall see the evidence,” answered Everard; and, resuming the ring, he pressed a spring ingeniously contrived in
the collet of the setting, on which the stone fl ew back, and
showed within it the cipher of Lord Wilmot beautifully engraved in miniature, with a coronet. – “What say you now, sir?”
“That probabilities are no proofs,” said the Prince; “there
is nothing here save what may be easily accounted for. I am
the son of a Scottish nobleman, who was mortally wounded
and made prisoner at Worcester fi ght. When he took leave,
and bid me fl y, he gave me the few valuables he possessed, and
that among others. I have heard him talk of having changed
rings with Lord Wilmot, on some occasion in Scotland, but
I never knew the trick of the gem which you have shown me.”
In this it may be necessary to say, Charles spoke very truly;
nor would he have parted with it in the way he did, had he
suspected it would be easily recognised. He proceeded after
a minute’s pause: – “Once more, sir – I have told you much
that concerns my safety – if you are generous, you will let me
pass, and I may do you on some future day as good service.
If you mean to arrest me, you must do so here, and at your
own peril, for I will neither walk farther your way, nor permit
you to dog me on mine. If you let me pass, I will thank you: if
not, take to your weapon.”
“Young gentleman,” said Colonel Everard, “whether you
be actually the gay young nobleman for whom I took you, you
have made me uncertain; but, intimate as you say your family
has been with him, I have little doubt that you are profi cient in
the school of debauchery, of which Wilmot and Villiers are
professors, and their hopeful Master a graduated student. Your
conduct at Woodstock, where you have rewarded the hospitality of the family by meditating the most deadly wound to their
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WALTER SCOTT
honour, has proved you too apt a scholar in such an academy.
I intended only to warn you on this subject – it will be your
own fault if I add chastisement to admonition.”
“Warn me, sir!” said the Prince indignantly, “and chastisement! This is presuming more on my patience than is consistent with your own safety – Draw, sir.” – So saying, he laid his
hand on his sword.
“My religion,” said Everard, “forbids me to be rash in
shedding blood – Go home, sir – be wise – consult the dictates of honour as well as prudence. Respect the honour of
the House of Lee, and know there is one nearly allied to it, by
whom your motions will be called to severe account.”
“Aha!” said the Prince, with a bitter laugh, “I see the whole
matter now – we have our roundheaded Colonel, our puritan
cousin before us – the man of texts and morals, whom Alice Lee laughs at so heartily. If your religion, sir, prevents you
from giving satisfaction, it should prevent you from offering
insult to a person of honour.”
The passions of both were now fully up – they drew mutually, and began to fi ght, the Colonel relinquishing the advantage he could have obtained by the use of his fi re-arms.
A thrust of the arm, or a slip of the foot, might, at the moment,
have changed the destinies of Britain, when the arrival of
a third party broke off the combat.
CHAPTER XXV
Stay – for the King has thrown his warder down.
RICHARD II.
The combatants, whom we left engaged at the end of
the last chapter, made mutual passes at each other with apparently equal skill and courage. Charles had been too often in action, and too long a party as well as a victim to civil
war, to fi nd any thing new or surprising in being obliged to
defend himself with his own hands; and Everard had been
distinguished, as well for his personal bravery, as for the other
properties of a commander. But the arrival of a third party
prevented the tragic conclusion of a combat, in which the success of either party must have given him much cause for regretting his victory.
It was the old knight himself, who arrived, mounted
upon a forest pony, for the war and sequestration had left
him no steed of a more dignifi ed description. He thrust himself between the combatants, and commanded them on their
lives to hold. So soon as a glance from one to the other had
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WALTER SCOTT
ascertained to him whom he had to deal with, he demanded,
“Whether the devils of Woodstock, whom folk talked about,
had got possession of them both, that they were tilting at
each other within the verge of the royal liberties? Let me tell
both of you,” he said, “that while old Henry Lee is at Woodstock, the immunities of the Park shall be maintained as much
as if the King were still on the throne. None shall fi ght duellos
here, excepting the stags in their season. Put up, both of you,
or I shall lug out as thirdsman, and prove perhaps the worst
devil of the three! – As Will says –
‘I’ll so maul you and your toasting-irons,
That you shall think the devil has come from hell.’”
The combatants desisted from their encounter, but stood
looking at each other sullenly, as men do in such a situation,
each unwilling to seem to desire peace more than the other,
and averse therefore to be the fi rst to sheathe his sword.
“Return your weapons, gentlemen, upon the spot,” said
the knight yet more peremptorily, “one and both of you, or
you will have something to do with me, I promise you. You
may be thankful times are changed. I have known them such,
that your insolence might have cost each of you your right
hand, if not redeemed with a round sum of money. Nephew,
if you do not mean to alienate me for ever, I command you to
put up. – Master Kerneguy, you are my guest. I request of you
not to do me the insult of remaining with your sword drawn,
where it is my duty to see peace observed.”
“I obey you, Sir Henry,” said the King, sheathing his rapier – “I hardly indeed know wherefore I was assaulted by this
gentleman. I assure you, none respects the King’s person or
privileges more than myself – though the devotion is somewhat out of fashion.”
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WOODSTOCK
“We may fi nd a place to meet, sir,” replied Everard, “where
neither the royal person nor privileges can be offended.”
“Faith, very hardly, sir,” said Charles, unable to suppress
the rising jest – “I mean, the King has so few followers, that
the loss of the least of them might be some small damage to
him; but, risking all that, I will meet you wherever there
is fair fi eld for a poor cavalier to get off in safety, if he has
the luck in fi ght.”
Sir Henry Lee’s fi rst idea had been fi xed upon the insult
offered to the royal demesne; he now began to turn them towards the safety of his kinsman, and of the young royalist, as
he deemed him. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I must insist on this
business being put to a fi nal end. Nephew Markham, is this
your return for my condescension in coming back to Woodstock on your warrant, that you should take an opportunity to
cut the throat of my guest?”
“If you knew his purpose as well as I do,” – said Markham,
and then paused, conscious that he might only incense his
uncle without convincing him, as any thing he might say of
Kerneguy’s addresses to Alice was likely to be imputed to his
own jealous suspicions – he looked on the ground, therefore,
and was silent.
“And you, Master Kerneguy,” said Sir Henry, “can you
give me any reason why you seek to take the life of this young
man, in whom, though unhappily forgetful of his loyalty and
duty, I must yet take some interest, as my nephew by affi nity?”
“I was not aware the gentleman enjoyed that honour,
which certainly would have protected him from my sword,”
answered Kerneguy. “But the quarrel is his; nor can I tell any
reason why he fi xed it upon me, unless it were the difference of
our political opinions.”
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WALTER SCOTT
“You know the contrary,” said Everard; “you know that
I told you you were safe from me as a fugitive royalist – and
your last words showed you were at no loss to guess my connexion with Sir Henry. That, indeed, is of little consequence.
I should debase myself did I use the relationship as a means of
protection from you, or any one.”
As they thus disputed, neither choosing to approach the real
cause of quarrel, Sir Henry looked from one to the other, with
a peace-making conscience, exclaiming –
“‘Why, what an intricate impeach is this?
I think you both have drunk of Circe’s cup.’
“Come, my young masters, allow an old man to mediate between you. I am not shortsighted in such matters – The mother of mischief is no bigger than a gnat’s wing; and I have known
fi fty instances in my own day, when, as Will says –
‘Gallants have been confronted hardily,
In single opposition, hand to hand.’
in which, after the fi eld was fought, no one could remember the cause of quarrel. – Tush! a small thing will do
it – the taking of the wall – or the gentle rub of the shoulder in passing each other, or a hasty word, or a misconceived
gesture – Come, forget your cause of quarrel, be what it
will – you have had your breathing, and though you put up
your rapiers unbloodied, that was no default of yours, but by
command of your elder, and one who had right to use authority. In Malta, where the duello is punctiliously well understood,
the persons engaged in a single combat are bound to halt on
the command of a knight, or priest, or lady, and the quarrel so
interrupted is held as honourably terminated, and may not be
revived. – Nephew, it is, I think, impossible that you can nourish spleen against this young gentleman for having fought for
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WOODSTOCK
his king. Hear my honest proposal, Markham – You know
I bear no malice, though I have some reason to be offended
with you – Give the young man your hand in friendship, and
we will back to the Lodge, all three together, and drink a cup of
sack in token of reconciliation.”
Markham Everard found himself unable to resist this approach towards kindness on his uncle’s part. He suspected, indeed, what was partly the truth, that it was not entirely from
reviving good-will, but also, that his uncle thought, by such
attention, to secure his neutrality at least, if not his assistance,
for the safety of the fugitive royalist. He was sensible that he
was placed in an awkward predicament; and that he might incur the suspicions of his own party, for holding intercourse
even with a near relation, who harboured such guests. But, on
the other hand, he thought his services to the Commonwealth
had been of suffi cient importance to outweigh whatever envy
might urge on that topic. Indeed, although the Civil War had
divided families much, and in many various ways, yet when it
seemed ended by the triumph of the republicans, the rage of
political hatred began to relent, and the ancient ties of kindred and friendship regained at least a part of their former
infl uence. Many reunions were formed; and those who, like
Everard, adhered to the conquering party, often exerted themselves for the protection of their deserted relatives.
As these things rushed through his mind, accompanied
with the prospect of a renewed intercourse with Alice Lee, by
means of which he might be at hand to protect her against
every chance, either of injury or insult, he held out his hand to
the supposed Scottish page, saying at the same time, “That,
for his part, he was very ready to forget the cause of quarrel,
or rather, to consider it as arising out of a misapprehension,
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WALTER SCOTT
and to offer Master Kerneguy such friendship as might exist between honourable men, who had embraced different
sides in politics.”
Unable to overcome the feeling of personal dignity,
which prudence recommended him to forget, Louis Kerneguy in return bowed low, but without accepting Everard’s
proffered hand.
“He had no occasion,” he said, “to make any exertions to
forget the cause of quarrel, for he had never been able to
comprehend it; but as he had not shunned the gentleman’s
resentment, so he was now willing to embrace and return
any degree of his favour, with which he might be pleased to
honour him.”
Everard withdrew his hand with a smile, and bowed in
return to the salutation of the page, whose stiff reception of
his advances he imputed to the proud pettish disposition of
a Scotch boy, trained up in extravagant ideas of family consequence and personal importance, which his acquaintance
with the world had not yet been suffi cient to dispel.
Sir Henry Lee, delighted with the termination of the quarrel, which he supposed to be in deep deference to his own
authority, and not displeased with the opportunity of renewing some acquaintance with his nephew, who had, notwithstanding his political demerits, a warmer interest in his affections than he was, perhaps, himself aware of, said, in a tone of
consolation, “Never be mortifi ed, young gentlemen. I protest
it went to my heart to part you, when I saw you stretching
yourselves so handsomely, and in fair love of honour, without
any malicious or blood-thirsty thoughts. I promise you, had
it not been for my duty as Ranger here, and sworn to the offi ce, I would rather have been your umpire than your hinder-
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WOODSTOCK
ance. – But a fi nished quarrel is a forgotten quarrel; and your
tilting should have no further consequence excepting the appetite it may have given you.”
So saying, he urged forward his pony, and moved in triumph towards the Lodge by the nearest alley. His feet almost
touching the ground, the ball of his toe just resting in the stirrup – the forepart of the thigh brought round to the saddle –
the heels turned outwards, and sunk as much as possible – his
body precisely erect – the reins properly and systematically
divided in his left hand, his right holding a riding-rod diagonally pointed towards the horse’s left ear – he seemed a champion of the manege, fi t to have reined Bucephalus himself.
His youthful companions, who attended on either hand like
equerries, could scarcely suppress a smile at the completely
adjusted and systematic posture of the rider, contrasted with
the wild and diminutive appearance of the pony, with its shaggy coat, and long tail and mane, and its keen eyes sparkling
like red coals from amongst the mass of hair which fell over its
small countenance. If the reader has the Duke of Newcastle’s
book on horsemanship, (splendida moles!) he may have some
idea of the fi gure of the good knight, if he can conceive such
a fi gure as one of the cavaliers there represented, seated, in
all the graces of his art, on a Welsh or Exmoor pony, in its native savage state, without grooming or discipline of any kind;
the ridicule being greatly enhanced by the disproportion of
size betwixt the animal and its rider.
Perhaps the knight saw their wonder, for the fi rst words
he said after they left the ground were, “Pixie, though small,
is mettlesome, gentlemen,” (here he contrived that Pixie should himself corroborate the assertion, by executing
a gambade,) – “he is diminutive, but full of spirit; – indeed,
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WALTER SCOTT
save that I am somewhat too large for an elfi n horseman,”
(the knight was upwards of six feet high,) “I should remind
myself, when I mount him, of the Fairy King, as described by
Mike Drayton: –
Himself he on an ear-wig set,
Yet scarce upon his back could get,
So oft and high he did curvet,
Ere he himself did settle.
He made him stop, and turn, and bound,
To gallop, and to trot the round.
He scarce could stand on any ground,
He was so full of mettle.’”
“My old friend, Pixie,” said Everard, stroking the pony’s neck, “I am glad that he has survived all these bustling
days – Pixie must be above twenty years old, Sir Henry?”
“Above twenty years, certainly. Yes, nephew Markham,
war is a whirlwind in a plantation, which only spares what is
least worth leaving. Old Pixie and his old master have survived
many a tall fellow, and many a great horse – neither of them
good for much themselves. Yet, as Will says, an old man can do
somewhat. So Pixie and I still survive.”
So saying, he again contrived that Pixie should show some
remnants of activity.
“Still survive?” said the young Scot, completing the sentence which the good knight had left unfi nished – “ay, still
survive,
‘To witch the world with noble horsemanship.’”
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