“No – it arn’t fair!” proclaimed several voices; while at the same moment, a large fierce-looking man, with bushy black beard, was seen pushing his way through the crowd towards the spot occupied by the adversaries.
“Twoant do, Master Henry,” cried the bearded man as he came up. “You mustn’t risk it that way. I know ye’re game for any man on the groun’, or in England eyther; but it arn’t fair. The sodger captain must peel off them steel plates o’ his; and let the fight be a fair ’un. What say ye, meeats?”
This appeal to the bystanders was answered by cries of “Fair play! fair play! The officer must take off his armour!”
“Certainly,” said Walter Wade, at this moment coming up. “If these gentlemen are to fight, the conditions must be equal. Of course, Captain Scarthe, you will not object to that?”
“I desire no advantage,” rejoined the cuirassier captain. “He may do as he likes; but I shall not lay aside my armour on any account.”
“Then your antagonist must arm also,” suggested one of the gentlemen, who had accompanied Walter. “The combat cannot go on, till that be arranged.”
“No! no!” chimed in several voices, “both should be armed alike.”
“Perhaps this gentleman,” said one, pointing to the cornet, “will have no objection to lend his for the occasion? That would simplify matters. It appears to be about the right size.”
Stubbs looked towards his captain, as much as to say, “Shall I refuse?”
“Let him have it!” said Scarthe, seeing that the proposal could not well be declined.
“He’s welcome to it!” said the cornet, who instantly commenced unbuckling.
There were hands enough to assist Henry Holtspur in putting on the defensive harness; and, in a few minutes’ time, he was encased in the steel accoutrements of the cornet – cuirass and gorget, pauldrons, cuisses, and braces – all of which fortunately fitted, as if they had been made for him.
The helmet still remained in the hand of one of the attendants – who made a motion towards placing it upon Holtspur’s head.
“No!” said the latter, pushing it away. “I prefer wearing my beaver.” Then pointing to the trophy set above its brim, he added, “It carries that which will sufficiently protect my head. An English maiden has been insulted, and under the glove of an English maiden shall the insult be rebuked.”
“Don’t be so confident in the virtue of your pretty trophy,” rejoined Scarthe with a sarcastic sneer. “Ere long I shall take that glove from your hat, and stick it on the crest of my helmet. No doubt I shall then have come by it more honestly than you have done.”
“Time enough to talk of wearing, when you have won it,” quietly retorted the cavalier. “Though, by my troth,” added he, returning sneer for sneer, “you should strive hard to obtain it; you stand in need of a trophy to neutralise the loss of your spurs left behind you in the ford of Newburn.”
The “ford of Newburn” was Scarthe’s especial fiend. He was one of that five thousand horsemen, who under Conway had ignominiously retreated from the Tyne – spreading such a panic throughout the whole English army, as to carry it without stop or stay far into the heart of Yorkshire. Once before had Holtspur flung the disgraceful souvenir in his teeth; and now to be a second time reproached with it, before a crowd of his countrymen, before his own followers – many of whom had by this time entered within the camp – but above all, in presence of that more distinguished circle of proud and resplendent spectators, standing within earshot, on the moat above – that was the direst insult to which he had ever been subjected. As his antagonist repeated the taunting allusion, his brow already dark, grew visibly darker; while his thin lips whitened, as if the blood had altogether forsaken them.
“Base demagogue!” cried he, hissing the words through his clenched teeth, “your false tongue shall be soon silenced. On the escutcheon of Captain Scarthe there is no stain, save the blood of his enemies, and the enemies of his king. Yours shall be mingled with the rest.”
“Come!” cried Holtspur, with an impatient wave of his weapon. “I stand not here for a contest of tongues; in which no doubt the accomplished courtier Scarthe would prove my superior. Our swords are drawn! Are you ready, sir?”
“No,” responded Scarthe.
“No?” interrogated his antagonist with a look of surprise. “What – ”
“Captain Scarthe is a cuirassier. He fights not a-foot.”
“You are the challenged party!” put in Stubbs, “You have the right of choice, captain.”
“Our combat then shall be on horseback.”
“Thanks for the favour, gentlemen!” responded Holtspur, with a pleased look, “My own wish exactly; though I had scarce hoped to obtain it. You have said the word – we fight on horseback.”
“My horse!” shouted Scarthe, turning to one of his troopers. “Bring him up; and let the ground he cleared of this rabble.”
There was no necessity for the order last issued. As soon as it had become known, that the combat was to be fought on horseback, the people scattered on all sides – rushing towards the crest of the moat, and there taking their stand – most of them delighted at the prospect of witnessing a spectacle, which, even in those chivalrous times, was of uncommon occurrence.
Volume One – Chapter Nineteen
From the commanding eminence, on which were clustered the “quality folks,” the preparations had been watched with a vivid interest, and with emotions varying in kind.
“Splendid!” exclaimed Dorothy Dayrell, as the sword-blades were seen clashing together. “Beats the morris dancers all to bits! Just what I like! One of those little interludes not mentioned in the programme of the entertainment. Surely we’re going to see a fight?”
Lora Lovelace trembled, as she listened to these speeches.
“Oh, Dorothy Dayrell!” said she, turning upon the latter an upbraiding look, “’Tis too serious for jesting. You do not mean it?”
“But I do mean it, Mistress Lovelace. I’m not jesting. Not a bit of it. I’m quite in earnest, I assure you.”
“Surely you would not wish to see blood spilled?”
“And why not? What care I, so long as it isn’t my own blood; or that of one of my friends. Ha! ha! ha! What are either of these fellows to you, or me? I know neither. If they’re angry with each other, let them fight it out. Foh-poh! They may kill one another, for aught I care.”
“Wicked woman!” thought Lora, without making rejoinder.
Marion Wade overheard the unfeeling utterances; but she was too much occupied with what was passing on the plain below, to give heed to them. That incipient suspicion, though still unsatisfied, was not troubling her now. It had given place to a feeling of apprehension, for the safety of him who had been its object.
“My God!” she murmured in soliloquy, her hands clasped over her bosom – the slender white fingers desperately entwining each other. “If he should be killed! Walter! dear Walter!” she cried, earnestly appealing to her brother, “Go down, and stop it! Tell him – tell them they must not fight. O father, you will not permit it?”
“Perhaps I may not be able to hinder them,” said Walter, springing out from among the circle of his acquaintances. “But I shall go down. You will not object, father? Mr Holtspur is alone, and may stand in need of a friend.”
“Go, my son!” said Sir Marmaduke, pleased at the spirit his son was displaying. “It matters not who, or what, he be. He is our guest, and has been your protector. If they are determined on fighting, see that he be shown fair play.”
“Never fear, father!” rejoined Walter, hurrying down the slope. “And if that drunken cornet dare to interfere,”