Mayne Reid - The White Gauntlet

“The cuirassiers of the king!” What wanted they in the park of Sir Marmaduke Wade? Or what was their business at his mansion: for thither were they directing their march?

This question was put by more than one pair of lips; but by none less capable of answering it than those of Sir Marmaduke himself.

The spectacle of the morris dance had been altogether abandoned. Both actors and spectators had rushed promiscuously towards the moat – on that side fronting to the park – and having taken stand upon its crest, were uttering exclamations of astonishment, or exchanging interrogatories about this new interlude not mentioned in the programme of the entertainments.

At this moment the bugle once more brayed out the “Halt”; and, in obedience to the signal, the cuirassiers again reined up.

As by this the head of the troop had arrived opposite to the old camp – and was at no great distance from it – some words that passed between the two officers, could be heard distinctly by the people standing upon the moat.

“I say, Stubbs,” called out the captain, spurring a length or two out from the troop, and pointing towards the camp, “What are those rustics doing up yonder? Can you guess?”

“Haven’t the most distant idea,” answered the individual addressed.

“They appear to be in their holiday toggery – best bibs and tuckers. Is’t a Whitsun-ale or a May-making?”

“Can’t be either,” rejoined Stubbs. “Isn’t the season. No, by Ged!”

“By the smock of Venus! there appear to be some pretty petticoats among them? Mayn’t be such dull quarters after all.”

“No, by Ged! Anything but dull, I should say.”

“Ride within speaking distance; and ask them, what the devil they are doing.”

The cornet, thus commanded, clapped spurs to his horse; and, after galloping within fifty paces of the fosse, pulled up.

“What the devil are you doing?” cried he, literally delivering the order with which he had been entrusted.

Of course to such a rude interrogatory, neither Sir Marmaduke, nor any of those standing around him, vouchsafed response. Some of the common people in the crowd, however, called out – “We’re merry-making. It’s a fête – a birthday celebration.”

“Oh! that’s it,” muttered the cornet, turning and riding back to communicate the intelligence to his superior officer.

“Let’s go up, and make their acquaintance,” said the latter, as Stubbs delivered his report. “We shall reconnoitre these rustic beauties of Bucks, giving them the advantage of their holiday habiliments. What say you, Stubbs?”

“Agreeable,” was the laconic reply of the cornet.

“ Allons ! as they say in France. We may find something up yonder worth climbing the hill for. As they also say in France, nous verrons !”

Ordering the troopers to dismount, and stand by their horses – their own being given to a brace of grooms – the two officers, in full armour as they were, commenced ascending the slope that led to the Saxon encampment.

“So, good, people!” said Scarthe, as soon as he and his companion had entered within the enclosure, “holding holiday are you? An admirable idea in such fine weather – with the azure sky over your heads, and the green trees before your faces. Pray don’t let us interrupt your Arcadian enjoyment. Go on with the sports! I hope you have no objection to our becoming spectators?”

“No! no!” cried several voices in response, “you are welcome, sirs! you are welcome!”

Having thus spoken their permission, the people once more dispersed themselves over the ground; while the two officers, arm in arm, commenced strolling through the encampment – followed by a crowd of the lower class of peasants, who continued to gratify their curiosity by gazing upon the steel-clad strangers.

Sir Marmaduke and his friends had returned to their former stand – upon the elevated crest of the moat, and at some distance from the causeway, where the officers had entered. The latter saunteringly proceeded in that direction; freely flinging their jests among the crowd who accompanied them; and now and then exchanging phrases of no very gentle meaning, with such of the peasant girls as chanced to stray across their path.

The host of the fête had resolved not to offer the intruders a single word of welcome. The rude demand made by the comet, coupled with the coarse dialogue between the two officers – part of which he had overheard – had determined Sir Marmaduke to take no notice of them, until they should of themselves declare their errand.

He had ordered the morris dance to be resumed. In front of where he stood the dancers had reformed their figures; and, with streaming ribbons and ringing bells, were again tripping it over the turf.

“By the toes of Terpsichore, a morris dance!” exclaimed the captain of cuirassiers, as he came near enough to recognise the costume and measure. “An age since I have seen one!”

“Never saw one in my life,” rejoined Stubbs; “except on the stage. Is it the same?”

No doubt Stubbs spoke the truth. He had been born in the ward of Cheap, and brought up within the sound of Bow-bells.

“Not quite the same,” drawled the captain, “though something like – if I remember aright. Let’s forward, and have a squint at it.”

Hastening their steps a little, the two officers soon arrived on the edge of the circle; and without taking any notice of the “people of quality,” who were stationed upon the platform above, they commenced flinging free jibes among the dancers.

Some of these made answer with spirit – especially Little John and the Jolly Friar, who chanced to be fellows of a witty turn; and who in their own rude fashion gave back to the two intruders full value for what they received.

Bold Robin – who appeared rather a surly representative of Sherwood’s hero – bore their sallies with an indifferent grace – more especially on perceiving that the eyes of the cuirassier captain became lit up with a peculiar fire, while following Maid Marian through the mazes of the dance.

But the heart of the pseudo-outlaw was destined to be further wrung. A climax was at hand. As Marian came to the close of one of her grandest pas , the movement had inadvertently brought her close to the spot where the cuirassier captain was standing.

“Bravo! beautiful Marian!” cried the latter, bending towards her, and clasping her rudely around the waist. “Allow a thirsty soldier to drink nectar from those juicy lips of thine.”

And without finishing the speech, or waiting for her consent – which he knew would be refused – he protruded his lips through the visor of his helmet, till they came in contact with those of the girl.

A blow from a clenched feminine fist, received right in his face, neither disconcerted nor angered the daring libertine; who answered it by a loud reckless laugh, in which he was joined by his cornet, and chorussed by some of the less sentimental of the spectators.

There were others who did not seem inclined to treat the affair in this jocular fashion.

Cries of “Shame!” “Pitch into him!” “Gie it him, Robin!” were heard among the crowd; and angry faces could be seen mingled with the merry ones.

The idol of England’s peasantry needed not such stimulus to stir him to action. Stung by jealousy, and the insult offered to his sweetheart, he sprang forward; and, raising his crossbow – the only weapon he carried – high overhead, he brought it down with a “thwack” upon the helmet of the cuirassier captain, which caused the officer to stagger some paces backward ere he could recover himself.

“Take that, dang thee!” shouted Robin, as he delivered the blow. “Take that; an’ keep thy scurvy kisses to thyself.”