Men of Iron

Once, for instance, as the Prince leaned upon, his shoulder waiting, whilst the attendants made ready the barge that was to carry them down the river to the city, he said, abruptly: “Myles, what thinkest thou of us all? Doth not thy honesty hold us in contempt?”

“Nay, Highness,” said Myles. “How could I hold contempt?”

“Marry,” said the Prince, “I myself hold contempt, and am not as honest a man as thou. But, prithee, have patience with me, Myles. Some day, perhaps, I too will live a clean life. Now, an I live seriously, the King will be more jealous of me than ever, and that is not a little. Maybe I live thus so that he may not know what I really am in soothly earnest.”

The Prince also often talked to Myles concerning his own affairs; of the battle he was to fight for his father’s honor, of how the Earl of Mackworth had plotted and planned to bring him face to face with the Earl of Alban. He spoke to Myles more than once of the many great changes of state and party that hung upon the downfall of the enemy of the house of Falworth, and showed him how no hand but his own could strike that enemy down; if he fell, it must be through the son of Falworth. Sometimes it seemed to Myles as though he and his blind father were the centre of a great web of plot and intrigue, stretching far and wide, that included not only the greatest houses of England, but royalty and the political balance of the country as well, and even before the greatness of it all he did not flinch.

Then, at last, came the beginning of the time for action. It was in the early part of May, and Myles had been a member of the Prince’s household for a little over a month. One morning he was ordered to attend the Prince in his privy cabinet, and, obeying the summons, he found the Prince, his younger brother, the Duke of Bedford, and his uncle, the Bishop of Winchester, seated at a table, where they had just been refreshing themselves with a flagon of wine and a plate of wafers.

“My poor Myles,” said the Prince, smiling, as the young knight bowed to the three, and then stood erect, as though on duty. “It shames my heart, brother – and thou, uncle – it shames my heart to be one privy to this thing which we are set upon to do. Here be we, the greatest Lords of England, making a cat’s-paw of this lad – for he is only yet a boy – and of his blind father, for to achieve our ends against Alban’s faction. It seemeth not over-honorable to my mind.”

“Pardon me, your Highness,” said Myles, blushing to the roots of his hair; “but, an I may be so bold as to speak, I reck nothing of what your aims may be; I only look to restoring my father’s honor and the honor of our house.”

“Truly,” said the Prince, smiling, “that is the only matter that maketh me willing to lay my hands to this business. Dost thou know why I have sent for thee? It is because this day thou must challenge the Duke of Alban before the King. The Earl of Mackworth has laid all his plans and the time is now ripe. Knowest that thy father is at Mackworth House?”

“Nay,” said Myles; “I knew it not.”

“He hath been there for nearly two days,” said the Prince. “Just now the Earl hath sent for us to come first to Mackworth House. Then to go to the palace, for he hath gained audience with the King, and hath so arranged it that the Earl of Alban is to be there as well. We all go straightway; so get thyself ready as soon as may be.”

Perhaps Myles’s heart began beating more quickly within him at the nearness of that great happening which he had looked forward to for so long. If it did, he made no sign of his emotion, but only asked, “How must I clothe myself, your Highness?”

“Wear thy light armor,” said the Prince, “but no helmet, a juppon bearing the arms and colors that the Earl gave thee when thou wert knighted, and carry thy right-hand gauntlet under thy belt for thy challenge. Now make haste, for time passes.”

CHAPTER 30

Adjoining the ancient palace of Westminster, where King Henry IV was then holding his court, was a no less ancient stone building known as the Painted Room. Upon the walls were depicted a series of battle scenes in long bands reaching around this room, one above another. Some of these pictures had been painted as far back as the days of Henry III, others had been added since his time. They chronicled the various wars of the King of England, and it was from them that the little hall took its name of the Painted Room.

This ancient wing, or offshoot, of the main buildings was more retired from the hurly-burly of outer life than other parts of the palace, and thither the sick King was very fond of retiring from the business of State, which ever rested more and more heavily upon his shoulders, sometimes to squander in quietness a spare hour or two; sometimes to idle over a favorite book; sometimes to play a game of chess with a favorite courtier. The cold painted walls had been hung with tapestry, and its floor had been spread with arras carpet. These and the cushioned couches and chairs that stood around gave its gloomy antiquity an air of comfort – an air even of luxury.

It was to this favorite retreat of the King’s that Myles was brought that morning with his father to face the great Earl of Alban.

In the anteroom the little party of Princes and nobles who escorted the father and son had held a brief consultation. Then the others had entered, leaving Myles and his blind father in charge of Lord Lumley and two knights of the court, Sir Reginald Hallowell and Sir Piers Averell.

Myles, as he stood patiently waiting, with his father’s arm resting in his, could hear the muffled sound of voices from beyond the arras. Among others, he recognized the well-remembered tones of the King. He fancied that he heard his own name mentioned more than once, and then the sound of talking ceased. The next moment the arras was drawn aside, and the Earl entered the antechamber again.

“All is ready, cousin,” said he to Lord Falworth, in a suppressed voice. “Essex hath done as he promised, and Alban is within there now.” Then, turning to Myles, speaking in the same low voice, and betraying more agitation than Myles had thought it possible for him to show, “Sir Myles,” said he, “remember all that hath been told thee. Thou knowest what thou hast to say and do.” Then, without further word, he took Lord Falworth by the hand, and led the way into the room, Myles following close behind.

The King half sat, half inclined, upon a cushioned seat close to which stood the two Princes. There were some dozen others present, mostly priests and noblemen of high quality who clustered in a group at a little distance. Myles knew most of them at a glance having seen them come and go at Scotland Yard. But among them all, he singled out only one – the Earl of Alban. He had not seen that face since he was a little child eight years old, but now that he beheld it again, it fitted instantly and vividly into the remembrance of the time of that terrible scene at Falworth Castle, when he had beheld the then Lord Brookhurst standing above the dead body of Sir John Dale, with the bloody mace clinched in his hand. There were the same heavy black brows, sinister and gloomy, the same hooked nose, the same swarthy cheeks. He even remembered the deep dent in the forehead, where the brows met in perpetual frown. So it was that upon that face his looks centred and rested.

The Earl of Alban had just been speaking to some Lord who stood beside him, and a half-smile still hung about the corners of his lips. At first, as he looked up at the entrance of the newcomers, there was no other expression; then suddenly came a flash of recognition, a look of wide-eyed amazement; then the blood left the cheeks and the lips, and the face grew very pale. No doubt he saw at a flash that some great danger overhung him in this sudden coming of his old enemy, for he was as keen and as astute a politician as he was a famous warrior. At least he knew that the eyes of most of those present were fixed keenly and searchingly upon him. After the first start of recognition, his left hand, hanging at his side, gradually closed around the scabbard of his sword, clutching it in a vice-like grip.

Meantime the Earl of Mackworth had led the blind Lord to the King, where both kneeled.

“Why, how now, my Lord?” said the King. “Methought it was our young Paladin whom we knighted at Devlen that was to be presented, and here thou bringest this old man. A blind man, ha! What is the meaning of this?”

“Majesty,” said the Earl, “I have taken this chance to bring to thy merciful consideration one who hath most wofully and unjustly suffered from thine anger. Yonder stands the young knight of whom we spake; this is his father, Gilbert Reginald, whilom Lord Falworth, who craves mercy and justice at thy hands.”

“Falworth,” said the King, placing his hand to his head. “The name is not strange to mine ears, but I cannot place it. My head hath troubled me sorely to-day, and I cannot remember.”

At this point the Earl of Alban came quietly and deliberately forward. “Sire,” said he, “pardon my boldness in so venturing to address you, but haply I may bring the name more clearly to your mind. He is, as my Lord of Mackworth said, the whilom Baron Falworth, the outlawed, attainted traitor; so declared for the harboring of Sir John Dale, who was one of those who sought your Majesty’s life at Windsor eleven years ago. Sire, he is mine enemy as well, and is brought hither by my proclaimed enemies. Should aught occur to my harm, I rest my case in your gracious hands.”

The dusty red flamed into the King’s pale, sickly face in answer, and he rose hastily from his seat.

“Aye,” said he, “I remember me now – I remember me the man and the name! Who hath dared bring him here before us?” All the dull heaviness of sickness was gone for the moment, and King Henry was the King Henry of ten years ago as he rolled his eyes balefully from one to another of the courtiers who stood silently around.

The Earl of Mackworth shot a covert glance at the Bishop of Winchester, who came forward in answer.

“Your Majesty,” said he, “here am I, your brother, who beseech you as your brother not to judge over-hastily in this matter. It is true that this man has been adjudged a traitor, but he has been so adjudged without a hearing. I beseech thee to listen patiently to whatsoever he may have to say.”

The King fixed the Bishop with a look of the bitterest, deepest anger, holding his nether lip tightly under his teeth – a trick he had when strongly moved with anger – and the Bishop’s eyes fell under the look. Meantime the Earl of Alban stood calm and silent. No doubt he saw that the King’s anger was likely to befriend him more than any words that he himself could say, and he perilled his case with no more speech which could only prove superfluous.

At last the King turned a face red and swollen with anger to the blind Lord, who still kneeled before him.

“What hast thou to say?” he said, in a deep and sullen voice.

“Gracious and merciful Lord,” said the blind nobleman, “I come to thee, the fountain-head of justice, craving justice. Sire, I do now and here deny my treason, which denial I could not before make, being blind and helpless, and mine enemies strong and malignant. But now, sire, Heaven hath sent me help, and therefore I do acclaim before thee that my accuser, William Bushy Brookhurst, Earl of Alban, is a foul and an attainted liar in all that he hath accused me of. To uphold which allegation, and to defend me, who am blinded by his unknightliness, I do offer a champion to prove all that I say with his body in combat.”

The Earl of Mackworth darted a quick look at Myles, who came forward the moment his father had ended, and kneeled beside him. The King offered no interruption to his speech, but he bent a look heavy with anger upon the young man.

“My gracious Lord and King,” said Myles, “I, the son of the accused, do offer myself as his champion in this cause, beseeching thee of thy grace leave to prove the truth of the same, being a belted knight by thy grace and of thy creation and the peer of any who weareth spurs.” Thereupon, rising, he drew his iron gauntlet from his girdle, and flung it clashing down upon the floor, and with his heart swelling within him with anger and indignation and pity of his blind father, he cried, in a loud voice, “I do accuse thee, William of Alban, that thou liest vilely as aforesaid, and here cast down my gage, daring thee to take it up.”

The Earl of Alban made as though he would accept the challenge, but the King stopped him hastily.

“Stop!” he cried, harshly. “Touch not the gage! Let it lie – let it lie, I tell thee, my Lord! Now then,” said he, turning to the others, “tell me what meaneth all this coil? Who brought this man hither?”

He looked from one to another of those who stood silently around, but no one answered.

“I see,” said he, “ye all have had to do with it. It is as my Lord of Alban sayeth; ye are his enemies, and ye are my enemies as well. In this I do smell a vile plot. I cannot undo what I have done, and since I have made this young man a knight with mine own hands, I cannot deny that he is fit to challenge my Lord of Alban. Ne’theless, the High Court of Chivalry shall adjudge this case. Meantime,” said he, turning to the Earl Marshal, who was present, “I give thee this attainted Lord in charge. Convey him presently to the Tower, and let him abide our pleasure there. Also, thou mayst take up yon gage, and keep it till it is redeemed according to our pleasure.”

He stood thoughtfully for a moment, and then raising his eyes, looked fixedly at the Earl of Mackworth. “I know,” he said, “that I be a right sick man, and there be some who are already plotting to overthrow those who have held up my hand with their own strength for all these years.” Then speaking more directly: “My Lord Earl of Mackworth, I see your hand in this before all others. It was thou who so played upon me as to get me to knight this young man, and thus make him worthy to challenge my Lord of Alban. It was thy doings that brought him here to-day, backed by mine own sons and my brother and by these noblemen.” Then turning suddenly to the Earl of Alban: “Come, my Lord,” said he; “I am aweary with all this coil. Lend me thine arm to leave this place.” So it was that he left the room, leaning upon the Earl of Alban’s arm, and followed by the two or three of the Alban faction who were present.

“Your Royal Highness,” said the Earl Marshal, “I must e’en do the King’s bidding, and take this gentleman into arrest.”

“Do thy duty,” said the Prince. “We knew it must come to this. Meanwhile he is to be a prisoner of honor, and see that he be well lodged and cared for. Thou wilt find my barge at the stairs to convey him down the river, and I myself will come this afternoon to visit him.”

CHAPTER 31

It was not until the end of July that the High Court of Chivalry rendered its judgment. There were many unusual points in the case, some of which bore heavily against Lord Falworth, some of which were in his favor. He was very ably defended by the lawyers whom the Earl of Mackworth had engaged upon his side; nevertheless, under ordinary circumstances, the judgment, no doubt, would have been quickly rendered against him. As it was, however, the circumstances were not ordinary, and it was rendered in his favor. The Court besought the King to grant the ordeal by battle, to accept Lord Falworth’s champion, and to appoint the time and place for the meeting.

The decision must have been a most bitter, galling one for the sick King. He was naturally of a generous, forgiving nature, but Lord Falworth in his time of power had been an unrelenting and fearless opponent, and his Majesty who, like most generous men, could on occasions be very cruel and intolerant, had never forgiven him. He had steadily thrown the might of his influence with the Court against the Falworths’ case, but that influence was no longer all-powerful for good or ill. He was failing in health, and it could only be a matter of a few years, probably of only a few months, before his successor sat upon the throne.

Upon the other hand, the Prince of Wales’s faction had been steadily, and of late rapidly, increasing in power, and in the Earl of Mackworth, its virtual head, it possessed one of the most capable politicians and astute intriguers in Europe. So, as the outcome of all the plotting and counter-plotting, scheming and counter-scheming, the case was decided in Lord Falworth’s favor. The knowledge of the ultimate result was known to the Prince of Wales’s circle almost a week before it was finally decided. Indeed, the Earl of Mackworth had made pretty sure of that result before he had summoned Myles from France, but upon the King it fell like the shock of a sudden blow. All that day he kept himself in moody seclusion, nursing his silent, bitter anger, and making only one outbreak, in which he swore by the Holy Rood that should Myles be worsted in the encounter, he would not take the battle into his own hands, but would suffer him to be slain, and furthermore, that should the Earl show signs of failing at any time, he would do all in his power to save him. One of the courtiers who had been present, and who was secretly inclined to the Prince of Wales’s faction, had repeated this speech at Scotland Yard, and the Prince had said, “That meaneth, Myles, that thou must either win or die.”

“And so I would have it to be, my Lord,” Myles had answered.

It was not until nearly a fortnight after the decision of the Court of Chivalry had been rendered that the King announced the time and place of battle – the time to be the 3d of September, the place to be Smithfield – a spot much used for such encounters.

During the three weeks or so that intervened between this announcement and the time of combat, Myles went nearly every day to visit the lists in course of erection. Often the Prince went with him; always two or three of his friends of the Scotland Yard court accompanied him.

The lists were laid out in the usual form. The true or principal list in which the combatants were to engage was sixty yards long and forty yards wide; this rectangular space being surrounded by a fence about six feet high, painted vermilion. Between the fence and the stand where the King and the spectators sat, and surrounding the central space, was the outer or false list, also surrounded by a fence. In the false list the Constable and the Marshal and their followers and attendants were to be stationed at the time of battle to preserve the general peace during the contest between the principals.

One day as Myles, his princely patron, and his friends entered the barriers, leaving their horses at the outer gate, they met the Earl of Alban and his followers, who were just quitting the lists, which they also were in the habit of visiting nearly every day. As the two parties passed one another, the Earl spoke to a gentleman walking beside him and in a voice loud enough to be clearly overheard by the others: “Yonder is the young sprig of Falworth,” said he. “His father, my Lords, is not content with forfeiting his own life for his treason, but must, forsooth, throw away his son’s also. I have faced and overthrown many a better knight than that boy.”

Myles heard the speech, and knew that it was intended for him to hear it; but he paid no attention to it, walking composedly at the Prince’s side. The Prince had also overheard it, and after a little space of silence asked, “Dost thou not feel anxiety for thy coming battle, Myles?”

“Yea, my Lord,” said Myles; “sometimes I do feel anxiety, but not such as my Lord of Alban would have me feel in uttering the speech that he spake anon. It is anxiety for my father’s sake and my mother’s sake that I feel, for truly there are great matters for them pending upon this fight. Ne’theless, I do know that God will not desert me in my cause, for verily my father is no traitor.”

“But the Earl of Alban,” said the Prince, gravely, “is reputed one of the best-skilled knights in all England; moreover, he is merciless and without generosity, so that an he gain aught advantage over thee, he will surely slay thee.”

“I am not afraid, my Lord,” said Myles, still calmly and composedly.

“Nor am I afraid for thee, Myles,” said the Prince, heartily, putting his arm, as he spoke, around the young man’s shoulder; “for truly, wert thou a knight of forty years, instead of one of twenty, thou couldst not bear thyself with more courage.”

As the time for the duel approached, the days seemed to drag themselves along upon leaden feet; nevertheless, the days came and went, as all days do, bringing with them, at last, the fateful 3d of September.

Early in the morning, while the sun was still level and red, the Prince himself, unattended, came to Myles’s apartment, in the outer room of which Gascoyne was bustling busily about arranging the armor piece by piece; renewing straps and thongs, but not whistling over his work as he usually did. The Prince nodded to him, and then passed silently through to the inner chamber. Myles was upon his knees, and Father Ambrose, the Prince’s chaplain, was beside him. The Prince stood silently at the door, until Myles, having told his last bead, rose and turned towards him.

“My dear Lord,” said the young knight, “I give you gramercy for the great honor you do me in coming so early for to visit me.”

“Nay, Myles, give me no thanks,” said the Prince, frankly reaching him his hand, which Myles took and set to his lips. “I lay bethinking me of thee this morning, while yet in bed, and so, as I could not sleep any more, I was moved to come hither to see thee.”

Quite a number of the Prince’s faction were at the breakfast at Scotland Yard that morning; among others, the Earl of Mackworth. All were more or less oppressed with anxiety, for nearly all of them had staked much upon the coming battle. If Alban conquered, he would be more powerful to harm them and to revenge himself upon them than ever, and Myles was a very young champion upon whom to depend. Myles himself, perhaps, showed as little anxiety as any; he certainly ate more heartily of his breakfast that morning than many of the others.

After the meal was ended, the Prince rose. “The boat is ready at the stairs,” said he; “if thou wouldst go to the Tower to visit thy father, Myles, before hearing mass, I and Cholmondeley and Vere and Poins will go with thee, if ye, Lords and gentlemen, will grant me your pardon for leaving you. Are there any others that thou wouldst have accompany thee?”

“I would have Sir James Lee and my squire, Master Gascoyne, if thou art so pleased to give them leave to go,” answered Myles.

“So be it,” said the Prince. “We will stop at Mackworth stairs for the knight.”

The barge landed at the west stairs of the Tower wharf, and the whole party were received with more than usual civilities by the Governor, who conducted them at once to the Tower where Lord Falworth was lodged. Lady Falworth met them at the head of the stairs; her eyes were very red and her face pale, and as Myles raised her hand and set a long kiss upon it, her lips trembled, and she turned her face quickly away, pressing her handkerchief for one moment to her eyes. Poor lady! What agony of anxiety and dread did she not suffer for her boy’s sake that day! Myles had not hidden both from her and his father that he must either win or die.

As Myles turned from his mother, Prior Edward came out from the inner chamber, and was greeted warmly by him. The old priest had arrived in London only the day before, having come down from Crosbey Priory to be with his friend’s family during this their time of terrible anxiety.

After a little while of general talk, the Prince and his attendants retired, leaving the family together, only Sir James Lee and Gascoyne remaining behind.

Many matters that had been discussed before were now finally settled, the chief of which was the disposition of Lady Falworth in case the battle should go against them. Then Myles took his leave, kissing his mother, who began crying, and comforting her with brave assurances. Prior Edward accompanied him as far as the head of the Tower stairs, where Myles kneeled upon the stone steps, while the good priest blessed him and signed the cross upon his forehead. The Prince was waiting in the walled garden adjoining, and as they rowed back again up the river to Scotland Yard, all were thoughtful and serious, even Poins’ and Vere’s merry tongues being stilled from their usual quips and jesting.