The White Gauntlet. Reid Mayne

you might safely set her down as a being of incomparable beauty.

      It was not necessary to have overheard his soliloquy, to tell that he who made it was the scion of some distinguished house. The good steed he bestrode, caparisoned in costly fashion; the rich costume he wore; his sharply chiselled features, and aristocratic bearing – all betokened the filius nobilis.

      He was, in effect, the son of Sir Marmaduke Wade, of Bulstrode Park; who could point to an ancestry older than the Conquest; and whose Saxon sires – along with the Bulstrodes, the Hampdens, and the Penns – had so doughtily defended their beechen woods and broad fields against the Norman invader, that the great Conqueror was pleased to compound with them for a continuance of their tenure. It was a family with whom kings had never been favourites. It had figured among the barons, who had forced the tyrant John to set his signature to the celebrated Charter of English liberty; and elsewhere have its representatives been found in the front rank of the champions of Freedom.

      It may be wondered why young Walter Wade had been in the service of the Court – as declared in his soliloquy. That, however, is easily explained. An ambitious mother, of queenly inclinings – an uncle in high office near the throne – these will account for the son of Sir Marmaduke having stood as a page in the Presence.

      But the mother’s influence was now at an end. She was no more. And that of her brother – the uncle – was not strong enough to prevent Sir Marmaduke recalling his son from a Court – whose immorality had become the theme of every tongue; and whose contamination the fond father but too justly dreaded.

      This was why the stripling was on his return to the paternal mansion; and why the king had shown displeasure at parting with him. It was a bold act on the part of the knight; and it might need all the influence of his official brother-in-law, to avert from him the vengeance of Charles – that most contemptible of tyrants.

      It was not upon these things that Walter Wade was reflecting, as he rode onward. A pleasanter theme was the subject of his thoughts – his cousin Lora.

      It was love’s young dream – by some deemed the sweetest in life; is, perhaps, the most evanescent.

      With Walter, it had not been so very fleeting. Starting at sixteen, it was now nearly three years old. It had stood the test of a long absence, and under circumstances most unfavourable to love’s endurance: amid smiling maids of honour, and dames of high degree. Yes; Walter’s heart had nobly repelled the blandishments of more than one belle; and this too in a Court famed for its fair.

      That kiss, somewhat coyly granted by his cousin, “deep in a forest dell,” where they had wandered in search of wild flowers – that soft pressure of Lora’s little hand – those thrilling words, “Dear Walter,” that on the same occasion had fallen from Lora’s pretty lips – all were remembered, as if they had been incidents of yesterday.

      Did she remember them with equal interest? This was the thought upon which Walter Wade had been dwelling, ever since parting from the portals of Whitehall Palace.

      During his two years of absence, he had not been left altogether uninformed of what was passing at Bulstrode. Though in those days letters were written at long intervals – and then only on matters of grand importance – Walter had kept up a correspondence with Marion; with whom epistles had been exchanged regularly once a month. He dared not write to Lora – nor even about her. He knew what he said to his sister would be communicated to his little mistress; and he feared to show himself too solicitous. Every word in his letters, relating to his cousin, had been carefully studied – as to the impression it might produce – for in this sort of strategy, young love is as cunning as that of older hearts. At times the boy courtier even affected indifference about his cousin’s affairs; and more than once there was danger of a quarrel – or at least a coolness. This was more especially the case, when his sister – ignorant of the pain she was producing – spoke of Lora’s great beauty, and the havoc it was making among the hearts of the county beaux.

      Perhaps had Marion passed these pretty compliments upon herself, she would have said nothing beyond what was true: for although Walter’s cousin was beautiful and a belle, his sister was at that time the acknowledged “belle of the shire.”

      Volume One – Chapter Six

      For the first half-mile after crossing the Colne, the thoughts of the young courtier had been given exclusively to his cousin. He recalled the old time – that scene in the silent dell – the kiss among the wild flowers – that proved her partiality for him. He remembered all these occurrences with a strong confidence in Lora’s loyalty.

      His fanciful reflections were suddenly, and somewhat rudely, interrupted.

      On arriving at an inn that stood by the roadside, a spectacle was presented to his eyes which turned his thoughts into a different channel.

      In a wide open space in front of the hostelry was a troop of horsemen. By their armour and equipments, Walter knew them to be cuirassiers, in the service of the king.

      There were about fifty in the troop; and from the movements of the men, and the condition of their horses – still smoking from the march – it was evident they had come to a halt only a few minutes before.

      The troopers had dismounted. Some of them were still occupied with their horses, helping them to provender; while others, who had already performed this duty, were seated under a huge old elm tree – joyously, as well as noisily, regaling themselves with such cheer as the hostelry afforded.

      A glance at these roisterers told the young cavalier who and what they were: – a troop of the returned army from the north, that had been lately, and somewhat clandestinely, brought southward by the king.

      This corps had originally been recruited in the Low Countries, and among them were several foreigners. Indeed, the smaller number were Englishmen; while there were many countenances of the true Gallic type, and a still larger proportion of those famed hirelings – who figured so largely in the wars of the time – the Walloons.

      Amid the clamour of voices, with which the ears of the young courtier were assailed, he could hear French and Flemish commingled with his native tongue; while the oaths peculiar to all three nations, thickly interlarding the conversation, told him that he was in the presence of a remnant of that army that “swore so terribly in Flanders.”

      A crowd of the neighbouring rustics had collected around the inn; and stood with mouths agape, and countenances expressing unlimited astonishment at the sayings and doings of the strange steel-clad cavaliers who had dismounted in their midst.

      To Walter Wade there was nothing either new or surprising in the spectacle. He had seen the like in London; and often of late. He had been expecting such a sight – partly from having heard, in passing through Uxbridge, that a troop of horse was before him; and partly from having observed their tracks along the dusty road upon which he had been travelling.

      He did not know why they were going down into Buckinghamshire; but that was the king’s business, not his. In all likelihood they were on their way to Oxford, or some garrison town in the west; and were making their night halt at the inn.

      Giving but a moment’s thought to some such conjecture, the young courtier was about riding past – without taking notice of the coarse jests flung towards him by the rough troopers under the tree – when a voice of very different intonation, issuing from the door of the hostelry, commanded him to halt.

      Almost simultaneous with the command, two cavaliers stepped forth out of the inn; and one of them, having advanced a few paces towards him, repeated the command.

      Partly taken by surprise at this rude summons – and partly believing it to proceed from some old Court acquaintance – Walter drew bridle, and stopped.

      It was easy to tell that the two men, who had so brusquely brought themselves under his notice, were the officers in command of the troop. Their silken doublets – only partially concealed by the steel armour – their elegant Spanish leather boots, with lace ruffles at the tops; the gold spun upon their heels; the white ostrich plumes waving above their helmets; and the richly-chased scabbards of their swords – all indicated rank and authority. This