7. VII.
WHAT TOOK PLACE BY MOONLIGHT IN OATLANDS PARK.
As night fell, an odd cavalcade left Hampton Court.
It consisted of a number of coaches, containing her
majesty and the ladies of her suite; behind these the
Guards; and behind the Guards a motley rout of
ushers, footmen, serving-men of every description, and
even scullions from the kitchens,—all, with scarce an
exception, bearing arms of some sort. So quaint was
this armament, indeed, that it was difficult to restrain
one's laughter. The serving-men carried cleavers and
carving-knives, and the scullions had caught up the
spits and other weapons more useful in peace than in
war. Altogether, the spectacle was a comedy, whose
fantastic humor still moves me, as it returns to my
memory.
What did it mean, everybody asked himself, and
whither was her majesty going? The reply was that
she was “going to spend the evening in the park at
Oatlands;” and doubtless it was her majesty's desire
that her household should go too, as she had ordered
their attendance, with the singular direction that every
one should be armed!
No one of this generation will ever look upon Oatlands,—the
ancient dower residence and favorite resort
of the queens of England for so many reigns,—with
its old walls, its moat and fosses, its shady park and
secluded landscape. It was leveled to the ground
during the civil wars, and is only a name now; but on
that autumn evening of 1641 it was yet untouched.
As the queen entered the vast park and drew near the
ancient building, frowning from behind its moat and
with the drawbridge up, the great oaks waved their
variegated arms above the queer cavalcade,—their tops
silvered by the first rays of the rising moon.
Suddenly the trumpet of the Guards rang out; and as
the queen's coach stopped before the drawbridge, the
palace front became alive with faces. Then the drawbridge
was seen to descend, the coaches entered, and
the Guards, followed by the motley rout, clattered over
the bridge.
The queen was assisted from her coach by a tall and
bland-looking gentleman of about sixty, richly clad,—
Lord Harry Jermyn, as I soon discovered, her grand
equerry and confidential secretary.
Lord Jermyn smiled, and uttered a few words.
“It is well, my lord,” her majesty replied. “Have
my palfrey saddled, and be ready to attend me.”
The broad portals of the palace then swallowed the
bevy of fair ladies; the Guards, followed by their nondescript
allies, recrossed the drawbridge, and were drawn
up in the park; and, to return to myself, I remained
for half an hour suffering the pangs of starvation.
Then, in the half-gloom, horses' hoofs were heard
upon the drawbridge, a lady's scarf glimmered in the
moonlight, and the queen appeared, mounted upon her
palfrey, attended by Lord Jermyn, who rode at her side.
The queen rode straight to the officer commanding
her Guards, and gave him an order. He immediately
turned, and ordered,—
“Attention! Form squads of three, passing off
from the right, and patrol the park. If any suspicious
characters are encountered, arrest them, and report
with them here. March!”
At the word, the Guards separated into squads, and
scattered in every direction. I followed with two companions
a by-way winding through the densest portion
of the park; and we were riding on, keeping a good
lookout, when the trampling of hoofs was heard in
front. I was in advance of my companions, and, drawing
rein, ordered, “Halt!”
The tramp drew nearer, and in the moonlight I saw
advancing a body of about one hundred horsemen. I
repeated the order to halt, and drew my pistol, cocking
it. The column halted, and a single horseman rode
forward.
“This is a patrol?” the horseman said, in a commanding
voice.
“Yes. What party is that?”
“Friends of the queen. Permit us to pass.”
“Impossible, sir. I do not know you,” I replied.
“Move aside!” was the response, in a haughty tone;
and, as he spoke, the horseman advanced upon me.
“Halt, or you are dead!” I said, putting my pistol
to his breast; whereat he paused, in some astonishment.
“I am Lord Digby, come hither by the queen's
order,” he said, gruffly.
“I do not know your lordship. You have, doubtless,
your order on your person?”
“I have.” And, drawing his sword with one hand,
he presented with the other the queen's letter. A glance
at it in the bright moonlight terminated every doubt.
“Pass, my lord,” I said, bowing. “Your lordship
will appreciate my course. Our orders are imperative
to stop all persons.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Edmund Cecil, of her majesty's Guards, my lord.”
His lordship simply saluted, and ordered, “Forward!”
as I rode into the wood with my companions.
I had made an enemy of Lord Digby, it seemed; but
then I had carefully obeyed orders; and, careless of
the consequences, I continued to patrol the park with
my two companions.
Nothing suspicious met our eyes, and we were returning
in the direction of the palace, when I saw,
through a vista in the trees, a party of about twenty
horsemen. We rode at once towards them; and one
of my companions demanded who they were. No
reply was made; and I rode in advance, repeating the
question. The group of horsemen grew agitated, and
moved to and fro. The movement unmasked one of
the party, who carried a fat buck across the saddle in
front of him.
“You are poachers, assailing the king's deer!” I
cried. “Halt, and give yourselves up!”
A shot replied. It issued from a sort of blunderbuss
in the hands of one of the party, and the bullet passed
through the rim of my gray beaver. I fired in return,
and drove my horse at the owner of the blunderbuss,
reached his side, closed in with him, and recognized
the burly young man who had insulted Miss Villiers on
the way to Hampton Court.
I had clutched him by the throat, and had nearly
dragged him from the saddle, when he struck me a
heavy blow on the temple, which threw me to the
ground. As I fell, I heard cries and the trample of
hoofs; the poachers fled; and I saw around me a confused
crowd, in the midst of which the bright moonlight
fell upon the flashing eyes and enraged face of
the queen. It was the lioness, ready to protect
her young,—to contend in person, if necessary, with
those bent on robbing her of her children. The
beautiful face was superb in its wrath and defiance:
it towered above me for a moment, and then I lost
consciousness.
I was lying on a couch in the palace when I regained
my senses, and some one was bathing an ugly wound
on my temple, which bled freely. As all traces of it,
save a slight scar, have disappeared for thirty years or
more, I will not weary the reader with a tedious account
of this particular “broken head.” One incident
remains unalterably in my memory, however. A
beautiful face appeared for an instant at the door, and
a low, sweet voice said,—
“Her majesty desires to know if Mr. Cecil's hurt is
dangerous.”
The leech replied in the negative, and the face disappeared;
but a blessed influence remained with me.
It was the voice of Frances Villiers which had uttered
those low words,—the eyes of the beautiful girl which
had sent their healing balm into my heart. I fell
asleep soon afterwards, and dreamed of the face.
From that moment I seldom lost sight of it, waking or
sleeping: in a word, Frances Villiers began to be, what
she very soon became, the sole object of my waking
thoughts and my dreams.
Such had been the events of the night in Oatlands
Park. The lioness had mounted guard over her offspring,
defying her enemies; and the long moonlight
night passed undisturbed.
