6. VI.
SWORDS AND PLUMES AT CECIL COURT.
It was about sunset on a superb evening, late in
October, that, looking from an upper window of Cecil
Court, beside my father and Cicely, I saw the royal
forces move in a long glittering line to the summit of
the eminence called Edgehill, near Keynton.
The foes were about to clash together. All attempts
to negotiate and compose the differences between king
and parliament had failed. Soon after my arrival at
Nottingham, the Earl of Southampton and his associate
commissioners, sent by King Charles to London, had
returned and reported that they had met with scant
courtesy, had received a written reply, and had been
ordered to depart from London without delay. When
the king read the parliament's missive, his face darkened,
and his ire was aroused. His antagonists demanded
his submission,—that they should control all
appointments, occupy all fortresses, and dictate all
public measures.
“Should I grant these demands,” the king exclaimed,
in great indignation, “I should remain but
the outside, the picture—but the sign—of a king!”
And I think he was right in that surmise. The parliament
distrusted him so, that they demanded extreme
concessions. To have yielded then were to have surrendered
all. Instead of doing so, King Charles issued
a solemn proclamation to his army, in which he protested
the sincerity of his intent to observe the laws,
and called on his followers to march with him and put
the question to issue on the battle-field. The proclamation
was received by the army — then numbering
about ten thousand men—with enthusiasm; and then
the king moved from Nottingham southward to meet
Lord Essex, who promptly marched from Worcester
to accept battle.
Thus the royal forces came near, and were seen from
the windows of Cecil Court. It was a superb and warlike
spectacle. The ruddy light of sunset fell, in a sort
of glory, upon silken banners and bright scarfs, burnished
arms and glossy horses. Foot, horse, and artillery
moved slowly to the hill,—a splendid phantom, without
noise, save a stifled hum, and now and then a bugle-note
from the cavaliers of Rupert.
All at once a noise of hoofs on the avenue came up
to the window. I looked down, and saw the king,
Lord Falkland, and a few others spurring towards the
house.
“'Tis his majesty! He is coming to visit us,” I
said.
“The king will be most welcome,” was the response
of my father.
And, descending, he met the king at the great door,
and inclined profoundly.
“We have come to take possession of your house,
Mr. Cecil,” said the king.
“Your majesty does my poor house a very great
honor,” was my father's response, with a second inclination;
and he ushered the king into the main reception-room
of the establishment, whither the Viscount
Falkland and some other noblemen followed him.
An excellent dinner was speedily served, and the
noble guests—kings and noblemen are but men, and
grow hungry, reader—evidently derived great satisfaction
therefrom. And let me pause here an instant,
to notice a peculiarity of my father's ménage. He
would always live as well, every day, as his fortunes
permitted, not starving his household for a month to
give a grand entertainment to invited company.
“'Tis but a mean manner of living at the best,” he
would say, “to keep your fine rooms and best food and
full dress for state occasions; to live in a cuddy, stint your
table, and go slovenly before your family, in order to
dress splendidly and make a show when strangers enter
your door. My family are as worthy of rich food and
the best apartments as any one, and I make my toilette
as scrupulously for my daughter Cicely as for my
Lady Duchess.”
He certainly carried out his philosophy. His dress
was ever the same in public and in private; the very
best apartments at Cecil Court were used every day,
and the table was spread daily with the best food.
Then the door was opened; every one was welcome,
whether rich or poor, high or low, titled personage
or plain countryman, all found a cordial welcome,
and were greeted equally by the master of the mansion.
I don't think my father was politer to one
than to another. He was a very proud and simple
gentleman of the old régime. On this evening he said
to the king, “Enter, your majesty: you are welcome,”
as he would have uttered the same welcome to any
other visitor.
The king retired after dining to the reception-room,
which was thronged with noblemen and officers. Cecil
Court, without and within, had suddenly become a
general's headquarters. Couriers went and came, with
clashing heels and rattling spurs. Officers clad in
superb uniforms stood around the table, beside which
the king sat, writing orders or reading reports. In the
grounds without, horses were tethered, champing their
bits and stamping. In the grass-plat in front of the
hall had been set up the king's banner.
His chief officers had come at his summons. These
were Lord Lindesey, commanding-in-chief; Prince
Rupert, commanding the horse; Sir Jacob Astley, the
foot; Sir Arthur Aston, the dragoons; and Sir John
Heydon, the artillery. I forget the troop of Guards,
whose servants formed a second troop, always marching
with their masters. The first were under Lord
Bernard Stuart, the second under Sir William Killigrew.
The wealthiest young noblemen of the kingdom had
flocked to the Guards now: 'twas said, and with truth,
I think, that the estates and revenues of these young
private soldiers exceeded the estates and revenues of
all the members of parliament and the House of Lords,
when the seats of the two houses were full.
Among these gay young volunteers was one whose
name, when I heard it first at Nottingham, had made
me start. Walking arm in arm with Harry, I had
seen him beckon to a youth of about twenty, with
bright blue eyes, chestnut curls, laughing face, and
superbly clad.
“Here's my brother Ned, Frank,” Harry said.
“Come and shake hands with him.”
And as the youth came forward, with an expression
of youthful buoyancy and sunshine in his face, Harry
added, to me,—
“This is Frank Villiers, brother of our fair friend
the maid of honor. We are sworn friends; and you
must be his friend too.”
The youth squeezed my hand cordially, looking at
me with his frank eyes and smile; and in ten minutes
we were familiar friends. Three days afterwards, I
seemed to have known him from his very childhood;
and now he had ridden with me to Cecil Court, and
was laughing with Cicely on the portico in the moonlight.
The king was busy until midnight, and then, rising,
exchanged a few words with Viscount Falkland, his
secretary of state.
“All is ready, you see, my lord,” he said, “and 'tis
probable we shall fight on the morrow. Come, summon
back your smiles: you seem woe-begone to-night.”
Lord Falkland sighed. “I know not what oppresses
me so, your majesty,” he said.
The king looked at him with a glance full of melancholy.
“'Tis that woman's heart you possess, my lord.
You shrink from battle and blood! See, I utter ungracious
words. I seem to impute weakness to Falkland,
the bravest of all the brave gentlemen of my
kingdom!”
“Your majesty knows—”
“That 'tis kindness, not weakness? Yes! Your
heart is bleeding, Falkland, at the blood and agony
which to-morrow will bring. Well,
my heart too
bleeds; but I am not the author of this conflict. I
shrink from the future; but I go on in my course.
The English monarchy shall not fall, in my person,
without a struggle, Falkland. And now good-night.”
My father, who waited, ushered the king to his apartment,
bearing a silver sconce before him. A few moments
after their disappearance, my father called me. I
went up rapidly, and the king, who sat beside a table,
upon which lay an open portfolio, said to me,—
“I have a service to ask of you, Mr. Cecil. Are you
well mounted?”
“Very well, your majesty.”
“I wish you to go to Holland.”
I bowed low, with a beating heart. The king had
turned to my father.
“Two gray-haired gentlemen like ourselves, Mr.
Cecil,” he said, “can understand each other. I would
write to my wife. To-night my thoughts have never
left her. I shall go into action to-morrow, and, like a
good husband, think of one who is thinking of me.”
Taking a pen as he spoke, the king began to write.
The letter, which filled two sheets, was at last finished
and securely sealed, the king stamping the wax with
a signet-ring which he wore. He then extended the
package towards me, but suddenly drew it back.
“No, I will wait until the event is decided to-morrow,
and add some lines,” he said. “'Twould be
cruel to write thus on the eve of battle, and leave her
majesty in doubt of everything,—perhaps to torture
herself with fears. Your pardon, Mr. Cecil,” he added
to my father: “I think aloud, but I take no shame to
myself for my thoughts. To-night I am only a poor
husband thinking of his absent wife.”
He turned towards me, and added, “'Twould disappoint
you too, sir, if I'm not mistaken. Go into action
with your friends to-morrow. I shall see and share all.
And if you survive, come to me immediately after the
battle.”
I saluted and retired. Half an hour afterwards I was
in camp, and said to Harry, beside whom I lay,—
“I am going to Holland to-morrow, Harry. I shall
see her again,—Frances Villiers!”
