1. I.
ON THE BRIDGE NEAR HOLMBY HOUSE.
I made my way in safety across the Channel, and
reached the vicinity of Holmby House in Northamptonshire,
where the king was kept close prisoner by
the parliament.
I could see him only by stratagem; and to effect my
errand I saw no means but to watch for the king when
he was out on one of his riding-excursions. An honest
woodman, a friend of the royal cause, who had given
me refuge in his hut not far from Holmby House, informed
me of the king's habit; and for some days I
watched for the opportunity of delivering the queen's
missive.
At last it came. My friend the woodman went to
Holmby House one morning,—the great edifice was
visible through the forest,—and returned with the information,
derived from the retainers of the palace,
that his majesty would ride out that morning and pass
over the road near the hut.
“Take your stand at the little bridge yonder, master,”
said the woodman, “and when his majesty passes,
go up to him as if you wished to be touched for the
king's evil.”
“Excellent!” I exclaimed. And in truth the advice
was admirable. The belief that the royal touch cured
scrofula was then widely prevalent: numbers flocked to
be cured wherever his majesty passed; and I could thus
approach the king, 'twas to be hoped, without exciting
suspicion.
I hastened to take my stand on the rustic bridge
over which the high-road passed; and I had not waited
ten minutes when the king appeared on horseback,
escorted by half a dozen troopers. His face was pale,
and he had changed greatly. All the harsh and corroding
emotions which try the human soul seemed
to have shaken his strength: the plowshare had furrowed
his brow deeply.
As he reached the bridge, his eye fell upon my face,
and I saw that he recognized me under my disguise.
He checked his horse.
“You wish to speak to me, I think, my good man,”
he said.
“Yes, your majesty,—to pray that you will touch me
for the king's evil.”
I approached, and, concealing the queen's letter in
my sleeve, extended my hand, as though to invite the
royal touch. The king did likewise; but suddenly a
loud voice cried,—
“Hold! What is that?”
I turned and saw the fierce eyes of the leader of the
troop fixed upon the letter. He was already spurring
forward; but in another moment it was torn into a
hundred pieces, and the fragments floating on the stream
beneath.
I was seized, and violently hustled by the troopers.
“What letter was that?” cried the commander of
the squad.
“A trifle,” I replied, calmly. “Beyond that I shall
say nothing.”
“We shall see!” was the threatening response; and,
ordering one of the troopers to take me behind him,
the officer forced the king to turn back. Half an hour
afterwards the whole party were back at Holmby
House.
I was a prisoner, and under circumstances which
rendered my fate rather menacing; but a new incident
speedily diverted attention from my humble self. The
king had scarcely entered Holmby House, and had
not taken off his gloves, when the clatter of hoofs was
heard in the park; a heavy detachment of dragoons
approached at a gallop, and in the commander of the
new-comers, who wore the distinctive uniform of the
Cromwellian Independents, I recognized no less a personage
than the tailor Joyce, who had measured me
for my Guardsman's coat in Rosemary Lane when I
first went up from Cecil Court to London.
