A Ladder of Swords: A Tale of Love, Laughter and Tears

  XIII

  As had been arranged when Lempriere challenged Leicester, they metsoon after dawn among the trees beside the Thames. A gentleman of thecourt, to whom the Duke's Daughter had previously presentedLempriere, gayly agreed to act as second, and gallantly attended theLord of Rozel in his adventurous enterprise. There were few at courtwho had not some grudge against Leicester, few who would notwillingly have done duty at such a time; for Leicester's friends wereof fair-weather sort, ready to defend him, to support him, not forfriendship, but for the crumbs that dropped from the table of hispower. The favorite himself was attended by the Earl of Ealing, ayoungster who had his spurs to win, who thought it policy to servethe great time-server. Two others also came.

  It was a morning little made for deeds of rancor or of blood. As theypassed, the early morning mists above the green fields of Kent andEssex were being melted by the summer sun. The smell of ripeningfruit came on them with pungent sweetness, their feet crashedodorously through clumps of tigerlilies, and the dew on theribbon-grass shook glistening drops upon their velvets. Overhead thecarolling of the thrush came swimming recklessly through the trees,and far over in the fields the ploughmen started upon the heavycourses of their labor; while here and there a poacher with bow andarrow slid through the green undergrowth, like spies hovering on anarmy's flank.

  To Lempriere the morning carried no impression save that life waswell worth living. No agitation passed across his nerves, noapprehension reached his mind. He had no imagination; he loved thethings that his eyes saw because they filled him with enjoyment; butwhy they were, or whence they came, or what they meant or boded,never gave him meditation. A vast epicurean, a consummate egotist,ripe with feeling and rich with energy, he could not believe thatwhen he spoke the heavens would not fall. The stinging sweetness ofthe morning was a tonic to all his energies, an elation to his mind;he swaggered through the lush grasses and boskage as though marchingto a marriage.

  Leicester, on his part, no more caught at the meaning of the morning,at the long whisper of enlivened nature, than did his foe. The daygave to him no more than was his right. If the day was not fine, thenLeicester was injured; but if the day was fine, then Leicester hadhis due. Moral blindness made him blind for the million deepteachings trembling round him. He felt only the garish and thesplendid. So it was that at Kenilworth, where his Queen had visitedhim, the fetes that he had held would far outshine the fete whichwould take place in Greenwich Park on this May Day. The fete of thisMay Day would take place, but would he see it? The thought flashedthrough his mind that he might not; but he trod it underfoot; notthrough an inborn, primitive egotism like that of Lempriere, butthrough an innate arrogance, an unalterable belief that fate was everon his side. He had played so many tricks with fate, had mocked whiletaking its gifts so often, that, like the son who has flouted hisindulgent father through innumerable times, he conceived that heshould never be disinherited. It irked him that he should be fightingwith a farmer, as he termed the seigneur of the Jersey isle; butthere was in the event, too, a sense of relief, for he had a will formurder. Yesterday's events were still fresh in his mind; and he had afeeling that the letting of Lempriere's blood would cool his own andbe some cure for the choler which the presence of these strangers atthe court had wrought in him.

  There were better swordsmen in England than he, but his skill wasvarious, and he knew tricks of the trade which this primitive Normancould never have learned. He had some touch of wit, some bitingobservation, and, as he neared the place of the encounter, he playedupon the coming event with a mordant frivolity. Not by nature a braveman, he was so much a fatalist, such a worshipper of his star, thathe had acquired an artificial courage which had served him well. Theunschooled gentlemen with him roared with laughter at his sallies,and they came to the place of meeting as though to a summer feast.

  "Good-morrow, nobility," said Leicester, with courtesy overdone, andbowing much too low.

  "Good-morrow, valentine," answered Lempriere, flushing slightly atthe disguised insult and rising to the moment.

  "I hear the crop of fools is short this year in Jersey, and throughno fault of yours--you've done your best most loyally," jeeredLeicester, as he doffed his doublet, his gentlemen laughing inderision.

  "'Tis true enough, my lord, and I have come to find new seed inEngland, where are fools to spare; as I trust in Heaven one shall bespared on this very day for planting yonder."

  He was eaten with rage, but he was cool and steady. He was now in hislinen and small-clothes, and looked like some untrained Hercules.

  "Well said, nobility," laughed Leicester, with an ugly look. "'Tisseed-time--let us measure out the seed. On guard!"

  Never were two men such opposites, never two so seeminglyill-matched. Leicester's dark face and its sardonic look, his lithefigure, the nervous strength of his bearing, were in strong contrastto the bulking breadth, the perspiring robustness of Lempriere ofRozel. It was not easy of belief that Lempriere should be set tofight this matadore of a fighting court. But there they stood,Lempriere's face with a great-eyed gravity looming above his rotundfigure like a moon above a purple cloud. But huge and loose thoughthe seigneur's motions seemed, he was as intent as though there werebut two beings in the universe, Leicester and himself. A strangealertness seemed to be upon him, and, as Leicester found when theswords crossed, he was quicker than his bulk gave warrant. Hisperfect health made his vision sure; and, though not a fineswordsman, he had done much fighting in his time, had been ever readyfor the touch of steel, and had served some warlike days in fightingFrance, where fate had well befriended him. That which Leicestermeant should be by-play of a moment became a full half-hour'sdesperate game. Leicester found that the thrust--the fatal thrustlearned from an Italian master--he meant to give was met by a swiftprecision, responding to quick vision. Again and again he would havebrought the end, but Lempriere heavily foiled him. The wound whichthe seigneur got at last, meant to be mortal, was saved from that bythe facility of a quick apprehension.

  Indeed, for a time the issue had seemed doubtful, for the enduranceand persistence of the seigneur made for exasperation andrecklessness in his antagonist, and once blood was drawn from thewrist of the great man; but at length Lempriere went upon theaggressive. Here he erred, for Leicester found the chance for whichhe had man[oe]uvred--to use the feint and thrust got out of Italy. Hebrought his enemy low, but only after a duel the like of which hadnever been seen at the court of England. The matadore had slain hisbull at last, but had done no justice to his reputation. Never didman more gallantly sustain his honor with heaviest odds against himthan did the Seigneur of Rozel that day.

  "'HANG FAST TO YOUR HONORS BY THE SKIN OF YOUR TEETH,MY LORD'"]

  As he was carried away by the merry gentlemen of the court, he calledback to the favorite:

  "Leicester is not so great a swordsman, after all. Hang fast to yourhonors by the skin of your teeth, my lord."