The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “Not often,” rejoined Bellegarde. “But I have my moments of depression, like the rest. My gaiety is constitutional, and seldom deserts me. Things generally present themselves to me under an amusing aspect. As to bodily fatigue, I never feel it. But we must not loiter here. They are waiting for us.”

  They then pressed on towards a giant tree, beside which Talbot and the earl had taken their stand.

  Between this patriarch of the grove and the adjacent wood a clear space of green sward was left. No better spot could have been selected for the purpose.

  Courteous salutations were exchanged between the principals in the affair.

  They then took their places, drew their swords, and saluted each other for the second time.

  The assault had just commenced — furiously on the part of Talbot, cautiously on that of the count — when a loud, authoritative voice commanded them to hold.

  But as, in spite of the order, they continued to exchange passes, Buckingham rushed between them with his drawn rapier, exclaiming, “Are you mad? It is the king!”

  On this, they sheathed their swords, and bowed deferentially to Charles, who was standing beside the old tree, looking very angry.

  “Soh, gentlemen,” he cried, furiously, “you dare to continue the combat when I command you to stop! I will teach you the respect you owe me.”

  “Down on your knees,” whispered Buckingham to the combatants. “You have greatly offended him.”

  Acting on the hint, they flung themselves at the king’s feet.

  Charles, however, was not to be appeased. Regarding them sternly, he said, “I am determined to put a stop to these perpetual duels about trifles among those belonging to the court. Every day some foolish quarrel is settled with the sword An example must be made. You are both banished from my presence.”

  “Banished!” cried Talbot, starting to his feet. “I had as lief your majesty doomed me to death, as banish me from court.”

  “You are thinking of Dorinda Neville,” observed Charles.

  “The punishment is too severe for so light an offence, sire,” said Bellegarde.

  “The offence is not light,” rejoined the king. “The sentence is pronounced. I am inflexible.”

  And he strode away.

  BOOK II. THE COURT AT WHITEHALL

  CHAPTER I

  TYBURN

  On a profoundly dark night, some months after the events previously narrated, a little troop of well-mounted horsemen, headed by a powerfully-built individual, who was no other than the redoubted Colonel Blood, rode across Hyde Park, and shaping their course towards the bare, broad field, which then, and for more than a century afterwards, was set apart as the place of public execution, drew up beside the Tyburn Tree.

  This fatal tree, which, with grim jocularity, was said to bear fruit all the year round, was a huge triangular frame of wood, having strong cross-beams, supported by tall posts.

  To those beams the carcases of Cromwell, Bradshaw, and Ireton had been attached. Nine years before, on the anniversary of the execution of Charles I., the bodies of the chief regicides were exhumed, dragged on common hurdles to Tyburn, and, with every mark of indignity, hung to three corners of the gallows.

  The night, as we have said, was pitch dark, and the ill-omened tree could scarcely be distinguished by the horsemen gathered around it.

  Nevertheless, one of them, at the command of Blood, leapt from his steed, and with great activity climbed the gallows, and seated himself astride a cross-beam. He then called out that he was ready; whereupon Blood handed him a halter, which he fastened to the beam, testing its security by his own weight as he descended.

  For some time, thunder had been growling in the distance; and at this moment a flash of lightning illumined the strange scene, giving those assembled round the gallows a weird and fantastic appearance.

  “A storm is at hand,” cried Blood. “But I hope it will not burst before our work is done. The hour of vengeance is at hand. Before midnight, my long-deferred project will be executed.

  “Look down upon me, murdered brethren, and approve my act! When you were iniquitously put to death by the relentless Ormond, I vowed that he should perish in like manner. Now I am about to keep my oath. To this tree, which from its dismal branches has borne the corses of three Englishmen nobler by far than himself, I will hang the proud duke — hang him till he is dead, and then your cries for vengeance shall cease.

  “This night,” he continued, “the proud duke shall be sought for far and wide — sought for vainly; for none will seek him here, at Tyburn. But at dawn to-morrow, those who pass by shall behold him hanging from this tree, with a scroll upon his breast, proclaiming that his death has been an act of retributive justice.”

  Again the lightning flashed, and showed that the speaker’s hand was extended towards heaven, while his features were agitated by half-frenzied enthusiasm.

  But he soon became calm, and addressed his companions in his usual deep, earnest tones.

  “The deed we have sworn to accomplish is one of the most daring ever planned, and might well appall the stoutest heart; but the very boldness of the project will ensure its success, provided it be executed with vigor and despatch.”

  “Have no fear of us, colonel,” said Montalt, — it was he who had tied the halter to the gallows. “We have stood by you on many an occasion, and we shall not flinch now.”

  “You are all brave fellows, and as true as steel; that I know full well,” said Blood. “But this is an enterprise of a different character from any you have yet undertaken, and demands activity as well as courage. We must pounce upon our prey like eagles.”

  “We all know what we have got to do, colonel,” observed Mandeville. “But it may be well to repeat your orders.”

  “You are aware that the Duke of Ormond, whose destruction I have sworn, is feasting this day in the city. After the banquet, which is the last he will partake of, it is certain that his grace will drive back to Clarendon House, in Piccadilly; but it is equally certain he will never arrive there, for before he reaches his princely mansion, we will force him from his gilded coach, in which he may be dreaming of fresh triumphs, and bear him hither to his fate. I myself will be his executioner; and he shall find that I can play the part as skilfully as his Dublin hangman.”

  And he laughed fiercely at the thought.

  “You have told us how we are to capture the duke, colonel; but not how we are to bring him hither,” said Flodoard.

  “He shall ride behind me,” rejoined Blood; “bound to me by this broad belt. My horse is strong enough to carry double.”

  “And now, let us about it. A deed shall be done this night that shall fill all London with consternation on the morrow, and make the king himself tremble in his palace!”

  A roll of thunder formed a fitting accompaniment to their departure on their fearful errand.

  CHAPTER II

  THE ATTACK ON THE DUKE OF ORMOND

  They galloped down Park Lane, which then answered to its name; but slackened their pace as they approached Piccadilly. Few were in the street at that hour; and the night suited their fell purpose.

  When close to Clarendon House, which occupied a splendid position, almost facing the upper end of St. James’s Street, Blood posted his men at various points, and stationed himself at the corner of the street, ready to give the signal of the Duke of Ormond’s approach.

  Clarendon House, which, at the period of our story, was in possession of the Duke of Ormond, was built by the great Lord Chancellor Clarendon in his palmy days of power, and was accounted one of the most magnificent structures in London.

  The dear old gossip, Pepys, who surveyed it when near its completion, describes it as “the finest pile I ever did see in my life, and will be a glorious house.” A glorious house it was, though Evelyn says “it had many defects as to the architecture;” but he adds, “it was placed most gracefully.”

  The situation, indeed, was splendid, and the proud, palatial pile overlooked all
the meaner edifices around it. Its internal arrangements and decorations corresponded with the magnificent exterior. No palace could be more sumptuous. It had vast suites of apartments, richly furnished, and boasted a picture-gallery filled with portraits. Extensive gardens surrounded it. But the splendor of his mansion contributed to Clarendon’s downfall. Its enormous cost was so far beyond his resources, that it was said he must have taken bribes from France to enable him to erect it. Another circumstance, regarded with general displeasure, was that the mansion was built with the ruins of St. Paul’s Cathedral, after the destruction of the ancient fabric by the great fire of London. Clarendon did not long enjoy his splendid residence. His swelling pride was reduced.

  After his disgrace and exile, it was purchased by Monk, Duke of Albemarle, and on the death of the latter, by the Duke of Ormond, of whom we must now say a few words.

  No one had been a more faithful adherent of Charles — no one had made greater sacrifices for his sovereign than James Butler, Duke of Ormond. Refusing all Cromwell’s conditions, he followed the fugitive prince to France, and remained with him till the Restoration. He was appointed Grand Steward of the Household, and First Lord of the Bedchamber. As Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, he discharged the important office with zeal and ability; but his incorruptible honesty made him many enemies, chief among whom was Buckingham; and they eventually succeeded in procuring his recall.

  It was during Ormond’s government in Ireland that the events occurred that led to Blood’s atrocious design against the duke’s life. A formidable plot had been hatched in Dublin by a few hundreds of desperate individuals, at whose head was Blood, to surprise the Castle, plunder the magazine of arms, put the lord-lieutenant to death, assume the government of the country, and proclaim war against England.

  The plot was discovered in time to prevent an outbreak. The ringleaders, with the exception of Blood, were taken and hanged. Vindictive and resolute, Blood solemnly vowed to avenge his friends upon Ormond, and we have seen that he meant to keep his oath.

  Born in 1610, the Duke of Ormond was now just sixty; but he bore his years extremely well. He was graceful in appearance, and dignified in manner. His morals were irreproachable; and this drew upon him the sneers of the profligate courtiers. The duke kept a noble table, and maintained a princely establishment at Clarendon House.

  On the night in question, Ormond was returning from the city, where he had assisted at a splendid banquet given to the young Prince of Orange by the Goldsmiths’ Company. Little did he dream of the ambuscade that was laid for him. Pleasant thoughts occupied his mind.

  He had driven slowly along Pall Mall, and still more slowly up St. James’s Street. Two footmen, in gorgeous liveries, walked beside the carriage. Before he had reached the top of the street he had fallen into a doze; but he was rudely awakened by strange and alarming sounds.

  Just as the carriage turned the corner of Piccadilly, it was beset by several men on horseback, who appeared, to the terrified attendants, to rush upon them from all quarters.

  The leader of the attack ordered the coachman to stop; but as the unfortunate man, though much frightened, tried to whip on his horses, he was instantly shot through the head, and dropped from the box. The panic-stricken footmen offered no resistance.

  By this time, Blood had sprung from his horse, and forcing open the door of the carriage, ordered the duke, in a peremptory voice, to alight.

  Ormond, however, refused, and endeavored to defend himself; but Blood seized him by the throat, and dragged him forth.

  “Would you assassinate me, villain?” cried the duke, who was half-strangled.

  “Your grace’s sole chance of safety lies in keeping quiet,” said Blood. “Attempt to give the alarm, and I will shoot you, as I have just shot your coachman.”

  Undeterred, however, by the menace, Ormond struggled to get free, and shouted out lustily for help, but none came. Nor did the footmen even attempt to assist him.

  But moments were precious to Blood. As he had explained to his accomplices, the success of the daring exploit depended on despatch.

  Committing the duke to Montalt and Flodoard, who tied a handkerchief over his mouth to stifle his cries, the active ruffian again mounted his steed.

  Despite his struggles, Ormond was then placed by main force behind his captor, and fastened to him by the belt.

  In another moment, Blood was dashing off exultingly with his prey, while his companions followed as quickly as they could.

  “Make for the place of rendezvous by different routes,” he shouted to them.

  While Blood, with the captive duke, en croupe, was galloping along towards the corner of Hyde Park, shouts were heard in the rear, and he looked back to ascertain if pursuit had commenced; but, owing to the gloom, he could perceive nothing.

  The movement he had made, however, enabled the duke, whose hands were free, to pluck the handkerchief from his mouth, and being now able to speak, he asked his captor whither he was taking him.

  “Your grace will learn soon enough,” rejoined Blood, gruffly. “But since you desire to know, I will tell you. I am taking you to Tyburn.”

  At these sinister words, a shiver ran through the duke’s frame.

  Blood perceived it, and, with savage satisfaction, hastened to add, “l am taking you to Tyburn, to hang you on the common gallows, as you hanged my brethren at Dublin.”

  “Ha! you were one of the traitors!” cried Ormond.

  Blood took no notice of the remark, but said presently, —

  “If you have any preparations to make, make them quickly. We have not far to go.”

  By this time the other horsemen had disappeared, and finding they were alone, the duke essayed to move his captor.

  “Set me free, and I will make you wealthy,” he said; “I swear it.”

  “If you would give me Clarendon House and all within it, I would not spare your life,” rejoined Blood, in an inexorable tone.

  Thereupon the duke remained silent.

  While he was considering what he could do to effect his escape, the shouts behind them grew louder, and awakened hopes of deliverance in his breast.

  “Hark!” he exclaimed; “help is at hand. I shall be rescued. You had better accept my offer. I will not break my word.”

  “Nor I mine,” rejoined Blood, sternly. “I have sworn to hang you.”

  So saying, he urged on his horse.

  But he did not go far. The duke put in practice the plan that he had conceived. Having got his right foot under the heel of his captor, he suddenly raised Blood’s leg, and exerting all his force, hurled him out of the saddle.

  They both fell heavily to the ground.

  Ormond was so shaken by the fall that he could not move; but Blood, though by far the heavier man, was less hurt, and unfastening the belt, quickly scrambled to his feet.

  Through the gloom, he could discern several persons hurrying to the spot, and scarce a moment was allowed to provide for his safety.

  His well-trained horse had stopped a few yards off, and running towards him, he contrived to gain the saddle once more.

  He then discharged a pistol — but luckily without effect — at the prostrate duke, and, with a deep imprecation, rode off and eluded pursuit.

  None of his accomplices were captured.

  CHAPTER III

  THE EARL OF OSSORY

  The daring outrage we have described filled the whole community with alarm and indignation.

  The mysterious circumstances attending the attempt intensified the excitement occasioned by it. The halter was found attached to the gallows at Tyburn, proving beyond all doubt the real object of the duke’s assailants.

  A proclamation was immediately issued, offering a reward of a thousand pounds for the discovery of the assassins, but it did not lead to their capture. It was thought they must be screened by some important personage; otherwise they must have fallen into the hands of justice. Suspicion fell on Buckingham, who was known to be Ormond’s chief enemy.
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  The Duke of Ormond had received no serious injury, but he was confined to his room for a few days, and being unable to present himself at Whitehall, sent his eldest son, the Earl of Ossory — a gallant, but hot-tempered young noble — to thank his majesty for his inquiries after him.

  Ossory was admitted to the king’s private cabinet, and having delivered his father’s message, declared his conviction that Buckingham was the author of the attack. Charles endeavored, but in vain, to convince him that his suspicions were groundless.

  Unluckily, before the fiery young earl had departed, Buckingham himself appeared. He could not help noticing Ossory’s fierce looks, but with as much nonchalance as he could assume, he said to him, “How is the good duke your father, my lord?”

  “It will be small satisfaction, I apprehend, to your grace, to learn that he has well-nigh recovered from the murderous attack made upon him by your bravos,” rejoined Ossory, sternly.

  “My bravos?” exclaimed the duke.

  “Your hired assassins, if you prefer the term,” cried Ossory. “What I say to you, I have just said to his majesty. I believe you to be the author of this detestable attack on my father’s life. I believe you, also, to be capable of making another attempt, since the first has failed; and I therefore warn you that if any harm shall henceforth befall him — if, by open violence, or secret, subtle means, by poison or by steel, my father shall be done to death — I will hold you responsible. I will treat you as the assassin. I will take the law into my own hands. I will shoot you, even if you should take refuge behind his majesty’s chair.”

  And he clutched the handle of his sword, as he uttered the menacing words.

  “Must I endure the ravings of this madman, sire?” demanded Buckingham.

  “My lord,” said the king, gravely, to Ossory, “I can make every allowance for your excited feelings, but language such as this must not be held in my presence. You have no proof whatever of the charges you prefer against his Grace of Buckingham.”