Darnley; or, The Field of the Cloth of Gold

by G. P. R. James

To every one they met Lady Katrine seemed known, and all, according to their rank, greeted her as she passed, some with light welcome, some with respectful salutations, all stopping the moment after to turn and fix their eyes upon Sir Osborne, with that sort of cold, inquiring glance which owns no affinity with its object but mere curiosity. "Who is he?" demanded one. "What splendid armour!" cried another. "He must be from Rochester," said a third. But no word of gratulation met his ear, no kind, familiar voice bade him welcome; and he rode on with that chill, solitary sensation of friendlessness which we never so strongly feel as in the presence of a crowd, who, possessing some communion of thought and feeling amongst themselves, have no established link of sympathy with us.

At one of the smaller doors in the western wing of the palace, Lady Katrine reined in her horse, and Sir Osborne, springing to the ground, assisted her to dismount, while one of the royal servants, who came from within, held the bridle with all respect. In answer to her question the attendant replied, that "her highness Queen Katherine was at that moment dressing for the banquet which she was about to give to the king and the foreign ambassadors, and that she had commanded not to be interrupted."

"That is unfortunate, Sir Osborne Maurice," said the young lady, resuming somewhat of that courtly coldness which had given way to the original wildness of her nature while she had been absent: "I am sure that her highness, who is bounty itself, would have much wished to thank you for the protection and assistance which you have given to me her poor servant. But----" and remembering the charge which the knight had taken of her letter to Lord Darby, she hesitated for a moment, not knowing how to establish some means of communication between them. "Oh! they will break all those things!" she cried, suddenly stopping and turning to the servant. "Good Master Alderson, do look to them for a moment; that groom is so awkward: give him the horse. Now, knight! quick! quick!" she continued, lowering her voice as the servant left them, "Where do you lodge in London? I must have some way of hearing of your proceeding: where do you lodge? Bless us, man in armour! where are your wits?"

"Oh! I had forgot," replied the knight; "it is called the Rose, in the Laurence Poultney."

"At the Duke of Buckingham's! Good, good!" she replied; and then making him a low curtsy as the servant again approached, she added with a mock gravity that nearly made the knight laugh, in spite of his more sombre feelings, "And now, good sir knight, I take my leave of your worship, thanking you a thousand times for your kindness and protection; and depend upon it, that when her highness the queen shall have a moment to receive you, I will take care to let you know."

Thus saying, with another low curtsy, she retired into the palace; and Sir Osborne, mounting his horse, bade adieu to the precincts of the court, bearing away with him none of those feelings of hope with which he had first approached it. There seemed a sort of coldness in its atmosphere which chilled his expectations; and disappointed, too, of his introduction to the queen, he felt dissatisfied and repelled, and had the fit held, might well have taken ship once more, and returned into Flanders.

After having thus ridden on for some way, giving full rein to melancholy fancies, he found himself in the midst of a small town, with narrow streets, running along by the river, shutting out almost all the daylight that was left; and not knowing if he was going in the right direction, he called Longpole to his side, asking whether he had ever been in London.

"Oh! yes, sir," replied the custrel, "and have staid in it many a month. 'Tis a wonderful place for the three sorts of men: the knaves, the fools, and the wise men; and as far as I can see, the one sort gets on as high as the other. The fool gets promoted at court, the knave gets promoted at the gallows, and the wise man gets promoted to be lord mayor, and has the best of the bargain."

"But tell me, Longpole," said Sir Osborne, "where are we now? for night is falling, and in sooth I know not my way."

"This is the good town of Deptford," said Longpole; "but if your lordship ride on, we shall soon enter into Southwark, where there is an excellent good hostel, called the Tabard, the landlady of which may be well esteemed a princess for her fat, and a woman for her tongue. God's blessing is upon her bones, and has well covered them. If your worship lodge there you shall be treated like a prince."