Courtenay rode about, making his horse perform many a fanciful curvet, full of self-approbation, and throwing many a significant glance towards the Scottish party, as he capered by them, evidently with the desire of provoking some one among them to accept the mute and general challenge he gave, and winking to his friends at the same time, as if he believed that there was little chance of its being noticed. The sagacious Sir John Constable and some others said all they could to check his impertinent foolery, but their friendly advices were thrown away on the coxcomb.
All being prepared, King Richard was becoming impatient to move off, when it was signified to him that Sir William de Dalzel, who was to be second to Sir David de Lindsay, had not yet appeared. The King ordered an esquire to hasten to his lodgings to tell him he was waited for, when just at that moment a knight appeared attired in a style of splendour that was only to be equalled by Sir Piers Courtenay himself; but what was more wonderful, he seemed to be in every respect the very double of that magnificent cavalier. All eyes were directed towards him, and when he came nearer, the King himself gave way to immoderate fits of laughter, in which he was heartily joined by every one in the court-yard, down to the lowest groom; in short, by all save one, and that was Sir Piers Courtenay.
This second edition of the English exquisite was Sir William de Dalzel, who, having found out beforehand what Courtenay was to appear in, had contrived, with great exertion, pains, and expense, to fit himself with a surcoat and appendages exactly resembling those of the coxcomb; with this difference only, that his azure silk surcoat had on it a magpie, embroidered with divers coloured threads, with this motto—
I bear a pyet pykkand at ane piece:
Whasa pykes at her I sall pyke at his nese,
In faith.
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The laugh continued, whilst the square-built Dalzel rode about with his vizor up, wearing a well-dissembled air of astonishment, as if he could by no means divine what it was that gave rise to so much merriment. But Courtenay could bear it no longer. He even forgot the Royal presence of Richard, which, however, was but seldom wont to throw much awe over those with whom he was in the habit of being familiar.
“By the body of Saint George,” exclaimed Courtenay, riding up to Dalzel, “thou hast attired thyself, Sir Scot, but in mockery of me. By the Holy St. Erkenwold, thou shalt speedily answer for thine unknightly rudeness.”
“Nay, by the body of St. Andrew, Sir Englishman, the which I do take to be an oath that ought to match thine,” said Dalzel, with great coolness, seasoned with an air of waggery, “I do in nowise insult thee by mine attire more than thine attire doth insult me. Perdie, on the contrarie, I do but give thee infinite honour, in the strict observance of thine excellent fashion. Didst thou not, with great condescension, bestow upon the Scottish chivauncie at Tarnawa, myself being one, full many a wise saw on the supereminent judgment of English knights, or rather of thyself, the cream of all English knighthood, in matters of dress and arming? Didst thou not discuss it, buckle by buckle? Hither then am I come, in all my clownishness, to profit by thy wisdom; and such being mine errand, how, I pray thee, can I do better than copy thee to the nail—thou, I say, who canst so well teach me to put on a brave golden outside, where peradventure the inner metal may be but leaden?”