“By the rood of St. Paul,” cried Courtenay, “thine evil chosen attirement was but small offence, compared to that thou hast now heaped on me by thy sarcastic commentary on it. I will hear no more. There!” said he, dashing down his gauntlet on the pavement. “With permission of the Royal presence, in which I now am, I do hereby challenge thee to combat of outrance, to be fought after the tilting-match.”
“Nay, sith that thou wilt fly thy fair falcon at my poor pie,” said Dalzel, “and run his head into my very talons with thy eagerness, by the blessed bones of St. Dunstan, I will pinch her as well as ever the monk did the beak of the Evil One;” and saying so, he leaped from his saddle, and taking up the gauntlet stuck it in his helmet.
The procession being now formed, moved off in order and with sound of trumpet by the Tower-gate, and so along Thames Street, towards the bridge, where the Royal party were accommodated in the balconies and windows of the central houses, [[498]]close to where the shock of the encounter was expected to take place. The bridge was then cleared of all obstacles, and the gates at either end were shut so as to act as barriers to keep out all but the combatants or those who waited on them.
The scene was now very imposing. The antique wooden fronts of the houses, of different projections and altitudes, approaching nearer and nearer to each other, as they rose storey above storey, till they came so close at top as to leave but a mere riband’s breadth of sky visible; the endless variety of windows and balconies, decorated with webs of various-coloured cloths, tapestry, and painted emblazonments; the arches that crossed from one side of the way to the other, hung with pennons and streamers of every possible shade; the Gothic tower that rose from one part of the bridge, where the banner of England waved from a flag-staff set among the grizzly heads of many a victim of tyranny, as well as many a traitor, among which last that of Wat Tyler was then conspicuous; and these, contrasted with the crowds of gay knights and ladies who shone within the lattices and balconies, the gorgeous band of heralds, the grotesque trumpeters, and musicians of all kinds, and the whimsical attire of the numerous attendants on the lists were objects singularly romantic in themselves, and the effect of them was heightened by the courtly-subdued whisper that murmured along on both sides, mingling with the deafened sound of the river dashing against the sterlings of the bridge underneath.
It being signified to the King that the knights were ready, he ordered the speaker of the lists to give the word, “Hors, chevaliers!” and the heralds’ trumpets blew. The barriers at both ends of the bridge were then opened, and Sir David Lindsay entered from the north, attended by Sir William de Dalzel. The Lord Welles and Sir Piers Courtenay, who had purposely crossed into what is now Southwark, appeared from that direction. The trumpets then sounded from both ends of the lists, and the challenge was proclaimed by one herald on the part of the Lord Welles, and accepted by another on the part of Sir David de Lindsay, while the articles of agreement as to the terms of combat, which had been regularly drawn up and signed by both parties at Tarnawa, were read from the balcony of the heralds. The combatants then rode slowly from each end until they met and measured lances, when their arms were examined by the marshal, and their persons searched to ascertain that neither carried charms or enchantments about him. The knights then crossed each other, [[499]]and each attended by his companion and one esquire, rode slowly along to the opposite end of the bridge, and then returned each to his own place, by this means showing themselves fully to the spectators. The Lord Welles was mounted on a bright bay horse, and Sir David Lindsay rode a chestnut, both of great powers. But the figures, and still more the colours, of the noble animals, were hid beneath their barbed chamfronts and their sweeping silken housings.
The King now gave his Royal signal for the joust to begin by the usual words, “Laissez les aller,” and the heralds having repeated them aloud, the trumpets sounded, and they flew towards each other with furious impetus, the fire flashing from the stones as they came on. An anxious murmur rushed along the line of spectators, eagerly were their heads thrust forward to watch the result. The combatants met, and both lances were shivered. That of Sir David Lindsay took his opponent in the shield, and had nearly unseated him, whilst he received the point of the Lord Welles’ right in the midst of his ostrich-crested casque; but although the concussion was so great as to make both horses reel backwards, yet the Scottish knight sat firm as a rock. The seconds now came up, and new lances being given to the combatants, each rode slowly away to his own barrier to await the signal for the next course.
It was given, and again the two knights rushed to the encounter, and again were the lances shivered with a similar result. Sir David Lindsay received his adversary’s point full in the bars of his vizor, yet he sat unmoved as if he had been but the human half of a Centaur. A murmur ran along among the spectators; with some it was applause for his steadiness of seat, but with by far the greater number it was dissatisfaction. It grew in strength, and at length loud murmurs arose.
“He is tied to his saddle—Sir David de Lindsay is tied to his saddle. Never had mortal man a seat so firm without the aid of trick or fallas. Prove him, prove him—let him dismount if he can!”
Sir David Lindsay soon satisfied them. He sprung to the ground, making the bridge ring again with the weight of his harness, and walking up opposite to the balcony where the King sat, he made his obeisance to Majesty. His well-managed horse followed him like a dog, and the knight, after thus satisfying the Monarch and every one of the falsehood of the charge that had been made against him, leaped again into his saddle, armed as he was. Hitherto the choice breeding of those who were present had confined the applause to the mere courtly clapping [[500]]of hands. But now they forgot that they were nobles, knights, and ladies of high degree, and the continued shout that arose might have done honour to the most plebeian lungs.
The combatants now again returned each to his barrier. The trumpets again sounded, and again the generous steeds sprang to their full speed. But now it was manifest that Sir David Lindsay was in earnest, and that he had hardly been so before, was proved by the tremendous violence of the shock with which his blunt lance head came in contact with the neck-piece of the Lord Welles, who was lifted as it were from his saddle, and tossed some yards beyond his horse. So terrific was the effect of Sir David Lindsay’s weapon that the operation of the lance borne by the Lord Welles was so absolutely overlooked that no one could tell what it had been, and so admirably was Lindsay’s skill and strength displayed by this sudden and terrible overthrow of his opponent, that the spectators, with all the honest impartiality of Englishmen and Englishwomen, shouted as loudly as if the triumph had been with their own champion, when the trumpets proclaimed the victory of the Scottish Knight.