The Star-Chamber, Volume 1 An Historical Romance

CHAPTER III.

The French or­di­nary.

The month al­lowed by the no­tice ex­pired, and Madame Bonaven­ture's day of reck­on­ing ar­rived.

No ar­range­ment had been at­tempt­ed in the in­ter­im, though abun­dant op­por­tu­ni­ties of do­ing so were af­ford­ed her, as Sir Fran­cis Mitchell vis­it­ed the Three Cranes al­most dai­ly. She ap­peared to treat the mat­ter very light­ly, al­ways putting it off when men­tioned; and even to­wards the last seemed quite un­con­cerned, as if en­ter­tain­ing no fear of the re­sult. Ap­par­ent­ly, ev­ery­thing went on just as usu­al, and no one would have sup­posed, from Madame Bonaven­ture's man­ner, that she was aware of the pos­si­bil­ity of a mine be­ing sprung be­neath her feet. Per­haps she fan­cied she had coun­ter­mined her op­po­nents, and so felt se­cure. Her in­dif­fer­ence puz­zled Sir Fran­cis, who knew not whether to at­tribute it to in­sen­si­bil­ity or over-​con­fi­dence. He was cu­ri­ous to see how she would con­duct her­self when the cri­sis came; and for that pur­pose re­paired to the tav­ern, about din­ner-​time, on the ap­point­ed day.

The host­ess re­ceived him very gra­cious­ly; tri­fled and jest­ed with him as was her cus­tom, and looked all blan­dish­ments and smiles to him and ev­ery­body else, as if noth­ing could pos­si­bly hap­pen to dis­turb her seren­ity. Sir Fran­cis was more per­plexed than ev­er. With the lev­ity and heed­less­ness of a French­wom­an, she must have for­got­ten all about the claim. What if he should ven­ture to re­mind her of it? Bet­ter not. The ap­pli­ca­tion would come soon enough. He was glad it de­volved up­on his part­ner, and not on him­self, to pro­ceed to ex­trem­ities with so charm­ing a per­son. He re­al­ly could not do it. And yet all the while he chuck­led in­ter­nal­ly as he thought of the ter­ri­ble dilem­ma in which she would be speed­ily caught, and how com­plete­ly it would place her at his mer­cy. She must come to terms then. And Sir Fran­cis rubbed his skin­ny hands glee­ful­ly at the thought. On her part, Madame Bonaven­ture guessed what was pass­ing in his breast, and se­cret­ly en­joyed the idea of check­mat­ing him. With a cap­ti­vat­ing smile she left him to at­tend to her nu­mer­ous guests.

And very nu­mer­ous they were on that day. More so than usu­al. Sir Fran­cis, who had brought a boat from West­min­ster, where he dwelt, ex­pe­ri­enced some dif­fi­cul­ty in land­ing at the stairs, in­vest­ed as they were with barges, wher­ries and wa­ter­men, all of whom had ev­ident­ly brought cus­tomers to the Three Cranes. Be­sides these, there were two or three gild­ed pin­naces ly­ing off the wharf, with oars­men in rich liv­er­ies, ev­ident­ly be­long­ing to per­sons of rank.

The bench­es and lit­tle ta­bles in front of the tav­ern were oc­cu­pied by for­eign mer­chants and traders, dis­cussing their af­fairs over a stoop of Bor­deaux. Oth­ers, sim­ilar­ly em­ployed, sat at the open case­ments in the rooms above; each sto­ry pro­ject­ing so much be­yond the oth­er that the old build­ing, crowned with its fan­ci­ful gables and heavy chimnies, looked top-​heavy, and as if it would roll over in­to the Thames some day. Oth­ers, again, were seat­ed over their wine in the pleas­ant lit­tle cham­ber built over the porch, which, ad­vanc­ing con­sid­er­ably be­yond the door, af­ford­ed a de­light­ful prospect, from its lantern-​like win­dows, of the riv­er, now sparkling with sun­shine (it was a bright May day), and cov­ered with craft, ex­tend­ing on the one hand to Bay­nard's Cas­tle, and on the oth­er to the most pic­turesque ob­ject to be found then, or since, in Lon­don--the an­cient Bridge, with its tow­ers, gate­ways, lofty su­per­struc­tures, and nar­row arch­es through which the cur­rent dashed swift­ly; and, of course, com­mand­ing a com­plete view of the op­po­site bank, be­gin­ning with Saint Saviour's fine old church, Winch­ester House, the walks, gar­dens, and play-​hous­es, and end­ing with the fine groves of tim­ber skirt­ing Lam­beth Marsh­es. Oth­ers re­paired to the smooth and well-​kept bowl­ing al­ley in the nar­row court at the back of the house, where there was a mul­ber­ry tree two cen­turies old­er than the tav­ern it­self--to recre­ate them­selves with the health­ful pas­time there af­ford­ed, and in­dulge at the same time in a few whiffs of to­bac­co, which, notwith­stand­ing the king's ful­mi­na­tions against it, had al­ready made its way among the peo­ple.

The or­di­nary was held in the prin­ci­pal room in the house; which was well enough adapt­ed for the pur­pose, be­ing lofty and spa­cious, and light­ed by an oriel win­dow at the up­per end. Over the high carved chim­ney-​piece were the arms of the Vint­ners' Com­pa­ny, with a Bac­chus for the crest. The ceil­ing was mould­ed, and the wain­scots of oak; against the lat­ter sev­er­al paint­ings were hung. One of these rep­re­sent­ed the Mas­sacre of St. Bartholomew, and an­oth­er the tri­umphal en­try of Hen­ri IV. in­to re­bel­lious Paris. Be­sides these, there were por­traits of the reign­ing monarch, James the First; the Mar­quis of Buck­ing­ham, his favourite; and the youth­ful Louis XI­II., king of France. A long ta­ble gen­er­al­ly ran down the cen­tre of the room; but on this oc­ca­sion there was a raised cross-​ta­ble at the up­per end, with a tra­verse, or cur­tain, par­tial­ly drawn be­fore it, pro­claim­ing the pres­ence of im­por­tant guests. Here the napery was fin­er, and the drink­ing-​ves­sels hand­somer, than those used at the low­er board. A grand ban­quet seemed tak­ing place. Long-​necked flasks were placed in cool­ers, and the buf­fets were cov­ered with flagons and glass­es. The ta­ble groaned be­neath the num­ber and va­ri­ety of dish­es set up­on it. In ad­di­tion to the cus­tom­ary yeomen-​wait­ers, there were a host of serv­ing-​men in rich and var­ied liv­er­ies, but these at­tend­ed ex­clu­sive­ly on their lords at the raised ta­ble, be­hind the tra­verse.

As Sir Fran­cis was ush­ered in­to the eat­ing-​room, he was quite tak­en aback by the un­usu­al­ly mag­nif­icent dis­play, and felt great­ly sur­prised that no hint of the ban­quet had been giv­en him, on his ar­rival, by the host­ess. The feast had al­ready com­menced; and all the yeomen-​wait­ers and trencher-​scrap­ers were too busi­ly oc­cu­pied to at­tend to him. Cy­prien, who mar­shalled the dish­es at the low­er ta­ble, did not deign to no­tice him, and was deaf to his de­mand for a place. It seemed prob­able he would not ob­tain one at all; and he was about to re­tire, much dis­con­cert­ed, when a young man some­what plain­ly habit­ed, and who seemed a stranger to all present, very good-​na­tured­ly made room for him. In this way he was squeezed in.

Sir Fran­cis then cast a look round to as­cer­tain who were present; but he was so in­con­ve­nient­ly sit­uat­ed, and the crowd of serv­ing-​men was so great at the up­per ta­ble, that he could on­ly im­per­fect­ly dis­tin­guish those seat­ed at it; be­sides which, most of the guests were hid­den by the tra­verse. Such, how­ev­er, as he could make out were rich­ly at­tired in dou­blets of silk and satin, while their rich vel­vet man­tles, plumed and jew­elled caps, and long rapiers, were car­ried by their ser­vants.

Two or three turned round to look at him as he sat down; and amongst these he re­marked Sir Ed­ward Vil­liers, whose pres­ence was far from agree­able to him,--for though Sir Ed­ward was se­cret­ly con­nect­ed with him and Sir Giles, and took tithe of their spo­li­ations, he dis­owned them in pub­lic, and would as­sured­ly not coun­te­nance any open dis­play of their ra­pa­cious pro­ceed­ings.

An­oth­er per­son­age whom he recog­nised, from his obe­si­ty, the pe­cu­liar­ity of his long flow­ing peri­wig, and his black vel­vet Parisian pour­point, which con­trast­ed forcibly with the glit­ter­ing ha­bil­iments of his com­pan­ions, was Doc­tor May­erne-​Tur­quet, the cel­ebrat­ed French pro­fes­sor of medicine, then so high in favour with James, that, hav­ing been load­ed with hon­ours and dig­ni­ties, he had been re­cent­ly named the King's first physi­cian. Doc­tor May­erne's abil­ities were so dis­tin­guished, that his Protes­tant faith alone, pre­vent­ed him from oc­cu­py­ing the same em­inent po­si­tion in the court of France that he did in that of Eng­land. The doc­tor's pres­ence at the ban­quet was un­pro­pi­tious; it was nat­ural he should be­friend a coun­try­wom­an and a Huguenot like him­self, and, pos­sess­ing the roy­al ear, he might make such rep­re­sen­ta­tions as he pleased to the King of what should oc­cur. Sir Fran­cis hoped he would be gone be­fore Sir Giles ap­peared.

But there was yet a third per­son, who gave the usu­ri­ous knight more un­easi­ness than the oth­er two. This was a hand­some young man, with fair hair and del­icate fea­tures, whose slight el­egant fig­ure was ar­rayed in a crim­son-​satin dou­blet, slashed with white, and hose of the same colours and fab­ric. The young no­ble­man in ques­tion, whose hand­some fea­tures and pre­ma­ture­ly-​wast­ed frame bore the im­press of cyn­icism and de­bauch­ery, was Lord Roos, then re­cent­ly en­trapped in­to mar­riage with the daugh­ter of Sir Thomas Lake, Sec­re­tary of State: a mar­riage pro­duc­tive of the usu­al con­se­quences of such im­pru­dent ar­range­ments--ne­glect on the one side, un­hap­pi­ness on the oth­er. Lord Roos was Sir Fran­cis's sworn en­emy. Like many oth­er such gay moths, he had been severe­ly singed by flut­ter­ing in­to the daz­zling lights held up to him, when he want­ed mon­ey, by the two usurers; and he had of­ten vowed re­venge against them for the man­ner in which they had fleeced him. Sir Fran­cis did not usu­al­ly give any great heed to his threats, be­ing too much ac­cus­tomed to re­proach­es and men­aces from his vic­tims to feel alarm or com­punc­tion; but just now the case was dif­fer­ent, and he could not help fear­ing the vin­dic­tive young lord might seize the op­por­tu­ni­ty of serv­ing him an ill turn,--if, in­deed, he had not come there ex­press­ly for the pur­pose, which seemed prob­able, from the fierce and dis­dain­ful glances he cast at him.

An an­gry mur­mur per­vad­ed the up­per ta­ble on Sir Fran­cis's ap­pear­ance; and some­thing was said which, though he could not gath­er its pre­cise im­port did not sound agree­ably to his ears. He felt he had un­wit­ting­ly brought his head near a hor­net's nest, and might es­teem him­self lucky if he es­caped with­out sting­ing. How­ev­er, there was no re­treat­ing now; for though his fear coun­selled flight, very shame re­strained him.

The repast was var­ied and abun­dant, con­sist­ing of all kinds of fric­as­sees, col­lops and rash­ers, boiled salmon from the Thames, trout and pike from the same riv­er, boiled pea-​chick­ens, and turkey-​poults, and flo­ren­tines of puff paste, calves-​foot pies, and set cus­tards. Be­tween each guest a boiled sal­ad was placed, which was noth­ing more than what we should term a dish of veg­eta­bles, ex­cept that the veg­eta­bles were some­what dif­fer­ent­ly pre­pared; cin­na­mon, gin­ger, and sug­ar be­ing added to the pulped car­rots, be­sides a hand­ful of cur­rants, vine­gar, and but­ter. A sim­ilar plan was adopt­ed with the sal­ads of bur­rage, chico­ry, marigold leaves, bu­gloss, as­para­gus, rock­et, and alexan­ders, and many oth­er plants dis­con­tin­ued in mod­ern cook­ery, but then much es­teemed; oil and vine­gar be­ing used with some, and spices with all; while each dish was gar­nished with slices of hard-​boiled eggs. A jowl of stur­geon was car­ried to the up­per ta­ble, where there was al­so a baked swan, and a roast­ed bus­tard, flanked by two state­ly veni­son pasties. This was on­ly the first ser­vice; and two oth­ers fol­lowed, con­sist­ing of a fawn, with a pud­ding in­side it, a grand sal­ad, hot olive pies, baked neats' tongues, fried calves' tongues, baked Ital­ian pud­dings, a farced leg of lamb in the French fash­ion, or­angea­do pie, but­tered crabs, an­chovies, and a plen­ti­ful sup­ply of lit­tle made dish­es, and _quelque­choses_, scat­tered over the ta­ble. With such a pro­fu­sion of good things, it may ap­pear sur­pris­ing that Sir Fran­cis should find very lit­tle to eat; but the at­ten­dants all seemed in league against him, and when­ev­er he set his eye up­on a dish, it was sure to be placed out of reach. Sir Fran­cis was a great epi­cure, and the Thames salmon looked de­li­cious; but he would have failed in ob­tain­ing a slice of it, if his neigh­bour (the young man who had made room for him) had not giv­en him the well-​filled trencher in­tend­ed for him­self. In the same way he se­cured the wing of a boiled capon, lard­ed with pre­served lemons, the sauce of which was exquisite, as he well knew, from ex­pe­ri­ence. Cy­prien, how­ev­er, took care he should get none of the turkey poults, or the flo­ren­tines, but whipped off both dish­es from un­der his very nose; and a like fate would have at­tend­ed a lum­bar pie but for the in­ter­fer­ence of his good-​na­tured neigh­bour, who again came to his aid, and res­cued it from the clutch­es of the saucy Gas­con, just as it was be­ing borne away.