The Star Chamber, Volume 1 by W. Harrison Ainsworth

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His title was purchased, and he reaped his reward in the consequence it
gave him. Sir Francis Mitchell acted likewise; and it was about this
time that the connection between the worthy pair commenced. Hitherto
they had been in opposition, and though very different in temperament
and in modes of proceeding, they had one aim in common; and recognizing
great merit in each other, coupled with a power of mutual assistance,
they agreed to act in concert. Sir Francis was as cautious and timid as
Sir Giles was daring and inflexible: the one being the best contriver of
a scheme, and the other the fittest to carry it out. Sir Francis
trembled at his own devices and their possible consequences: Sir Giles
adopted his schemes, if promising, and laughed at the difficulties and
dangers that beset them. The one was the head; the other the arm. Not
that Sir Giles lacked the ability to weave as subtle a web of deceit as
his partner; but each took his line. It saved time. The plan of
licensing and inspecting taverns and hotels had originated with Sir
Francis, and very profitable it proved. But Sir Giles carried it out
much further than his partner had proposed, or thought prudent.

And they were as different in personal appearance, as in mental
qualities and disposition. Mompesson was the dashing eagle; Mitchell the
sorry kite. Sir Francis was weakly, emaciated in frame; much given to
sensual indulgence; and his body conformed to his timorous organization.
His shrunken shanks scarcely sufficed to support him; his back was bent;
his eyes blear; his head bald; and his chin, which was continually
wagging, clothed with a scanty yellow beard, shaped like a stiletto,
while his sandy moustachios were curled upward. He was dressed in the
extremity of the fashion, and affected the air of a young court gallant.
His doublet, hose, and mantle were ever of the gayest and most fanciful
hues, and of the richest stuffs; he wore a diamond brooch in his beaver,
and sashes, tied like garters, round his thin legs, which were utterly
destitute of calf. Preposterously large roses covered his shoes; his
ruff was a "treble-quadruple-dedalion;" his gloves richly embroidered; a
large crimson satin purse hung from his girdle; and he was scented with
powders and pulvilios. This withered coxcomb affected the mincing gait
of a young man; and though rather an object of derision than admiration
with the fair sex, persuaded himself they were all captivated by him.
The vast sums he so unjustly acquired did not long remain in his
possession, but were dispersed in ministering to his follies and
depravity. Timorous he was by nature, as we have said, but cruel and
unrelenting in proportion to his cowardice; and where an injury could be
securely inflicted, or a prostrate foe struck with impunity, he never
hesitated for a moment. Sir Giles himself was scarcely so malignant and
implacable.

A strong contrast to this dastardly debauchee was offered by the bolder
villain. Sir Giles Mompesson was a very handsome man, with a striking
physiognomy, but dark and sinister in expression. His eyes were black,
singularly piercing, and flashed with the fiercest fire when kindled by
passion. A finely-formed aquiline nose gave a hawk-like character to his
face; his hair was coal-black (though he was no longer young), and hung
in long ringlets over his neck and shoulders. He wore the handsomely cut
beard and moustache subsequently depicted in the portraits of Vandyke,
which suited the stern gravity of his countenance. Rich, though sober in
his attire, he always affected a dark colour, being generally habited in
a doublet of black quilted silk, Venetian hose, and a murrey-coloured
velvet mantle. His conical hat was ornamented with a single black
ostrich feather; and he carried a long rapier by his side, in the use of
which he was singularly skilful; being one of Vincentio Saviolo's best
pupils. Sir Giles was a little above the middle height, with a well
proportioned athletic figure; and his strength and address were such,
that there seemed good reason for his boast when he declared, as he
often did, "that he feared no man living, in fair fight, no, nor any two
men."

Sir Giles had none of the weaknesses of his partner. Temperate in his
living, he had never been known to commit an excess at table; nor were
the blandishments or lures of the fair sex ever successfully spread for
him. If his arm was of iron, his heart seemed of adamant, utterly
impenetrable by any gentle emotion. It was affirmed, and believed, that
he had never shed a tear. His sole passion appeared to be the
accumulation of wealth; unattended by the desire to spend it. He
bestowed no gifts. He had no family, no kinsmen, whom he cared to
acknowledge. He stood alone--a hard, grasping man: a bond-slave of
Mammon.

When it pleased him, Sir Giles Mompesson could play the courtier, and
fawn and gloze like the rest. A consummate hypocrite, he easily assumed
any part he might be called upon to enact; but the tone natural to him
was one of insolent domination and bitter raillery. He sneered at all
things human and divine; and there was mockery in his laughter, as well
as venom in his jests. His manner, however, was not without a certain
cold and grave dignity; and he clothed himself, like his purposes, in
inscrutable reserve, on occasions requiring it. So ominous was his
presence, that many persons got out of his way, fearing to come in
contact with him, or give him offence; and the broad walk at Paul's was
sometimes cleared as he took his way along it, followed by his band of
tipstaves.

If this were the case with persons who had no immediate ground of
apprehension from him, how much terror his sombre figure must have
inspired, when presented, as it was, to Madame Bonaventure, with the
aspect of a merciless creditor, armed with full power to enforce his
claims, and resolved not to abate a jot of them, will be revealed to the
reader in our next chapter.

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.

CHAPTER IV.

A Star-Chamber victim.

His hunger being somewhat stayed, Sir Francis now found leisure to
consider the young man who had so greatly befriended him, and, as a
means of promoting conversation between them, began by filling his glass
from a flask of excellent Bordeaux, of which, in spite of Cyprien's
efforts to prevent him, he had contrived to gain possession. The young
man acknowledged his courtesy with a smile, praised the wine, and
expressed his astonishment at the wonderful variety and excellence of
the repast, for which he said he was quite unprepared. It was not Sir
Francis's way to feel or express much interest in strangers, and he
disliked young men, especially when they were handsome, as was the case
with his new acquaintance; but there was something in the youth that
riveted his attention.

From the plainness of his attire, and a certain not unpleasing rusticity
of air, Sir Francis comprehended at once that he was fresh from the
country; but he also felt satisfied, from his bearing and deportment,
that he was a gentleman: a term not quite so vaguely applied then, as it
is now-a-days. The youth had a fine frank countenance, remarkable for
manly beauty and intelligence, and a figure perfectly proportioned and
athletic. Sir Francis set him down as well skilled in all exercises;
vaulting, leaping, riding, and tossing the pike; nor was he mistaken. He
also concluded him to be fond of country sports; and he was right in the
supposition. He further imagined the young man had come to town to
better his fortune, and seek a place at Court; and he was not far wrong
in the notion. As the wily knight scanned the handsome features of his
companion, his clean-made limbs, and symmetrical figure, he thought that
success must infallibly attend the production of such a fair youth at a
Court where personal advantages were the first consideration.

"A likely gallant," he reflected, "to take the fancy of the king; and if
I aid him with means to purchase rich attire, and procure him a
presentation, he may not prove ungrateful. But of that I shall take good
security. I know what gratitude is. He must be introduced to my Lady
Suffolk. She will know how to treat him. In the first place, he must
cast his country slough. That ill-made doublet of green cloth must be
exchanged for one of velvet slashed in the Venetian style like mine own,
with hose stuffed and bombasted according to the mode. A silk stocking
will bring out the nice proportions of his leg; though, as I am a true
gentleman, the youth has so well formed a limb that even his own
villainous yarn coverings cannot disfigure it. His hair is of a good
brown colour, which the king affects much, and seems to curl naturally;
but it wants trimming to the mode, for he is rough as a young colt fresh
from pasture; and though he hath not much beard on his chin or upper
lip, yet what he hath becomes him well, and will become him better, when
properly clipped and twisted. Altogether he is as goodly a youth as one
would desire to see. What if he should supplant Buckingham, as
Buckingham supplanted Somerset? Let the proud Marquis look to himself!
We may work his overthrow yet. And now to question him."

After replenishing his glass, Sir Francis addressed himself in his
blandest accents, and with his most insidious manner, to his youthful
neighbour:--

"For a stranger to town, as I conclude you to be, young Sir," he said,
"you have made rather a lucky hit in coming hither to-day, since you
have not only got a better dinner than I (a constant frequenter of this
French ordinary) ever saw served here--(though the attendance is
abominable, as you must have remarked--that rascally Cyprien deserves
the bastinado,); but your civility and good manners have introduced you
to one, who may, without presumption, affirm that he hath the will, and,
it may be, the ability to serve you; if you will only point out to him
the way."

"Nay, worthy Sir, you are too kind," the young man modestly replied; "I
have done nothing to merit your good opinion, though I am happy to have
gained it. I rejoice that accident has so far befriended me as to bring
me here on this festive occasion; and I rejoice yet more that it has
brought me acquainted with a worthy gentleman like yourself, to whom my
rustic manners prove not to be displeasing. I have too few friends to
neglect any that chance may offer; and as I must carve my own way in the
world, and fight for a position in it, I gladly accept any hand that may
be stretched out to help me in the struggle."

"Just as I would have it," Sir Francis thought, "The very man I took him
for. As I am a true gentleman, mine shall not be wanting, my good
youth," he added aloud, with apparent cordiality, and affecting to
regard the other with great interest; "and when I learn the particular
direction in which you intend to shape your course, I shall be the
better able to advise and guide you. There are many ways to fortune."

"Mine should be the shortest if I had any choice," the young man
rejoined with a smile.

"Right, quite right," the crafty knight returned. "All men would take
that road if they could find it. But with some the shortest road would
not be the safest. In your case I think it might be different. You have
a sufficiently good mien, and a sufficiently good figure, to serve you
in lieu of other advantages."

"Your fair speech would put me in conceit with myself, worthy Sir," the
young man rejoined with a well-pleased air; "were I not too conscious of
my own demerits, not to impute what you say of me to good nature, or to
flattery."

"There you wrong me, my good young friend--on my credit, you do. Were I
to resort to adulation, I must strain the points of compliment to find
phrases that should come up to my opinion of your good looks; and as to
my friendly disposition towards you, I have already said that your
attentions have won it, so that mere good nature does not prompt my
words. I speak of you, as I think. May I, without appearing too
inquisitive, ask from what part of the country you come?"

"I am from Norfolk, worthy Sir," the young man answered, "where my life
has been spent among a set of men wild and uncouth, and fond of the
chase as the Sherwood archers we read of in the ballads. I am the son of
a broken gentleman; the lord of a ruined house; with one old servant
left me out of fifty kept by my father, and with scarce a hundred acres
that I can still call my own, out of the thousands swept away from me.
Still I hunt in my father's woods; kill my father's deer; and fish in my
father's lakes; since no one molests me. And I keep up the little church
near the old tumble-down hall, in which are the tombs of my ancestors,
and where my father lies buried; and the tenantry come there yet on
Sundays, though I am no longer their master; and my father's old
chaplain, Sir Oliver, still preaches there, though my father's son can
no longer maintain him."

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