Basile the Jester. A romance of the days of Mary Queen of Scots ... With a frontispiece

Front matter

NOVELS BY J. E. MUDDOCK Crown _vo., cloth extra, with \_ Illustrations, _s. 6d. MAID MARIAN AND ROBIN HOOD ' This cbarming romance of Sherwood Forest .... We can heai tily praise the picture of Fountains Abbey ; indeed, the local colour is admirable through out, and his Maid Marian is a charming vision of a sylvan, perhaps impossible past.'— The World. ' The ever old and yet ever new story of Robin Hood receives a fresh setting at the hands of Mr. Muddock. . . . The chapters describing the death of Marian and the passing of Robin are very pathetic' — The Academy. ' A new version of a delightful old legend. . . . The whole life of the period is picturesquely reconstructed by the author, who has added to his work not a few interesting historical notes.' — Morning Post. ' An interesting romance and an instructive description of central England during the latter part of the twelfth century.' — Vanity Fair. ' A stirring book for boys.' — Westminster Review. ' A delightful retelling of the familiar legends in the form of one continued tale.' — Hearth and Some. 'It abounds in episodes of forest life and petty warfare, of love and treacheries.' — Daily Telegraph. ' Mr. J. E. Muddock has written one of the best boy's books we have seen this year.

The interest of the reader never flags.' — Review of Reviews. ' A capital tale.' — Scottish Leader. ' A wonderful and exciting narrative of the glorious life under the greenwood tree.' — Leeds Mercury. 'This stirring and fascinating romance of the olden time. The story is written with all the vivacity and picturesqueness that distinguish Mr. Muddock's literary productions. ' — Dundee Courier. Post &zw., illustrated boards, 2s.y cloth, 2s. bd. STORIES WEIRD AND WONDERFUL 'There is real invention in these little tales, which have literary os well as other merit.' — The Globe. ' Cleverly contrived.' — Athenæum. ' This is an unusually good collection of stories. ... All these stories are well told-' — Morning Post. ' Told with considerable literary skill, and all the sketches possess thrilling interest.

This is a capital book for the seaside.' — Academy. ' Mr. Muddock has done excellent work in his day, aud this volume of short stories is as well written as everything he touches.' — Whitehall Review. ' The stories are told in a plain, straightforward way, as if there was nothing startling about the facts. . . . The book should be successful. ' — Scotsman. ' Mr. Muddock's pen is as graphic as it is eerie.' — Glasgow Herald. Post &vo., illustrated boards, zs. THE DEAD MAN'S SECRET ' " The Dead Man's Secret " is a wild and wonderful romance. It is very exciting, very well told. The schoolboy into whose hands it gets ought to have a good time from the 6rst page to the last. So may those who, though no NOVELS BY J. E. MUDDOCK— continued longer schoolboys, still retain the schoolboy love for the marvellous and adventurous.' — Daily 2,'euis. ' A capital book is " The Dead Man's Secret." . . .

Chapter I. The Woman In The Crowd

' Vive le Dauphin et la Reine d'Ecosse ; long live the Dauphin and Queen of Scotland ! Shout, good people ! Blend your voices in one mighty burst of enthusiastic joy ! Rend the air with the forcible expression of your feelings, for I vow this is the happiest day that has ever dawned on fair France. Huzza ! shout, I say. Wherefore dost thou laugh at me, good master blacksmith ? How do I know that thou art a blacksmith ? Because thou hast a leathery smell, and the wrinkles of thy face and neck are like the furrows of a ploughed field — they are full of dirt. Nay, lose not thy temper, thou beater of iron and maker of horseshoes. I am as good a man as thou art. Huzza ! Crack your lungs, dear people, for this is a right merry day. By my cap and bells, I vow I am so happy that I could e'en embrace that grimy blacksmith, though his face be somewhat uglier than yonder gargoyle.' Thus spoke Basile, a jester at the Court of Henry II. of France, as he cut merry antics, for the amusement of the people, in front of the great cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris.

The year is 1558 ; the time, April 24. The occasion, the marriage of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, with Francis, the eldest son of Henry II. of France. The weather is glorious, and spring has touched all Nature with a wand of gold. The soft azure of the sky is flecked with fleecy cloudlets, and the Seine, as it rolls its lazy course to the sea, reflects the blue and white of the heavens in its unruffled surface, for of wind there is none. The air is stagnant and dreamy, and heavy with the perfume of the enormous masses of flowers, especially violets and primroses. Turn which way the eye will, there is a be wildering and dazzling display of colour. Flags and banderols by millions flutter from poles and lines. From the turrets of Notre Dame float the royal standards of France and Scotland, and there is not a house in the whole neighbourhood, nay, probably in all Paris, that is not decorated with bunting.

The whole facade of the grand cathedral is covered with crimson cloth, intermixed with cloth of gold. Over the main entrance a gigantic arch of flowers has been constructed, the flowers used being violets, primroses, daffodils, snowdrops, and lilies of the valley. The effect of the combination is rich and chaste beyond all description. In front of this floral arch, and stretching the whole length of the cathedral front, is a raised platform covered with cloth of gold. The platform extends outwards for nearly fifty yards ; then a flight of wooden steps descends to the ground. The steps are covered with crimson cloth, which is carried along for another hundred yards. Each side of this enormous platform is built up with artificial flower banks that are crowned with palms. An avenue, forty yards across, and extending for a quarter of a mile from the platform, is roped off", the rope being of crimson silk, in which is woven a gold thread.

On each side of this avenue, at intervals of a yard, stands a halberdier, armed with a polished steel halberd, and clad from head to foot in polished steel armour. Between the soldiers, on both sides, kneels a beautiful girl, clad all in white, and enveloped in a gossamer veil. Each girl holds a basket of flowers, which are to be scattered over the crimson cloth when the royal pair leave the cathedral. Outside of the rope, on either side, is a densely packed, gaily dressed and good-natured multitude. Every window of every house, as well as every roof, is also filled with sightseers. The lighthearted Parisians have turned.out in their tens of thousands to make merry and do honour to the rare occasion. This day France and Scotland are united in the persons of the beautiful, gifted girl, Mary Stuart, and the handsome boy, the Dauphin now, but soon to be Francis II. of France.

This day a page is being written in history that is destined to be ever a con spicuous one in the world's story. Paris, used as she has been to see grand sights and rich THE WOMAN IN THE CROWD 3 pageants, has never seen this one surpassed, nor probably even equalled. It is in keeping with the profligate and magni ficent and luxurious Court of Henry II. No expense has been spared, nothing left undone to give imposing pomp to the ceremony, and to dazzle, with glittering and unique splendour, the eyes of all beholders. The event which is being celebrated is one that the world has but rarely seen. Francis, the Dauphin, is heir to the throne of France, and Mary Stuart, although a minor, is the crowned Queen of Scotland. Thus, it is hoped, the two countries are wedded in a bond of the closest union, and the interests of the two thrones are identified.

Mary is as yet httle more than a child, being under fifteen, while the Dauphin is only slightly her senior. To matchless beauty she allies a grace and learning, combined with wit and talent, that are almost unparalleled even in an age celebrated for its clever women. If the external scene on this auspicious day, with all its glittering wealth of colour and its military display, was striking, how much more majestic and imposing was that presented by the ceremony in the interior of the cathedral ! Here the most awe-inspiring and religious songs, and the most impressive display of worldly treasures, were blended into a picture such as few human eyes had looked upon before. The whole of the nave of the great cathedral was hung with white satin, alternated with crimson velvet and cloth of gold, while the floor itself was completely covered with cloth of gold.

The King and Queen of France were present in all the regal magnificence of state. They were surrounded by the princes of the royal blood and all the nobility, while priests and cardinals were present in hundreds. Three hundred beautiful youths, dressed in pure white raiment, swung golden censers, while a thousand trained voices chanted the impressive service. The proud Cardinal of Bourbon pronounced the nuptial blessing, and then the brilliant assembly, and the sweet young bride herself, hailed the Dauphin ' King of Scotland.' While the marriage was thus being solemnized in the cathedral, Basile, with others of his class, was amusing the surging masses outside. Basile was a young man, probably under thirty years of age, with a shapely figure and an exceedingly handsome face. He came of a race of jesters ; his father before him had been a jester in the Court of Francis I. Basile, who was gaudily dressed, was strutting about on the crimson cloth as proud as a peacock.

He wore a capote of orange-coloured silk, that came down over his shoulders in the form of a cape. His jacket was parti-coloured, one half being red, the other yellow, and one hose was blue, while the other was white. As he paraded up and down with an assumed air of im portance, he bandied jokes with the people, who made him a butt for their own coarse wit, and roared with laughter when lie addressed them. Now and then he pretended to get very angry, and shook his bells in a menacing way. Like all Court fools, he was privileged to do and say almost anything he liked, but in return he had to take the buffets that were frequently bestowed upon him, and the scorn with which his class was universally treated. These hired buffoons could say things to a king that would cost another man his head ; but their lives were hard, and frequently they died in poverty and disgrace.

Basile's sally about the blacksmith had caused much laughter, though the man whom he had addressed seemed ill-pleased, and retorted warmly : ' Go to, thou poor fool ! Thy wit is shrunken even as thine own shanks. I am no blacksmith, fellow, but a tailor.' ' A tailor ! Oh, oh, oh, oh !' laughed Basile. * Well, now that I look at thee, I perceive clearly that thou art but the ninth part of a man. A tailor, pah ! Why dost thou not become a turnspit ?' ' Why a turnspit ?' roared the tailor, losing his temper. ' Because then thou wouldst only have the running to do, the basting would be done for thee by others.' ' Out on thee, thou scum of a scullion wench !' retorted the man, feeling uncomfortable at the fire of chaff that was now levelled at him from all sides. Basile was in right merry mood, and seemed immensely amused by his own wit.

Suddenly, however, the laughter died out of his face, and an expression that was half pain, half fear came into it. His eye had caught somebody in the crowd. That somebody was a woman, but in the surging sea of humanity she was quickly swept out of sight again, until he himself doubted having seen her, for he muttered : ' No, it was a fancy. It could not be she ; and yet the face was — pshaw! I am growing morbid. She is dead.' He THE WOMAN IN THE CROWD 5 seemed comforted by this reflection, and broke into laughter again, until, inadvertently, he trod on the toes of a stalwart halberdier, who, pushing him until he all but lost his balance, exclaimed irritably : ' Fool, get out of the way !' Recovering his equilibrium with wonderful agility, Basile stiffened his legs and hips, and then bending down his head, after the manner of an acrobat, he said, with mock reverence : ' I obey thine order immediately, O mighty warrior, for I always haste me to get out of the way of evil things.' This happy sally turned the laugh against the soldier, and the jester scored a point.

And now the bells burst forth into jubilant melody, announcing that the Queen of Scotland had become the possessor of two thrones ; while France's prospective King was the husband of Scotland's Queen. Then from the church there poured forth the crowd of nobles, the Dauphin and his beautiful young bride, surrounded by an armed guard of French nobility, leading the way. This was the signal for flowers to be showered down from the turrets and roof of the cathedral. There was a perfect storm of flowers, and the sun shining forth in unclouded splendour at this moment, and ac centuating all the wonderful wealth of colour, and flashing in floods of dazzling light from the armour and weapons of the soldiers, completed a picture so gorgeous, so rich, so artistic in its magical blending of brilliancy and tone, of light and shade, that its equal had never been witnessed.

While, mingling with the clashing of the bells, rose two thousand trained voices in a choral song of thanksgiving and joy. Flushed with conscious pride, the beauteous Queen leaned on her husband's arm, and gazed on the animated scene. Well might she feel proud at that happy moment, which gave no sound, displayed no sign, of the stormy future that was to be hers ; nor did there loom in her vision of that which was to come, the block and axe which were to end her career, when, lonely, deserted, and broken-hearted, she would welcome death as a relief from weariness and pain. She was tall and beautiful beyond compare. Her features were cast in a classical mould, her face was lighted up with rare intelligence. Her hands were elegantly shaped, her eyes piercing and keen. She was attired in a robe of white satin with a train many yards in length.

The train was borne by twelve maidens, six on either side. Each maiden wore a dress that was covered with natural flowers, most artistically arranged. Thus, one was primrose, another violet, a third lilies of the valley, a fourth tulips, and so on. The extreme ends of the train were borne by two beauteous boys dressed as Cupids. Round her brow Mary Stuart wore, clasped, a tiara of extraordinarily pure diamonds, and she was enveloped in a transparent veil of gossamer that was studded with seed pearls of great value. At the sight of this bewitching girl, radiant with beauty that almost seemed unearthly, the dense masses of human beings, who everywhere pressed forward to obtain a sight, broke out into thunderous shouts of welcome, that were taken up and echoed and re-echoed from every balcony, every window, every roof, every point, in fact, where a human being could obtain a foothold.

Hundreds of thousands of handkerchiefs and flags were waved, while the air was thick with flowers that were showered down by the people in their wild enthusiasm. The senses grew literally bewildered with all the motion, the glitter, and the tumult of bells, voices, and cannon which thundered forth salutes on each side of the flashing Seine. Presently a superb coach, all gilt and crimson velvet, and studded with precious stones, and hung on high bow springs, was wheeled up in front of the platform. Into the coach the Dauphin and his bride stepped. It was drawn by twelve milk white ponies with trappings of real gold lace, and white satin trimmed with imitation violets. The coach was preceded by a hundred mounted gentlemen clad in silver armour. On each side of the coach, mounted on white ponies, rode a jester, Basile being on the right ; and as they moved along these men scattered pieces of money amongst the people, being provided with a bagful for the purpose.

Following the coach came another bodyguard of a hundred nobles mounted on black horses and wearing gilt armour. In the rear of these were the King and Queen of France, each riding a splendid white horse that was covered with cloth of gold, while each horse wore on its forehead a diamond star of fabulous value, and its hoofs were shod with shoes of solid gold. The procession was brought up by the ladies and gentlemen of the Court, all dressed in the most gorgeous apparel ; while two thousand troopers, wearing polished armour, formed the rear escort. THE WOMAN IN THE CROWD 7 As this wonderful procession moved slowly along amid showers of flowers, the multitude of sightseers shouted them selves hoarse, and struggled to gain a nearer view. At one point of the route the pressure was so great that the line of soldiers was broken.

And while the confusion thus caused was at its height, a woman with bare head, and a wealth of black hair streaming over her shoulders and down her back, was seen to be struggling frantically to get in front, holding a child up at arms' length. There was a wild expression in her face, which was red and blotched as if with dissipation. She was calling out at the top of her voice, but the roar of the surging people drowned what she said. Basile saw this woman, and the expression of fear that had suddenly come into his eyes when he was bandying words with the tailor came again, and he seemed to sway on his horse as if he were about to fall. Evidently the sight of that woman influenced him, and he looked nervously around as if meditating flight. In the meantime the excitement amongst that section of the crowd increased.

The soldiers were beating back the crowd with their hackbuts, and the people were growing angry. By what seemed almost superhuman strength the woman continued to force her way forward. So wild and excited did she appear that those near her thought she was mad, and many shrank from her. The child (a boy), which she still held up, was screaming lustily, evidently with fright, as well he might, for the hubbub, the confusion and excite ment were tremendous. Women screamed and fainted, and men, being jostled roughly, lost their tempers and fought fiercely with each other, thus adding to the general alarm. The procession had come to a standstill, and there was much curiosity expressed to know the cause of the disturbance. Basile by this time was deadly pale, and seemed strangely uneasy. He kept his eyes fixed on the struggling and apparently frantic woman, and the nearer she came the more alarmed he grew.

It is difficult to understand what connec tion there could be between the handsome Court fool and this strange woman in the vast crowd ; and yet there was the fact that her movements influenced him. The woman continued to struggle to the front, her objective point to all appearances being the coach in which sat the young Queen and the Dauphin, her husband. Her clothes were almost torn from her body, and were hanging in shreds, and perspiration was streaming down her begrimed face. She succeeded at last in reaching the line of procession just where it had been broken by the inbursting of the mob. Several gentlemen forming the bodyguard were vainly endeavouring to restore order, but their horses, frightened by the swaying masses and the yelling and shouting of thousands of excited people, were prancing wildly, and their riders' attention was kept on the alert to prevent the restless steeds from trampling on the people.

As the woman gained the line, a halberdier seized her with the intention of thrusting her back. But with a shriek of defiance she twisted herself free from his grasp. In doing so, however, she lost her balance, reeled and stumbled, and there broke from her blanched lips an agonized cry of blank de spair, for she had gone down amongst the prancing horses, and before a hand could be stretched to save her she was trampled upon and crushed into a bleeding mass. Basile the fool witnessed her fall, and springing from his nag, he rushed forward, but too late to save the woman, if that was his intention. He snatched up the child, however, which, strangely enough, was uninjured, and holding the boy above his head, freed himself from the human tangle, and breathless and exhausted got back to the coach.

Chapter II. The Seal Of Death

Basile was deathly pale. The excitement and the exertion he had gone through had perhaps caused this. But he was also strangely agitated, and his presence of mind seemed to have forsaken him. The child he had rescued was screaming furiously. It was a bright, curly-headed boy of about eight years of age. - 'WTiat is it, Basile— what is it, Basile ?' asked the young bride, as she peered anxiously out of the coach. 'If it please you, madame, there has been an accident,' answered Basile, making a desperate effort to suppress his excitement and speak calmly, though his effort was a failure. 'An accident!' exclaimed the young Queen in distress. ' Mercy upon us ! is that sweet child hurt ?' ' No, madame,' Basile replied. ' He is frightened, but not hurt.' ' How came you by him ?' ' I rescued him, madame, from the feet of the horses. ' Thou hast done well, Basile ; but surely the poor child was not alone ?' ' No, madame, he was held by a woman— his mother, probably — and she has been killed.' ' Killed !' cried the Queen in great distress. ' Alas, poor mother !

Is there no one with her to claim the child, Basile ?' ' I think not, madame.' ' Then, by the grace of God we will take him under our protection till his relations are found. Wliat say you, dear husband ?' she asked, addressing the Dauphin. 'Even as my sweet love says. Her wishes are mine.' ' That is well,' the Queen remarked. Then, turning to the jester, who still seemed excited and confused, she said: 'Basile, motion one of our equerries that we desire speech with him.' Basile did as he was told, but it was in a mechanical sort of way. An officer rode up and made a profound salute. ' Sir,' said the Queen, ' it is our wish that this dear child, whose mother, alas ! seems to have lost her life in the crowd, shall be well cared for. Give him into the care of one of our ladies-in-waiting, and later on we will issue a proclamation, if in the meantime his relations do not come forward to claim him.' The equerry bowed, and, receiving the boy from the hands of Basile, he rode back and placed him in charge of one of the ladies-in-waiting, as the Queen had commanded.

While this little scene was being enacted, the mother of the child — if she were his mother — had been picked up and borne away by kindly hands. The people had been forced back into position again, and order being once more restored, the procession moved on. Basile had somewhat recovered himself, and having mounted his pony, he was making a sorry attempt at wit. The stopping of the procession, and the news, which flew like wildfire, that a woman had been killed, had for a moment checked the ardour of the great crowd ; but no sooner did the cavalcade get in motion once more than the enthusiasm of the people found renewed expression in a mighty upraising of tens of thousands of voices. Mary, Queen of Scots and Dauphiness of France, who had been temporarily depressed by the untoward incident — for she looked upon it as an evil omen — quickly recovered her spirits as the thundering ac clamations rang in her ears, and her eyes took in the marvellous scene.

She felt proud and happy at this homage of a great people ; and as she leaned on the luxurious cushions of the gilded coach, she dreamed of the pomp, the magnificence, and the greatness that would be hers. Meanwhile, the wretched woman who had been crushed beneath the horses' hoofs had been borne into a neighbouring house. It was found that, although she was fearfully injured and insensible, she was not dead. Somebody undertook to go in search of a surgeon, but the crowded state of the streets rendered this no easy task. When it became known, however, that a surgeon was required, a young man pushed his way through the crowd and offered his services, saying that he was a doctor. He was about six or seven and twenty years of age, and from his dress and general appearance he seemed to be in poor and needy circumstances.

Night had fallen on Paris, but the darkness was dispelled by the millions of small lamps which were used to illuminate the city, and by the great bonfires which burned in the squares ; for the people were revelling, and the streets were filled with merry, noisy, chattering crowds. Seats and tables were placed in the streets, and the light-hearted people were feasting and drinking and thoroughly enjoying themselves in a reckless, rollicking way. In a dismal room, high up in one of the lofty houses in the neighbourhood of Notre Dame, the woman who had been injured lay on a truckle-bed. It was the apartment of some kindly people who had placed it at the disposal of the poor creature, and having performed this act of charity, they were now enjoying themselves in the streets below, for it was not every day a royal marriage took place, and even a mangled human being could not be allowed to damp one's spirits.

The ill-starred woman was young, certainly not more than thirty. She had been good-looking, if not positively hand some. Her hair was dark and luxuriant, and her features very regular. Her face was like marble now, and rendered ghastly by smirches of blood. One side of her head had been ftijured by the kick of the horse. Some of her ribs had also been broken, and had penetrated the lungs, and dark venous blood was oozing from the lips. In the room, which was faintly illuminated by a small oil-lamp, was the surgeon who had volunteered his services. He was a man by no means ill favoured so far as looks were concerned, but his face wore an expression of anxiety and traces of dissipation. There was nothing very striking about him. He was a common type of man, and, judging from his hungry look and threadbare clothes, he was suggestive of one who was a butt of bad fortune.

He was alone with his patient, for it was very difficult to get the services of anyone on such a night of revelry, especially as the prospects of remuneration were remote. Sometimes he walked up and down the room in a preoccupied sort of way ; and at other times he sat by the bedside, and with the sponge wiped the oozing blood from the lips of the injured woman. He certainly was not mercenary, or he would not have been there, and his being there showed that he was of a kindly disposition. Occasionally he paused, as if listening to the roar of revel that came up from the street. And once, after so listening, he stamped his foot with impatience, and muttered in a tone of disgust : ' Pah, the canaille ! How little it takes to turn them into swine ! How the noise of their drunken mirth annoys me !

They drown their cares and misery in wine, but I bear with mine as best I may. Heigho, it is an ill-world, and Fortune mocks those who sue to her. Will she ever favour me ? Who knows but that this very accident may change my destiny ? My attention to this wretched creature may possibly bring me under the notice of the Dauphin and the Dauphiness, for the young bride is sure to make inquiries about the poor woman.' He seated himself beside the bed, and gazed for some time on the sufferer. Then he continued his musing : ' I wonder who and what she is ? She has had a fair face, and is young and shapely of limb. I should like to know her history.' He was about to rise, when he noticed that her eyes were open, and she appeared to be looking at him. He wiped her lips and sponged her forehead with cold water.

Then he administered a stimulant, which she drank eagerly, and her breathing, which had been stertorous and laborious, became more natural. It was evident that she was conscious, and she appeared to be making an effort to speak. Seeing this, he bent his head down, and presently she muttered indistinctly : 'I have been hurt.' She spoke with great difficulty, and gave indications that she was suffering extreme pain. ' Yes,' he answered, ' you are injured.' Then after a pause, and as if deeming it better that she should know the worst, he added : ' Your injuries are grave in character, and I fear me that your hours are numbered.' She did not seem in the least degree affected by the in formation, but putting forth her cold, white hand, she touched his arm, and said : ' I feel that. I know that my hurts will prove fatal.