"IVANHOE"
CHAPTER I
Thus communed these; while to their lowly dome,
The full-fed swine return'd with evening home;
Compell'd, reluctant, to the several sties,
With din obstreperous, and ungrateful cries.
Pope's Odyssey
In that pleasant district of
merry England which is watered by the river Don, there extended in
ancient times a large forest, covering the greater part of the
beautiful hills and valleys which lie between Sheffield and the
pleasant town of Doncaster. The remains of this extensive wood are
still to be seen at the noble seats of Wentworth, of Warncliffe
Park, and around Rotherham. Here haunted of yore the fabulous Dragon
of Wantley; here were fought many of the most desperate battles
during the Civil Wars of the Roses; and here also flourished in
ancient times those bands of gallant outlaws, whose deeds have been
rendered so popular in English song.
Such being our chief scene,
the date of our story refers to a period towards the end of the
reign of Richard I., when his return from his long captivity had
become an event rather wished than hoped for by his despairing
subjects, who were in the meantime subjected to every species of
subordinate oppression. The nobles, whose power had become
exorbitant during the reign of Stephen, and whom the prudence of
Henry the Second had scarce reduced to some degree of subjection to
the crown, had now resumed their ancient license in its utmost
extent; despising the feeble interference of the English Council of
State, fortifying their castles, increasing the number of their
dependants, reducing all around them to a state of vassalage, and
striving by every means in their power, to place themselves each at
the head of such forces as might enable him to make a figure in the
national convulsions which appeared to be impending.
The situation of the
inferior gentry, or Franklins, as they were called, who, by the law
and spirit of the English constitution, were entitled to hold
themselves independent of feudal tyranny, became now unusually
precarious. If, as was most generally the case, they placed
themselves under the protection of any of the petty kings in their
vicinity, accepted of feudal offices in his household, or bound
themselves by mutual treaties of alliance and protection, to support
him in his enterprises, they might indeed purchase temporary repose;
but it must be with the sacrifice of that independence which was so
dear to every English bosom, and at the certain hazard of being
involved as a party in whatever rash expedition the ambition of
their protector might lead him to undertake. On the other hand, such
and so multiplied were the means of vexation and oppression
possessed by the great Barons, that they never wanted the pretext,
and seldom the will, to harass and pursue, even to the very edge of
destruction, any of their less powerful neighbours, who attempted to
separate themselves from their authority, and to trust for their
protection, during the dangers of the times, to their own
inoffensive conduct, and to the laws of the land.
A circumstance which greatly
tended to enhance the tyranny of the nobility, and the sufferings of
the inferior classes, arose from the consequences of the Conquest by
Duke William of Normandy. Four generations had not sufficed to blend
the hostile blood of the Normans and Anglo-Saxons, or to unite, by
common language and mutual interests, two hostile races, one of
which still felt the elation of triumph, while the other groaned
under all the consequences of defeat. The power had been completely
placed in the hands of the Norman nobility, by the event of the
battle of Hastings, and it had been used, as our histories assure
us, with no moderate hand. The whole race of Saxon princes and
nobles had been extirpated or disinherited, with few or no
exceptions; nor were the numbers great who possessed land in the
country of their fathers, even as proprietors of the second, or of
yet inferior classes. The royal policy had long been to weaken, by
every means, legal or illegal, the strength of a part of the
population which was justly considered as nourishing the most
inveterate antipathy to their victor. All the monarchs of the Norman
race had shown the most marked predilection for their Norman
subjects; the laws of the chase, and many others equally unknown to
the milder and more free spirit of the Saxon constitution, had been
fixed upon the necks of the subjugated inhabitants, to add weight,
as it were, to the feudal chains with which they were loaded. At
court, and in the castles of the great nobles, where the pomp and
state of a court was emulated, Norman-French was the only language
employed; in courts of law, the pleadings and judgments were
delivered in the same tongue. In short, French was the language of
honour, of chivalry, and even of justice, while the far more manly
and expressive Anglo-Saxon was abandoned to the use of rustics and
hinds, who knew no other. Still, however, the necessary intercourse
between the lords of the soil, and those oppressed inferior beings
by whom that soil was cultivated, occasioned the gradual formation
of a dialect, compounded betwixt the French and the Anglo-Saxon, in
which they could render themselves mutually intelligible to each
other; and from this necessity arose by degrees the structure of our
present English language, in which the speech of the victors and the
vanquished have been so happily blended together; and which has
since been so richly improved by importations from the classical
languages, and from those spoken by the southern nations of Europe.
This state of things I have
thought it necessary to premise for the information of the general
reader, who might be apt to forget, that, although no great
historical events, such as war or insurrection, mark the existence
of the Anglo-Saxons as a separate people subsequent to the reign of
William the Second; yet the great national distinctions betwixt them
and their conquerors, the recollection of what they had formerly
been, and to what they were now reduced, continued down to the reign
of Edward the Third, to keep open the wounds which the Conquest had
inflicted, and to maintain a line of separation betwixt the
descendants of the victor Normans and the vanquished Saxons.
The sun was setting upon one
of the rich grassy glades of that forest, which we have mentioned in
the beginning of the chapter. Hundreds of broad-headed,
short-stemmed, wide-branched oaks, which had witnessed perhaps the
stately march of the Roman soldiery, flung their gnarled arms over a
thick carpet of the most delicious green sward; in some places they
were intermingled with beeches, hollies, and copsewood of various
descriptions, so closely as totally to intercept the level beams of
the sinking sun; in others they receded from each other, forming
those long sweeping vistas, in the intricacy of which the eye
delights to lose itself, while imagination considers them as the
paths to yet wilder scenes of silvan solitude. Here the red rays of
the sun shot a broken and discoloured light, that partially hung
upon the shattered boughs and mossy trunks of the trees, and there
they illuminated in brilliant patches the portions of turf to which
they made their way. A considerable open space, in the midst of this
glade, seemed formerly to have been dedicated to the rites of
Druidical superstition; for, on the summit of a hillock, so regular
as to seem artificial, there still remained part of a circle of
rough unhewn stones, of large dimensions. Seven stood upright; the
rest had been dislodged from their places, probably by the zeal of
some convert to Christianity, and lay, some prostrate near their
former site, and others on the side of the hill. One large stone
only had found its way to the bottom, and in stopping the course of
a small brook, which glided smoothly round the foot of the eminence,
gave, by its opposition, a feeble voice of murmur to the placid and
elsewhere silent streamlet.
The human figures which
completed this landscape, were in number two, partaking, in their
dress and appearance, of that wild and rustic character, which
belonged to the woodlands of the West-Riding of Yorkshire at that
early period. The eldest of these men had a stern, savage, and wild
aspect. His garment was of the simplest form imaginable, being a
close jacket with sleeves, composed of the tanned skin of some
animal, on which the hair had been originally left, but which had
been worn off in so many places, that it would have been difficult
to distinguish from the patches that remained, to what creature the
fur had belonged. This primeval vestment reached from the throat to
the knees, and served at once all the usual purposes of
body-clothing; there was no wider opening at the collar, than was
necessary to admit the passage of the head, from which it may be
inferred, that it was put on by slipping it over the head and
shoulders, in the manner of a modern shirt, or ancient hauberk.
Sandals, bound with thongs made of boars' hide, protected the feet,
and a roll of thin leather was twined artificially round the legs,
and, ascending above the calf, left the knees bare, like those of a
Scottish Highlander. To make the jacket sit yet more close to the
body, it was gathered at the middle by a broad leathern belt,
secured by a brass buckle; to one side of which was attached a sort
of scrip, and to the other a ram's horn, accoutred with a
mouthpiece, for the purpose of blowing. In the same belt was stuck
one of those long, broad, sharp-pointed, and two-edged knives, with
a buck's-horn handle, which were fabricated in the neighbourhood,
and bore even at this early period the name of a Sheffield whittle.
The man had no covering upon his head, which was only defended by
his own thick hair, matted and twisted together, and scorched by the
influence of the sun into a rusty dark-red colour, forming a
contrast with the overgrown beard upon his cheeks, which was rather
of a yellow or amber hue. One part of his dress only remains, but it
is too remarkable to be suppressed; it was a brass ring, resembling
a dog's collar, but without any opening, and soldered fast round his
neck, so loose as to form no impediment to his breathing, yet so
tight as to be incapable of being removed, excepting by the use of
the file. On this singular gorget was engraved, in Saxon characters,
an inscription of the following purport:—"Gurth, the son of
Beowulph, is the born thrall of Cedric of Rotherwood."
Beside the swine-herd, for
such was Gurth's occupation, was seated, upon one of the fallen
Druidical monuments, a person about ten years younger in appearance,
and whose dress, though resembling his companion's in form, was of
better materials, and of a more fantastic appearance. His jacket had
been stained of a bright purple hue, upon which there had been some
attempt to paint grotesque ornaments in different colours. To the
jacket he added a short cloak, which scarcely reached half way down
his thigh; it was of crimson cloth, though a good deal soiled, lined
with bright yellow; and as he could transfer it from one shoulder to
the other, or at his pleasure draw it all around him, its width,
contrasted with its want of longitude, formed a fantastic piece of
drapery. He had thin silver bracelets upon his arms, and on his neck
a collar of the same metal bearing the inscription, "Wamba, the son
of Witless, is the thrall of Cedric of Rotherwood." This personage
had the same sort of sandals with his companion, but instead of the
roll of leather thong, his legs were cased in a sort of gaiters, of
which one was red and the other yellow. He was provided also with a
cap, having around it more than one bell, about the size of those
attached to hawks, which jingled as he turned his head to one side
or other; and as he seldom remained a minute in the same posture,
the sound might be considered as incessant. Around the edge of this
cap was a stiff bandeau of leather, cut at the top into open work,
resembling a coronet, while a prolonged bag arose from within it,
and fell down on one shoulder like an old-fashioned nightcap, or a
jelly-bag, or the head-gear of a modern hussar. It was to this part
of the cap that the bells were attached; which circumstance, as well
as the shape of his head-dress, and his own half-crazed,
half-cunning expression of countenance, sufficiently pointed him out
as belonging to the race of domestic clowns or jesters, maintained
in the houses of the wealthy, to help away the tedium of those
lingering hours which they were obliged to spend within doors. He
bore, like his companion, a scrip, attached to his belt, but had
neither horn nor knife, being probably considered as belonging to a
class whom it is esteemed dangerous to intrust with edge-tools. In
place of these, he was equipped with a sword of lath, resembling
that with which Harlequin operates his wonders upon the modern
stage.
The outward appearance of
these two men formed scarce a stronger contrast than their look and
demeanour. That of the serf, or bondsman, was sad and sullen; his
aspect was bent on the ground with an appearance of deep dejection,
which might be almost construed into apathy, had not the fire which
occasionally sparkled in his red eye manifested that there
slumbered, under the appearance of sullen despondency, a sense of
oppression, and a disposition to resistance. The looks of Wamba, on
the other hand, indicated, as usual with his class, a sort of vacant
curiosity, and fidgetty impatience of any posture of repose,
together with the utmost self-satisfaction respecting his own
situation, and the appearance which he made. The dialogue which they
maintained between them, was carried on in Anglo-Saxon, which, as we
said before, was universally spoken by the inferior classes,
excepting the Norman soldiers, and the immediate personal dependants
of the great feudal nobles. But to give their conversation in the
original would convey but little information to the modern reader,
for whose benefit we beg to offer the following translation:
"The curse of St
Withold upon these infernal porkers!" said the swine-herd, after
blowing his horn obstreperously, to collect together the scattered
herd of swine, which, answering his call with notes equally
melodious, made, however, no haste to remove themselves from the
luxurious banquet of beech-mast and acorns on which they had
fattened, or to forsake the marshy banks of the rivulet, where
several of them, half plunged in mud, lay stretched at their ease,
altogether regardless of the voice of their keeper. "The curse of St
Withold upon them and upon me!" said Gurth; "if the two-legged wolf
snap not up some of them ere nightfall, I am no true man. Here,
Fangs! Fangs!" he ejaculated at the top of his voice to a ragged
wolfish-looking dog, a sort of lurcher, half mastiff, half
greyhound, which ran limping about as if with the purpose of
seconding his master in collecting the refractory grunters; but
which, in fact, from misapprehension of the swine-herd's signals,
ignorance of his own duty, or malice prepense, only drove them
hither and thither, and increased the evil which he seemed to design
to remedy. "A devil draw the teeth of him," said Gurth, "and the
mother of mischief confound the Ranger of the forest, that cuts the
foreclaws off our dogs, and makes them unfit for their trade!
8
Wamba, up and help me an thou be'st a man; take a turn round the
back o' the hill to gain the wind on them; and when thous't got the
weather-gage, thou mayst drive them before thee as gently as so many
innocent lambs."
"Truly," said Wamba, without
stirring from the spot, "I have consulted my legs upon this matter,
and they are altogether of opinion, that to carry my gay garments
through these sloughs, would be an act of unfriendship to my
sovereign person and royal wardrobe; wherefore, Gurth, I advise thee
to call off Fangs, and leave the herd to their destiny, which,
whether they meet with bands of travelling soldiers, or of outlaws,
or of wandering pilgrims, can be little else than to be converted
into Normans before morning, to thy no small ease and comfort."
"The swine turned Normans to
my comfort!" quoth Gurth; "expound that to me, Wamba, for my brain
is too dull, and my mind too vexed, to read riddles."
"Why, how call you those
grunting brutes running about on their four legs?" demanded Wamba.
"Swine, fool, swine," said
the herd, "every fool knows that."
"And swine is good Saxon,"
said the Jester; "but how call you the sow when she is flayed, and
drawn, and quartered, and hung up by the heels, like a traitor?"
"Pork," answered the
swine-herd.
"I am very glad every fool
knows that too," said Wamba, "and pork, I think, is good
Norman-French; and so when the brute lives, and is in the charge of
a Saxon slave, she goes by her Saxon name; but becomes a Norman, and
is called pork, when she is carried to the Castle-hall to feast
among the nobles; what dost thou think of this, friend Gurth, ha?"
"It is but too true
doctrine, friend Wamba, however it got into thy fool's pate."
"Nay, I can tell you more,"
said Wamba, in the same tone; "there is old Alderman Ox continues to
hold his Saxon epithet, while he is under the charge of serfs and
bondsmen such as thou, but becomes Beef, a fiery French gallant,
when he arrives before the worshipful jaws that are destined to
consume him. Mynheer Calf, too, becomes Monsieur de Veau in the like
manner; he is Saxon when he requires tendance, and takes a Norman
name when he becomes matter of enjoyment."
"By St Dunstan," answered
Gurth, "thou speakest but sad truths; little is left to us but the
air we breathe, and that appears to have been reserved with much
hesitation, solely for the purpose of enabling us to endure the
tasks they lay upon our shoulders. The finest and the fattest is for
their board; the loveliest is for their couch; the best and bravest
supply their foreign masters with soldiers, and whiten distant lands
with their bones, leaving few here who have either will or the power
to protect the unfortunate Saxon. God's blessing on our master
Cedric, he hath done the work of a man in standing in the gap; but
Reginald Front-de-Boeuf is coming down to this country in person,
and we shall soon see how little Cedric's trouble will avail
him.—Here, here," he exclaimed again, raising his voice, "So ho! so
ho! well done, Fangs! thou hast them all before thee now, and
bring'st them on bravely, lad."
"Gurth," said the Jester, "I
know thou thinkest me a fool, or thou wouldst not be so rash in
putting thy head into my mouth. One word to Reginald Front-de-Boeuf,
or Philip de Malvoisin, that thou hast spoken treason against the
Norman,—and thou art but a cast-away swineherd,—thou wouldst waver
on one of these trees as a terror to all evil speakers against
dignities."
"Dog, thou wouldst not
betray me," said Gurth, "after having led me on to speak so much at
disadvantage?"
"Betray thee!" answered the
Jester; "no, that were the trick of a wise man; a fool cannot half
so well help himself—but soft, whom have we here?" he said,
listening to the trampling of several horses which became then
audible.
"Never mind whom," answered
Gurth, who had now got his herd before him, and, with the aid of
Fangs, was driving them down one of the long dim vistas which we
have endeavoured to describe.
"Nay, but I must see the
riders," answered Wamba; "perhaps they are come from Fairy-land with
a message from King Oberon."
"A murrain take thee,"
rejoined the swine-herd; "wilt thou talk of such things, while a
terrible storm of thunder and lightning is raging within a few miles
of us? Hark, how the thunder rumbles! and for summer rain, I never
saw such broad downright flat drops fall out of the clouds; the
oaks, too, notwithstanding the calm weather, sob and creak with
their great boughs as if announcing a tempest. Thou canst play the
rational if thou wilt; credit me for once, and let us home ere the
storm begins to rage, for the night will be fearful."
Wamba seemed to feel the
force of this appeal, and accompanied his companion, who began his
journey after catching up a long quarter-staff which lay upon the
grass beside him. This second Eumaeus strode hastily down the forest
glade, driving before him, with the assistance of Fangs, the whole
herd of his inharmonious charge.
CHAPTER II
A Monk there was, a fayre for the maistrie,
An outrider that loved venerie;
A manly man, to be an Abbot able,
Full many a daintie horse had he in stable:
And whan he rode, men might his bridle hear
Gingeling in a whistling wind as clear,
And eke as loud, as doth the chapell bell,
There as this lord was keeper of the cell.
—Chaucer.
Notwithstanding the
occasional exhortation and chiding of his companion, the noise of
the horsemen's feet continuing to approach, Wamba could not be
prevented from lingering occasionally on the road, upon every
pretence which occurred; now catching from the hazel a cluster of
half-ripe nuts, and now turning his head to leer after a cottage
maiden who crossed their path. The horsemen, therefore, soon
overtook them on the road.
Their numbers amounted to
ten men, of whom the two who rode foremost seemed to be persons of
considerable importance, and the others their attendants. It was not
difficult to ascertain the condition and character of one of these
personages. He was obviously an ecclesiastic of high rank; his dress
was that of a Cistercian Monk, but composed of materials much finer
than those which the rule of that order admitted. His mantle and
hood were of the best Flanders cloth, and fell in ample, and not
ungraceful folds, around a handsome, though somewhat corpulent
person. His countenance bore as little the marks of self-denial, as
his habit indicated contempt of worldly splendour. His features
might have been called good, had there not lurked under the
pent-house of his eye, that sly epicurean twinkle which indicates
the cautious voluptuary. In other respects, his profession and
situation had taught him a ready command over his countenance, which
he could contract at pleasure into solemnity, although its natural
expression was that of good-humoured social indulgence. In defiance
of conventual rules, and the edicts of popes and councils, the
sleeves of this dignitary were lined and turned up with rich furs,
his mantle secured at the throat with a golden clasp, and the whole
dress proper to his order as much refined upon and ornamented, as
that of a quaker beauty of the present day, who, while she retains
the garb and costume of her sect continues to give to its
simplicity, by the choice of materials and the mode of disposing
them, a certain air of coquettish attraction, savouring but too much
of the vanities of the world.
This worthy churchman rode
upon a well-fed ambling mule, whose furniture was highly decorated,
and whose bridle, according to the fashion of the day, was
ornamented with silver bells. In his seat he had nothing of the
awkwardness of the convent, but displayed the easy and habitual
grace of a well-trained horseman. Indeed, it seemed that so humble a
conveyance as a mule, in however good case, and however well broken
to a pleasant and accommodating amble, was only used by the gallant
monk for travelling on the road. A lay brother, one of those who
followed in the train, had, for his use on other occasions, one of
the most handsome Spanish jennets ever bred at Andalusia, which
merchants used at that time to import, with great trouble and risk,
for the use of persons of wealth and distinction. The saddle and
housings of this superb palfrey were covered by a long foot-cloth,
which reached nearly to the ground, and on which were richly
embroidered, mitres, crosses, and other ecclesiastical emblems.
Another lay brother led a sumpter mule, loaded probably with his
superior's baggage; and two monks of his own order, of inferior
station, rode together in the rear, laughing and conversing with
each other, without taking much notice of the other members of the
cavalcade.
The companion of the church
dignitary was a man past forty, thin, strong, tall, and muscular; an
athletic figure, which long fatigue and constant exercise seemed to
have left none of the softer part of the human form, having reduced
the whole to brawn, bones, and sinews, which had sustained a
thousand toils, and were ready to dare a thousand more. His head was
covered with a scarlet cap, faced with fur—of that kind which the
French call "mortier", from its resemblance to the shape of an
inverted mortar. His countenance was therefore fully displayed, and
its expression was calculated to impress a degree of awe, if not of
fear, upon strangers. High features, naturally strong and powerfully
expressive, had been burnt almost into Negro blackness by constant
exposure to the tropical sun, and might, in their ordinary state, be
said to slumber after the storm of passion had passed away; but the
projection of the veins of the forehead, the readiness with which
the upper lip and its thick black moustaches quivered upon the
slightest emotion, plainly intimated that the tempest might be again
and easily awakened. His keen, piercing, dark eyes, told in every
glance a history of difficulties subdued, and dangers dared, and
seemed to challenge opposition to his wishes, for the pleasure of
sweeping it from his road by a determined exertion of courage and of
will; a deep scar on his brow gave additional sternness to his
countenance, and a sinister expression to one of his eyes, which had
been slightly injured on the same occasion, and of which the vision,
though perfect, was in a slight and partial degree distorted.
The upper dress of this
personage resembled that of his companion in shape, being a long
monastic mantle; but the colour, being scarlet, showed that he did
not belong to any of the four regular orders of monks. On the right
shoulder of the mantle there was cut, in white cloth, a cross of a
peculiar form. This upper robe concealed what at first view seemed
rather inconsistent with its form, a shirt, namely, of linked mail,
with sleeves and gloves of the same, curiously plaited and
interwoven, as flexible to the body as those which are now wrought
in the stocking-loom, out of less obdurate materials. The fore-part
of his thighs, where the folds of his mantle permitted them to be
seen, were also covered with linked mail; the knees and feet were
defended by splints, or thin plates of steel, ingeniously jointed
upon each other; and mail hose, reaching from the ankle to the knee,
effectually protected the legs, and completed the rider's defensive
armour. In his girdle he wore a long and double-edged dagger, which
was the only offensive weapon about his person.
He rode, not a mule, like
his companion, but a strong hackney for the road, to save his
gallant war-horse, which a squire led behind, fully accoutred for
battle, with a chamfron or plaited head-piece upon his head, having
a short spike projecting from the front. On one side of the saddle
hung a short battle-axe, richly inlaid with Damascene carving; on
the other the rider's plumed head-piece and hood of mail, with a
long two-handed sword, used by the chivalry of the period. A second
squire held aloft his master's lance, from the extremity of which
fluttered a small banderole, or streamer, bearing a cross of the
same form with that embroidered upon his cloak. He also carried his
small triangular shield, broad enough at the top to protect the
breast, and from thence diminishing to a point. It was covered with
a scarlet cloth, which prevented the device from being seen.
These two squires were
followed by two attendants, whose dark visages, white turbans, and
the Oriental form of their garments, showed them to be natives of
some distant Eastern country.
9
The whole appearance of this
warrior and his retinue was wild and outlandish; the dress of his
squires was gorgeous, and his Eastern attendants wore silver collars
round their throats, and bracelets of the same metal upon their
swarthy arms and legs, of which the former were naked from the
elbow, and the latter from mid-leg to ankle. Silk and embroidery
distinguished their dresses, and marked the wealth and importance of
their master; forming, at the same time, a striking contrast with
the martial simplicity of his own attire. They were armed with
crooked sabres, having the hilt and baldric inlaid with gold, and
matched with Turkish daggers of yet more costly workmanship. Each of
them bore at his saddle-bow a bundle of darts or javelins, about
four feet in length, having sharp steel heads, a weapon much in use
among the Saracens, and of which the memory is yet preserved in the
martial exercise called "El Jerrid", still practised in the Eastern
countries.
The steeds of these
attendants were in appearance as foreign as their riders. They were
of Saracen origin, and consequently of Arabian descent; and their
fine slender limbs, small fetlocks, thin manes, and easy springy
motion, formed a marked contrast with the large-jointed, heavy
horses, of which the race was cultivated in Flanders and in
Normandy, for mounting the men-at-arms of the period in all the
panoply of plate and mail; and which, placed by the side of those
Eastern coursers, might have passed for a personification of
substance and of shadow.
The singular appearance of
this cavalcade not only attracted the curiosity of Wamba, but
excited even that of his less volatile companion. The monk he
instantly knew to be the Prior of Jorvaulx Abbey, well known for
many miles around as a lover of the chase, of the banquet, and, if
fame did him not wrong, of other worldly pleasures still more
inconsistent with his monastic vows.
Yet so loose were the ideas
of the times respecting the conduct of the clergy, whether secular
or regular, that the Prior Aymer maintained a fair character in the
neighbourhood of his abbey. His free and jovial temper, and the
readiness with which he granted absolution from all ordinary
delinquencies, rendered him a favourite among the nobility and
principal gentry, to several of whom he was allied by birth, being
of a distinguished Norman family. The ladies, in particular, were
not disposed to scan too nicely the morals of a man who was a
professed admirer of their sex, and who possessed many means of
dispelling the ennui which was too apt to intrude upon the halls and
bowers of an ancient feudal castle. The Prior mingled in the sports
of the field with more than due eagerness, and was allowed to
possess the best-trained hawks, and the fleetest greyhounds in the
North Riding; circumstances which strongly recommended him to the
youthful gentry. With the old, he had another part to play, which,
when needful, he could sustain with great decorum. His knowledge of
books, however superficial, was sufficient to impress upon their
ignorance respect for his supposed learning; and the gravity of his
deportment and language, with the high tone which he exerted in
setting forth the authority of the church and of the priesthood,
impressed them no less with an opinion of his sanctity. Even the
common people, the severest critics of the conduct of their betters,
had commiseration with the follies of Prior Aymer. He was generous;
and charity, as it is well known, covereth a multitude of sins, in
another sense than that in which it is said to do so in Scripture.
The revenues of the monastery, of which a large part was at his
disposal, while they gave him the means of supplying his own very
considerable expenses, afforded also those largesses which he
bestowed among the peasantry, and with which he frequently relieved
the distresses of the oppressed. If Prior Aymer rode hard in the
chase, or remained long at the banquet,—if Prior Aymer was seen, at
the early peep of dawn, to enter the postern of the abbey, as he
glided home from some rendezvous which had occupied the hours of
darkness, men only shrugged up their shoulders, and reconciled
themselves to his irregularities, by recollecting that the same were
practised by many of his brethren who had no redeeming qualities
whatsoever to atone for them. Prior Aymer, therefore, and his
character, were well known to our Saxon serfs, who made their rude
obeisance, and received his "benedicite, mes filz," in return.
But the singular appearance
of his companion and his attendants, arrested their attention and
excited their wonder, and they could scarcely attend to the Prior of
Jorvaulx' question, when he demanded if they knew of any place of
harbourage in the vicinity; so much were they surprised at the half
monastic, half military appearance of the swarthy stranger, and at
the uncouth dress and arms of his Eastern attendants. It is
probable, too, that the language in which the benediction was
conferred, and the information asked, sounded ungracious, though not
probably unintelligible, in the ears of the Saxon peasants.
"I asked you, my children,"
said the Prior, raising his voice, and using the lingua Franca, or
mixed language, in which the Norman and Saxon races conversed with
each other, "if there be in this neighbourhood any good man, who,
for the love of God, and devotion to Mother Church, will give two of
her humblest servants, with their train, a night's hospitality and
refreshment?"
This he spoke with a tone of
conscious importance, which formed a strong contrast to the modest
terms which he thought it proper to employ.
"Two of the humblest
servants of Mother Church!" repeated Wamba to himself,—but, fool as
he was, taking care not to make his observation audible; "I should
like to see her seneschals, her chief butlers, and other principal
domestics!"
After this internal
commentary on the Prior's speech, he raised his eyes, and replied to
the question which had been put.
"If the reverend fathers,"
he said, "loved good cheer and soft lodging, few miles of riding
would carry them to the Priory of Brinxworth, where their quality
could not but secure them the most honourable reception; or if they
preferred spending a penitential evening, they might turn down
yonder wild glade, which would bring them to the hermitage of
Copmanhurst, where a pious anchoret would make them sharers for the
night of the shelter of his roof and the benefit of his prayers."
The Prior shook his head at
both proposals.
"Mine honest friend," said
he, "if the jangling of thy bells had not dizzied thine
understanding, thou mightst know "Clericus clericum non decimat";
that is to say, we churchmen do not exhaust each other's
hospitality, but rather require that of the laity, giving them thus
an opportunity to serve God in honouring and relieving his appointed
servants."
"It is true," replied Wamba,
"that I, being but an ass, am, nevertheless, honoured to hear the
bells as well as your reverence's mule; notwithstanding, I did
conceive that the charity of Mother Church and her servants might be
said, with other charity, to begin at home."
"A truce to thine insolence,
fellow," said the armed rider, breaking in on his prattle with a
high and stern voice, "and tell us, if thou canst, the road to—How
call'd you your Franklin, Prior Aymer?"
"Cedric," answered the
Prior; "Cedric the Saxon.—Tell me, good fellow, are we near his
dwelling, and can you show us the road?"
"The road will be uneasy to
find," answered Gurth, who broke silence for the first time, "and
the family of Cedric retire early to rest."
"Tush, tell not me, fellow,"
said the military rider; "'tis easy for them to arise and supply the
wants of travellers such as we are, who will not stoop to beg the
hospitality which we have a right to command."
"I know not," said Gurth,
sullenly, "if I should show the way to my master's house, to those
who demand as a right, the shelter which most are fain to ask as a
favour."
"Do you dispute with me,
slave!" said the soldier; and, setting spurs to his horse, he caused
him make a demivolte across the path, raising at the same time the
riding rod which he held in his hand, with a purpose of chastising
what he considered as the insolence of the peasant.
Gurth darted at him a savage
and revengeful scowl, and with a fierce, yet hesitating motion, laid
his hand on the haft of his knife; but the interference of Prior
Aymer, who pushed his mule betwixt his companion and the swineherd,
prevented the meditated violence.
"Nay, by St Mary, brother
Brian, you must not think you are now in Palestine, predominating
over heathen Turks and infidel Saracens; we islanders love not
blows, save those of holy Church, who chasteneth whom she
loveth.—Tell me, good fellow," said he to Wamba, and seconded his
speech by a small piece of silver coin, "the way to Cedric the
Saxon's; you cannot be ignorant of it, and it is your duty to direct
the wanderer even when his character is less sanctified than ours."
"In truth, venerable
father," answered the Jester, "the Saracen head of your right
reverend companion has frightened out of mine the way home—I am not
sure I shall get there to-night myself."
"Tush," said the Abbot,
"thou canst tell us if thou wilt. This reverend brother has been all
his life engaged in fighting among the Saracens for the recovery of
the Holy Sepulchre; he is of the order of Knights Templars, whom you
may have heard of; he is half a monk, half a soldier."
"If he is but half a monk,"
said the Jester, "he should not be wholly unreasonable with those
whom he meets upon the road, even if they should be in no hurry to
answer questions that no way concern them."
"I forgive thy wit," replied
the Abbot, "on condition thou wilt show me the way to Cedric's
mansion."
"Well, then," answered
Wamba, "your reverences must hold on this path till you come to a
sunken cross, of which scarce a cubit's length remains above ground;
then take the path to the left, for there are four which meet at
Sunken Cross, and I trust your reverences will obtain shelter before
the storm comes on."
The Abbot thanked his sage
adviser; and the cavalcade, setting spurs to their horses, rode on
as men do who wish to reach their inn before the bursting of a
night-storm. As their horses' hoofs died away, Gurth said to his
companion, "If they follow thy wise direction, the reverend fathers
will hardly reach Rotherwood this night."
"No," said the Jester,
grinning, "but they may reach Sheffield if they have good luck, and
that is as fit a place for them. I am not so bad a woodsman as to
show the dog where the deer lies, if I have no mind he should chase
him."
"Thou art right," said
Gurth; "it were ill that Aymer saw the Lady Rowena; and it were
worse, it may be, for Cedric to quarrel, as is most likely he would,
with this military monk. But, like good servants let us hear and
see, and say nothing."
We return to the riders, who
had soon left the bondsmen far behind them, and who maintained the
following conversation in the Norman-French language, usually
employed by the superior classes, with the exception of the few who
were still inclined to boast their Saxon descent.
"What mean these fellows by
their capricious insolence?" said the Templar to the Benedictine,
"and why did you prevent me from chastising it?"
"Marry, brother Brian,"
replied the Prior, "touching the one of them, it were hard for me to
render a reason for a fool speaking according to his folly; and the
other churl is of that savage, fierce, intractable race, some of
whom, as I have often told you, are still to be found among the
descendants of the conquered Saxons, and whose supreme pleasure it
is to testify, by all means in their power, their aversion to their
conquerors."
"I would soon have beat him
into courtesy," observed Brian; "I am accustomed to deal with such
spirits: Our Turkish captives are as fierce and intractable as Odin
himself could have been; yet two months in my household, under the
management of my master of the slaves, has made them humble,
submissive, serviceable, and observant of your will. Marry, sir, you
must be aware of the poison and the dagger; for they use either with
free will when you give them the slightest opportunity."
"Ay, but," answered Prior
Aymer, "every land has its own manners and fashions; and, besides
that beating this fellow could procure us no information respecting
the road to Cedric's house, it would have been sure to have
established a quarrel betwixt you and him had we found our way
thither. Remember what I told you: this wealthy franklin is proud,
fierce, jealous, and irritable, a withstander of the nobility, and
even of his neighbors, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf and Philip Malvoisin,
who are no babies to strive with. He stands up sternly for the
privileges of his race, and is so proud of his uninterrupted descend
from Hereward, a renowned champion of the Heptarchy, that he is
universally called Cedric the Saxon; and makes a boast of his
belonging to a people from whom many others endeaver to hide their
descent, lest they should encounter a share of the 'vae victis,' or
severities imposed upon the vanquished."
"Prior Aymer," said the
Templar, "you are a man of gallantry, learned in the study of
beauty, and as expert as a troubadour in all matters concerning the
'arrets' of love; but I shall expect much beauty in this celebrated
Rowena to counterbalance the self-denial and forbearance which I
must exert if I am to court the favor of such a seditious churl as
you have described her father Cedric."
"Cedric is not her father,"
replied the Prior, "and is but of remote relation: she is descended
from higher blood than even he pretends to, and is but distantly
connected with him by birth. Her guardian, however, he is,
self-constituted as I believe; but his ward is as dear to him as if
she were his own child. Of her beauty you shall soon be judge; and
if the purity of her complexion, and the majestic, yet soft
expression of a mild blue eye, do not chase from your memory the
black-tressed girls of Palestine, ay, or the houris of old Mahound's
paradise, I am an infidel, and no true son of the church."
"Should your boasted
beauty," said the Templar, "be weighed in the balance and found
wanting, you know our wager?"
"My gold collar," answered
the Prior, "against ten butts of Chian wine;—they are mine as
securely as if they were already in the convent vaults, under the
key of old Dennis the cellarer."
"And I am myself to be
judge," said the Templar, "and am only to be convicted on my own
admission, that I have seen no maiden so beautiful since Pentecost
was a twelvemonth. Ran it not so?—Prior, your collar is in danger; I
will wear it over my gorget in the lists of Ashby-de-la-Zouche."
"Win it fairly," said the
Prior, "and wear it as ye will; I will trust your giving true
response, on your word as a knight and as a churchman. Yet, brother,
take my advice, and file your tongue to a little more courtesy than
your habits of predominating over infidel captives and Eastern
bondsmen have accustomed you. Cedric the Saxon, if offended,—and he
is noway slack in taking offence,—is a man who, without respect to
your knighthood, my high office, or the sanctity of either, would
clear his house of us, and send us to lodge with the larks, though
the hour were midnight. And be careful how you look on Rowena, whom
he cherishes with the most jealous care; an he take the least alarm
in that quarter we are but lost men. It is said he banished his only
son from his family for lifting his eyes in the way of affection
towards this beauty, who may be worshipped, it seems, at a distance,
but is not to be approached with other thoughts than such as we
bring to the shrine of the Blessed Virgin."
"Well, you have said
enough," answered the Templar; "I will for a night put on the
needful restraint, and deport me as meekly as a maiden; but as for
the fear of his expelling us by violence, myself and squires, with
Hamet and Abdalla, will warrant you against that disgrace. Doubt not
that we shall be strong enough to make good our quarters."
"We must not let it come so
far," answered the Prior; "but here is the clown's sunken cross, and
the night is so dark that we can hardly see which of the roads we
are to follow. He bid us turn, I think to the left."
"To the right," said Brian,
"to the best of my remembrance."
"To the left, certainly, the
left; I remember his pointing with his wooden sword."
"Ay, but he held his sword
in his left hand, and so pointed across his body with it," said the
Templar.
Each maintained his opinion
with sufficient obstinacy, as is usual in all such cases; the
attendants were appealed to, but they had not been near enough to
hear Wamba's directions. At length Brian remarked, what had at first
escaped him in the twilight; "Here is some one either asleep, or
lying dead at the foot of this cross—Hugo, stir him with the
butt-end of thy lance."
This was no sooner done than
the figure arose, exclaiming in good French, "Whosoever thou art, it
is discourteous in you to disturb my thoughts."
"We did but wish to ask
you," said the Prior, "the road to Rotherwood, the abode of Cedric
the Saxon."
"I myself am bound thither,"
replied the stranger; "and if I had a horse, I would be your guide,
for the way is somewhat intricate, though perfectly well known to
me."
"Thou shalt have both thanks
and reward, my friend," said the Prior, "if thou wilt bring us to
Cedric's in safety."
And he caused one of his
attendants to mount his own led horse, and give that upon which he
had hitherto ridden to the stranger, who was to serve for a guide.
Their conductor pursued an
opposite road from that which Wamba had recommended, for the purpose
of misleading them. The path soon led deeper into the woodland, and
crossed more than one brook, the approach to which was rendered
perilous by the marshes through which it flowed; but the stranger
seemed to know, as if by instinct, the soundest ground and the
safest points of passage; and by dint of caution and attention,
brought the party safely into a wilder avenue than any they had yet
seen; and, pointing to a large low irregular building at the upper
extremity, he said to the Prior, "Yonder is Rotherwood, the dwelling
of Cedric the Saxon."
This was a joyful intimation
to Aymer, whose nerves were none of the strongest, and who had
suffered such agitation and alarm in the course of passing through
the dangerous bogs, that he had not yet had the curiosity to ask his
guide a single question. Finding himself now at his ease and near
shelter, his curiosity began to awake, and he demanded of the guide
who and what he was.
"A Palmer, just returned
from the Holy Land," was the answer.
"You had better have tarried
there to fight for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre," said the
Templar.
"True, Reverend Sir Knight,"
answered the Palmer, to whom the appearance of the Templar seemed
perfectly familiar; "but when those who are under oath to recover
the holy city, are found travelling at such a distance from the
scene of their duties, can you wonder that a peaceful peasant like
me should decline the task which they have abandoned?"
The Templar would have made
an angry reply, but was interrupted by the Prior, who again
expressed his astonishment, that their guide, after such long
absence, should be so perfectly acquainted with the passes of the
forest.
"I was born a native of
these parts," answered their guide, and as he made the reply they
stood before the mansion of Cedric;—a low irregular building,
containing several court-yards or enclosures, extending over a
considerable space of ground, and which, though its size argued the
inhabitant to be a person of wealth, differed entirely from the
tall, turretted, and castellated buildings in which the Norman
nobility resided, and which had become the universal style of
architecture throughout England.
Rotherwood was not, however,
without defences; no habitation, in that disturbed period, could
have been so, without the risk of being plundered and burnt before
the next morning. A deep fosse, or ditch, was drawn round the whole
building, and filled with water from a neighbouring stream. A double
stockade, or palisade, composed of pointed beams, which the adjacent
forest supplied, defended the outer and inner bank of the trench.
There was an entrance from the west through the outer stockade,
which communicated by a drawbridge, with a similar opening in the
interior defences. Some precautions had been taken to place those
entrances under the protection of projecting angles, by which they
might be flanked in case of need by archers or slingers.
Before this entrance the
Templar wound his horn loudly; for the rain, which had long
threatened, began now to descend with great violence.
CHAPTER III
Then (sad relief!) from the bleak coast that hears
The German Ocean roar, deep-blooming, strong,
And yellow hair'd, the blue-eyed Saxon came.
Thomson's Liberty
In a hall, the height of
which was greatly disproportioned to its extreme length and width, a
long oaken table, formed of planks rough-hewn from the forest, and
which had scarcely received any polish, stood ready prepared for the
evening meal of Cedric the Saxon. The roof, composed of beams and
rafters, had nothing to divide the apartment from the sky excepting
the planking and thatch; there was a huge fireplace at either end of
the hall, but as the chimneys were constructed in a very clumsy
manner, at least as much of the smoke found its way into the
apartment as escaped by the proper vent. The constant vapour which
this occasioned, had polished the rafters and beams of the
low-browed hall, by encrusting them with a black varnish of soot. On
the sides of the apartment hung implements of war and of the chase,
and there were at each corner folding doors, which gave access to
other parts of the extensive building.
The other appointments of
the mansion partook of the rude simplicity of the Saxon period,
which Cedric piqued himself upon maintaining. The floor was composed
of earth mixed with lime, trodden into a hard substance, such as is
often employed in flooring our modern barns. For about one quarter
of the length of the apartment, the floor was raised by a step, and
this space, which was called the dais, was occupied only by the
principal members of the family, and visitors of distinction. For
this purpose, a table richly covered with scarlet cloth was placed
transversely across the platform, from the middle of which ran the
longer and lower board, at which the domestics and inferior persons
fed, down towards the bottom of the hall. The whole resembled the
form of the letter T, or some of those ancient dinner-tables, which,
arranged on the same principles, may be still seen in the antique
Colleges of Oxford or Cambridge. Massive chairs and settles of
carved oak were placed upon the dais, and over these seats and the
more elevated table was fastened a canopy of cloth, which served in
some degree to protect the dignitaries who occupied that
distinguished station from the weather, and especially from the
rain, which in some places found its way through the ill-constructed
roof.
The walls of this upper end
of the hall, as far as the dais extended, were covered with hangings
or curtains, and upon the floor there was a carpet, both of which
were adorned with some attempts at tapestry, or embroidery, executed
with brilliant or rather gaudy colouring. Over the lower range of
table, the roof, as we have noticed, had no covering; the rough
plastered walls were left bare, and the rude earthen floor was
uncarpeted; the board was uncovered by a cloth, and rude massive
benches supplied the place of chairs.
In the centre of the upper
table, were placed two chairs more elevated than the rest, for the
master and mistress of the family, who presided over the scene of
hospitality, and from doing so derived their Saxon title of honour,
which signifies "the Dividers of Bread."
To each of these chairs was
added a footstool, curiously carved and inlaid with ivory, which
mark of distinction was peculiar to them. One of these seats was at
present occupied by Cedric the Saxon, who, though but in rank a
thane, or, as the Normans called him, a Franklin, felt, at the delay
of his evening meal, an irritable impatience, which might have
become an alderman, whether of ancient or of modern times.
It appeared, indeed, from
the countenance of this proprietor, that he was of a frank, but
hasty and choleric temper. He was not above the middle stature, but
broad-shouldered, long-armed, and powerfully made, like one
accustomed to endure the fatigue of war or of the chase; his face
was broad, with large blue eyes, open and frank features, fine
teeth, and a well formed head, altogether expressive of that sort of
good-humour which often lodges with a sudden and hasty temper. Pride
and jealousy there was in his eye, for his life had been spent in
asserting rights which were constantly liable to invasion; and the
prompt, fiery, and resolute disposition of the man, had been kept
constantly upon the alert by the circumstances of his situation. His
long yellow hair was equally divided on the top of his head and upon
his brow, and combed down on each side to the length of his
shoulders; it had but little tendency to grey, although Cedric was
approaching to his sixtieth year.
His dress was a tunic of
forest green, furred at the throat and cuffs with what was called
minever; a kind of fur inferior in quality to ermine, and formed, it
is believed, of the skin of the grey squirrel. This doublet hung
unbuttoned over a close dress of scarlet which sat tight to his
body; he had breeches of the same, but they did not reach below the
lower part of the thigh, leaving the knee exposed. His feet had
sandals of the same fashion with the peasants, but of finer
materials, and secured in the front with golden clasps. He had
bracelets of gold upon his arms, and a broad collar of the same
precious metal around his neck. About his waist he wore a
richly-studded belt, in which was stuck a short straight two-edged
sword, with a sharp point, so disposed as to hang almost
perpendicularly by his side. Behind his seat was hung a scarlet
cloth cloak lined with fur, and a cap of the same materials richly
embroidered, which completed the dress of the opulent landholder
when he chose to go forth. A short boar-spear, with a broad and
bright steel head, also reclined against the back of his chair,
which served him, when he walked abroad, for the purposes of a staff
or of a weapon, as chance might require.
Several domestics, whose
dress held various proportions betwixt the richness of their
master's, and the coarse and simple attire of Gurth the swine-herd,
watched the looks and waited the commands of the Saxon dignitary.
Two or three servants of a superior order stood behind their master
upon the dais; the rest occupied the lower part of the hall. Other
attendants there were of a different description; two or three large
and shaggy greyhounds, such as were then employed in hunting the
stag and wolf; as many slow-hounds of a large bony breed, with thick
necks, large heads, and long ears; and one or two of the smaller
dogs, now called terriers, which waited with impatience the arrival
of the supper; but, with the sagacious knowledge of physiognomy
peculiar to their race, forbore to intrude upon the moody silence of
their master, apprehensive probably of a small white truncheon which
lay by Cedric's trencher, for the purpose of repelling the advances
of his four-legged dependants. One grisly old wolf-dog alone, with
the liberty of an indulged favourite, had planted himself close by
the chair of state, and occasionally ventured to solicit notice by
putting his large hairy head upon his master's knee, or pushing his
nose into his hand. Even he was repelled by the stern command,
"Down, Balder, down! I am not in the humour for foolery."
In fact, Cedric, as we have
observed, was in no very placid state of mind. The Lady Rowena, who
had been absent to attend an evening mass at a distant church, had
but just returned, and was changing her garments, which had been
wetted by the storm. There were as yet no tidings of Gurth and his
charge, which should long since have been driven home from the
forest and such was the insecurity of the period, as to render it
probable that the delay might be explained by some depreciation of
the outlaws, with whom the adjacent forest abounded, or by the
violence of some neighbouring baron, whose consciousness of strength
made him equally negligent of the laws of property. The matter was
of consequence, for great part of the domestic wealth of the Saxon
proprietors consisted in numerous herds of swine, especially in
forest-land, where those animals easily found their food.
Besides these subjects of
anxiety, the Saxon thane was impatient for the presence of his
favourite clown Wamba, whose jests, such as they were, served for a
sort of seasoning to his evening meal, and to the deep draughts of
ale and wine with which he was in the habit of accompanying it. Add
to all this, Cedric had fasted since noon, and his usual supper hour
was long past, a cause of irritation common to country squires, both
in ancient and modern times. His displeasure was expressed in broken
sentences, partly muttered to himself, partly addressed to the
domestics who stood around; and particularly to his cupbearer, who
offered him from time to time, as a sedative, a silver goblet filled
with wine—"Why tarries the Lady Rowena?"
"She is but changing her
head-gear," replied a female attendant, with as much confidence as
the favourite lady's-maid usually answers the master of a modern
family; "you would not wish her to sit down to the banquet in her
hood and kirtle? and no lady within the shire can be quicker in
arraying herself than my mistress."
This undeniable
argument produced a sort of acquiescent umph! on the part of the
Saxon, with the addition, "I wish her devotion may choose fair
weather for the next visit to St John's Kirk;—but what, in the name
of ten devils," continued he, turning to the cupbearer, and raising
his voice as if happy to have found a channel into which he might
divert his indignation without fear or control—"what, in the name of
ten devils, keeps Gurth so long afield? I suppose we shall have an
evil account of the herd; he was wont to be a faithful and cautious
drudge, and I had destined him for something better; perchance I
might even have made him one of my warders."
11
Oswald the cupbearer
modestly suggested, "that it was scarce an hour since the tolling of
the curfew;" an ill-chosen apology, since it turned upon a topic so
harsh to Saxon ears.
"The foul fiend," exclaimed
Cedric, "take the curfew-bell, and the tyrannical bastard by whom it
was devised, and the heartless slave who names it with a Saxon
tongue to a Saxon ear! The curfew!" he added, pausing, "ay, the
curfew; which compels true men to extinguish their lights, that
thieves and robbers may work their deeds in darkness!—Ay, the
curfew;—Reginald Front-de-Boeuf and Philip de Malvoisin know the use
of the curfew as well as William the Bastard himself, or e'er a
Norman adventurer that fought at Hastings. I shall hear, I guess,
that my property has been swept off to save from starving the hungry
banditti, whom they cannot support but by theft and robbery. My
faithful slave is murdered, and my goods are taken for a prey—and
Wamba—where is Wamba? Said not some one he had gone forth with
Gurth?"
Oswald replied in the
affirmative.
"Ay? why this is better and
better! he is carried off too, the Saxon fool, to serve the Norman
lord. Fools are we all indeed that serve them, and fitter subjects
for their scorn and laughter, than if we were born with but half our
wits. But I will be avenged," he added, starting from his chair in
impatience at the supposed injury, and catching hold of his
boar-spear; "I will go with my complaint to the great council; I
have friends, I have followers—man to man will I appeal the Norman
to the lists; let him come in his plate and his mail, and all that
can render cowardice bold; I have sent such a javelin as this
through a stronger fence than three of their war shields!—Haply they
think me old; but they shall find, alone and childless as I am, the
blood of Hereward is in the veins of Cedric.—Ah, Wilfred, Wilfred!"
he exclaimed in a lower tone, "couldst thou have ruled thine
unreasonable passion, thy father had not been left in his age like
the solitary oak that throws out its shattered and unprotected
branches against the full sweep of the tempest!" The reflection
seemed to conjure into sadness his irritated feelings. Replacing his
javelin, he resumed his seat, bent his looks downward, and appeared
to be absorbed in melancholy reflection.
From his musing, Cedric was
suddenly awakened by the blast of a horn, which was replied to by
the clamorous yells and barking of all the dogs in the hall, and
some twenty or thirty which were quartered in other parts of the
building. It cost some exercise of the white truncheon, well
seconded by the exertions of the domestics, to silence this canine
clamour.
"To the gate, knaves!"
said the Saxon, hastily, as soon as the tumult was so much appeased
that the dependants could hear his voice. "See what tidings that
horn tells us of—to announce, I ween, some hership
12
and robbery which has been done upon my lands."
Returning in less than three
minutes, a warder announced "that the Prior Aymer of Jorvaulx, and
the good knight Brian de Bois-Guilbert, commander of the valiant and
venerable order of Knights Templars, with a small retinue, requested
hospitality and lodging for the night, being on their way to a
tournament which was to be held not far from Ashby-de-la-Zouche, on
the second day from the present."
"Aymer, the Prior Aymer?
Brian de Bois-Guilbert?"—muttered Cedric; "Normans both;—but Norman
or Saxon, the hospitality of Rotherwood must not be impeached; they
are welcome, since they have chosen to halt—more welcome would they
have been to have ridden further on their way—But it were unworthy
to murmur for a night's lodging and a night's food; in the quality
of guests, at least, even Normans must suppress their insolence.—Go,
Hundebert," he added, to a sort of major-domo who stood behind him
with a white wand; "take six of the attendants, and introduce the
strangers to the guests' lodging. Look after their horses and mules,
and see their train lack nothing. Let them have change of vestments
if they require it, and fire, and water to wash, and wine and ale;
and bid the cooks add what they hastily can to our evening meal; and
let it be put on the board when those strangers are ready to share
it. Say to them, Hundebert, that Cedric would himself bid them
welcome, but he is under a vow never to step more than three steps
from the dais of his own hall to meet any who shares not the blood
of Saxon royalty. Begone! see them carefully tended; let them not
say in their pride, the Saxon churl has shown at once his poverty
and his avarice."
The major-domo departed with
several attendants, to execute his master's commands.
"The Prior Aymer!" repeated
Cedric, looking to Oswald, "the brother, if I mistake not, of Giles
de Mauleverer, now lord of Middleham?"
Oswald made a respectful
sign of assent. "His brother sits in the seat, and usurps the
patrimony, of a better race, the race of Ulfgar of Middleham; but
what Norman lord doth not the same? This Prior is, they say, a free
and jovial priest, who loves the wine-cup and the bugle-horn better
than bell and book: Good; let him come, he shall be welcome. How
named ye the Templar?"
"Brian de Bois-Guilbert."
"Bois-Guilbert," said
Cedric, still in the musing, half-arguing tone, which the habit of
living among dependants had accustomed him to employ, and which
resembled a man who talks to himself rather than to those around
him—"Bois-Guilbert? that name has been spread wide both for good and
evil. They say he is valiant as the bravest of his order; but
stained with their usual vices, pride, arrogance, cruelty, and
voluptuousness; a hard-hearted man, who knows neither fear of earth,
nor awe of heaven. So say the few warriors who have returned from
Palestine.—Well; it is but for one night; he shall be welcome
too.—Oswald, broach the oldest wine-cask; place the best mead, the
mightiest ale, the richest morat, the most sparkling cider, the most
odoriferous pigments, upon the board; fill the largest horns
13
—Templars and Abbots love good wines and good measure.—Elgitha, let
thy Lady Rowena, know we shall not this night expect her in the
hall, unless such be her especial pleasure."
"But it will be her especial
pleasure," answered Elgitha, with great readiness, "for she is ever
desirous to hear the latest news from Palestine."
Cedric darted at the forward
damsel a glance of hasty resentment; but Rowena, and whatever
belonged to her, were privileged and secure from his anger. He only
replied, "Silence, maiden; thy tongue outruns thy discretion. Say my
message to thy mistress, and let her do her pleasure. Here, at
least, the descendant of Alfred still reigns a princess." Elgitha
left the apartment.
"Palestine!" repeated the
Saxon; "Palestine! how many ears are turned to the tales which
dissolute crusaders, or hypocritical pilgrims, bring from that fatal
land! I too might ask—I too might enquire—I too might listen with a
beating heart to fables which the wily strollers devise to cheat us
into hospitality—but no—The son who has disobeyed me is no longer
mine; nor will I concern myself more for his fate than for that of
the most worthless among the millions that ever shaped the cross on
their shoulder, rushed into excess and blood-guiltiness, and called
it an accomplishment of the will of God."
He knit his brows, and fixed
his eyes for an instant on the ground; as he raised them, the
folding doors at the bottom of the hall were cast wide, and,
preceded by the major-domo with his wand, and four domestics bearing
blazing torches, the guests of the evening entered the apartment.
CHAPTER IV
With sheep and shaggy goats the porkers bled,
And the proud steer was on the marble spread;
With fire prepared, they deal the morsels round,
Wine rosy bright the brimming goblets crown'd.
Disposed apart, Ulysses shares the treat;
A trivet table and ignobler seat,
The Prince assigns—
—Odyssey, Book XXI
The Prior Aymer had taken
the opportunity afforded him, of changing his riding robe for one of
yet more costly materials, over which he wore a cope curiously
embroidered. Besides the massive golden signet ring, which marked
his ecclesiastical dignity, his fingers, though contrary to the
canon, were loaded with precious gems; his sandals were of the
finest leather which was imported from Spain; his beard trimmed to
as small dimensions as his order would possibly permit, and his
shaven crown concealed by a scarlet cap richly embroidered.
The appearance of the Knight
Templar was also changed; and, though less studiously bedecked with
ornament, his dress was as rich, and his appearance far more
commanding, than that of his companion. He had exchanged his shirt
of mail for an under tunic of dark purple silk, garnished with furs,
over which flowed his long robe of spotless white, in ample folds.
The eight-pointed cross of his order was cut on the shoulder of his
mantle in black velvet. The high cap no longer invested his brows,
which were only shaded by short and thick curled hair of a raven
blackness, corresponding to his unusually swart complexion. Nothing
could be more gracefully majestic than his step and manner, had they
not been marked by a predominant air of haughtiness, easily acquired
by the exercise of unresisted authority.
These two dignified persons
were followed by their respective attendants, and at a more humble
distance by their guide, whose figure had nothing more remarkable
than it derived from the usual weeds of a pilgrim. A cloak or mantle
of coarse black serge, enveloped his whole body. It was in shape
something like the cloak of a modern hussar, having similar flaps
for covering the arms, and was called a "Sclaveyn", or "Sclavonian".
Coarse sandals, bound with thongs, on his bare feet; a broad and
shadowy hat, with cockle-shells stitched on its brim, and a long
staff shod with iron, to the upper end of which was attached a
branch of palm, completed the palmer's attire. He followed modestly
the last of the train which entered the hall, and, observing that
the lower table scarce afforded room sufficient for the domestics of
Cedric and the retinue of his guests, he withdrew to a settle placed
beside and almost under one of the large chimneys, and seemed to
employ himself in drying his garments, until the retreat of some one
should make room at the board, or the hospitality of the steward
should supply him with refreshments in the place he had chosen
apart.
Cedric rose to receive his
guests with an air of dignified hospitality, and, descending from
the dais, or elevated part of his hall, made three steps towards
them, and then awaited their approach.
"I grieve," he said,
"reverend Prior, that my vow binds me to advance no farther upon
this floor of my fathers, even to receive such guests as you, and
this valiant Knight of the Holy Temple. But my steward has expounded
to you the cause of my seeming discourtesy. Let me also pray, that
you will excuse my speaking to you in my native language, and that
you will reply in the same if your knowledge of it permits; if not,
I sufficiently understand Norman to follow your meaning."
"Vows," said the Abbot,
"must be unloosed, worthy Franklin, or permit me rather to say,
worthy Thane, though the title is antiquated. Vows are the knots
which tie us to Heaven—they are the cords which bind the sacrifice
to the horns of the altar,—and are therefore,—as I said before,—to
be unloosened and discharged, unless our holy Mother Church shall
pronounce the contrary. And respecting language, I willingly hold
communication in that spoken by my respected grandmother, Hilda of
Middleham, who died in odour of sanctity, little short, if we may
presume to say so, of her glorious namesake, the blessed Saint Hilda
of Whitby, God be gracious to her soul!"
When the Prior had ceased
what he meant as a conciliatory harangue, his companion said briefly
and emphatically, "I speak ever French, the language of King Richard
and his nobles; but I understand English sufficiently to communicate
with the natives of the country."
Cedric darted at the speaker
one of those hasty and impatient glances, which comparisons between
the two rival nations seldom failed to call forth; but, recollecting
the duties of hospitality, he suppressed further show of resentment,
and, motioning with his hand, caused his guests to assume two seats
a little lower than his own, but placed close beside him, and gave a
signal that the evening meal should be placed upon the board.
While the attendants
hastened to obey Cedric's commands, his eye distinguished Gurth the
swineherd, who, with his companion Wamba, had just entered the hall.
"Send these loitering knaves up hither," said the Saxon,
impatiently. And when the culprits came before the dais,—"How comes
it, villains! that you have loitered abroad so late as this? Hast
thou brought home thy charge, sirrah Gurth, or hast thou left them
to robbers and marauders?"
"The herd is safe, so please
ye," said Gurth.
"But it does not please me,
thou knave," said Cedric, "that I should be made to suppose
otherwise for two hours, and sit here devising vengeance against my
neighbours for wrongs they have not done me. I tell thee, shackles
and the prison-house shall punish the next offence of this kind."
Gurth, knowing his master's
irritable temper, attempted no exculpation; but the Jester, who
could presume upon Cedric's tolerance, by virtue of his privileges
as a fool, replied for them both; "In troth, uncle Cedric, you are
neither wise nor reasonable to-night."
"'How, sir?" said his
master; "you shall to the porter's lodge, and taste of the
discipline there, if you give your foolery such license."
"First let your wisdom tell
me," said Wamba, "is it just and reasonable to punish one person for
the fault of another?"
"Certainly not, fool,"
answered Cedric.
"Then why should you shackle
poor Gurth, uncle, for the fault of his dog Fangs? for I dare be
sworn we lost not a minute by the way, when we had got our herd
together, which Fangs did not manage until we heard the
vesper-bell."
"Then hang up Fangs," said
Cedric, turning hastily towards the swineherd, "if the fault is his,
and get thee another dog."
"Under favour, uncle," said
the Jester, "that were still somewhat on the bow-hand of fair
justice; for it was no fault of Fangs that he was lame and could not
gather the herd, but the fault of those that struck off two of his
fore-claws, an operation for which, if the poor fellow had been
consulted, he would scarce have given his voice."
"And who dared to lame an
animal which belonged to my bondsman?" said the Saxon, kindling in
wrath.
"Marry, that did old
Hubert," said Wamba, "Sir Philip de Malvoisin's keeper of the chase.
He caught Fangs strolling in the forest, and said he chased the deer
contrary to his master's right, as warden of the walk."
"The foul fiend take
Malvoisin," answered the Saxon, "and his keeper both! I will teach
them that the wood was disforested in terms of the great Forest
Charter. But enough of this. Go to, knave, go to thy place—and thou,
Gurth, get thee another dog, and should the keeper dare to touch it,
I will mar his archery; the curse of a coward on my head, if I
strike not off the forefinger of his right hand!—he shall draw
bowstring no more.—I crave your pardon, my worthy guests. I am beset
here with neighbours that match your infidels, Sir Knight, in Holy
Land. But your homely fare is before you; feed, and let welcome make
amends for hard fare."
The feast, however, which
was spread upon the board, needed no apologies from the lord of the
mansion. Swine's flesh, dressed in several modes, appeared on the
lower part of the board, as also that of fowls, deer, goats, and
hares, and various kinds of fish, together with huge loaves and
cakes of bread, and sundry confections made of fruits and honey. The
smaller sorts of wild-fowl, of which there was abundance, were not
served up in platters, but brought in upon small wooden spits or
broaches, and offered by the pages and domestics who bore them, to
each guest in succession, who cut from them such a portion as he
pleased. Beside each person of rank was placed a goblet of silver;
the lower board was accommodated with large drinking horns.
When the repast was about to
commence, the major-domo, or steward, suddenly raising his wand,
said aloud,—"Forbear!—Place for the Lady Rowena."
A side-door at the upper end
of the hall now opened behind the banquet table, and Rowena,
followed by four female attendants, entered the apartment. Cedric,
though surprised, and perhaps not altogether agreeably so, at his
ward appearing in public on this occasion, hastened to meet her, and
to conduct her, with respectful ceremony, to the elevated seat at
his own right hand, appropriated to the lady of the mansion. All
stood up to receive her; and, replying to their courtesy by a mute
gesture of salutation, she moved gracefully forward to assume her
place at the board. Ere she had time to do so, the Templar whispered
to the Prior, "I shall wear no collar of gold of yours at the
tournament. The Chian wine is your own."
"Said I not so?" answered
the Prior; "but check your raptures, the Franklin observes you."
Unheeding this remonstrance,
and accustomed only to act upon the immediate impulse of his own
wishes, Brian de Bois-Guilbert kept his eyes riveted on the Saxon
beauty, more striking perhaps to his imagination, because differing
widely from those of the Eastern sultanas.
Formed in the best
proportions of her sex, Rowena was tall in stature, yet not so much
so as to attract observation on account of superior height. Her
complexion was exquisitely fair, but the noble cast of her head and
features prevented the insipidity which sometimes attaches to fair
beauties. Her clear blue eye, which sat enshrined beneath a graceful
eyebrow of brown sufficiently marked to give expression to the
forehead, seemed capable to kindle as well as melt, to command as
well as to beseech. If mildness were the more natural expression of
such a combination of features, it was plain, that in the present
instance, the exercise of habitual superiority, and the reception of
general homage, had given to the Saxon lady a loftier character,
which mingled with and qualified that bestowed by nature. Her
profuse hair, of a colour betwixt brown and flaxen, was arranged in
a fanciful and graceful manner in numerous ringlets, to form which
art had probably aided nature. These locks were braided with gems,
and, being worn at full length, intimated the noble birth and
free-born condition of the maiden. A golden chain, to which was
attached a small reliquary of the same metal, hung round her neck.
She wore bracelets on her arms, which were bare. Her dress was an
under-gown and kirtle of pale sea-green silk, over which hung a long
loose robe, which reached to the ground, having very wide sleeves,
which came down, however, very little below the elbow. This robe was
crimson, and manufactured out of the very finest wool. A veil of
silk, interwoven with gold, was attached to the upper part of it,
which could be, at the wearer's pleasure, either drawn over the face
and bosom after the Spanish fashion, or disposed as a sort of
drapery round the shoulders.
When Rowena perceived the
Knight Templar's eyes bent on her with an ardour, that, compared
with the dark caverns under which they moved, gave them the effect
of lighted charcoal, she drew with dignity the veil around her face,
as an intimation that the determined freedom of his glance was
disagreeable. Cedric saw the motion and its cause. "Sir Templar,"
said he, "the cheeks of our Saxon maidens have seen too little of
the sun to enable them to bear the fixed glance of a crusader."
"If I have offended,"
replied Sir Brian, "I crave your pardon,—that is, I crave the Lady
Rowena's pardon,—for my humility will carry me no lower."
"The Lady Rowena," said the
Prior, "has punished us all, in chastising the boldness of my
friend. Let me hope she will be less cruel to the splendid train
which are to meet at the tournament."
"Our going thither," said
Cedric, "is uncertain. I love not these vanities, which were unknown
to my fathers when England was free."
"Let us hope, nevertheless,"
said the Prior, "our company may determine you to travel
thitherward; when the roads are so unsafe, the escort of Sir Brian
de Bois-Guilbert is not to be despised."
"Sir Prior," answered the
Saxon, "wheresoever I have travelled in this land, I have hitherto
found myself, with the assistance of my good sword and faithful
followers, in no respect needful of other aid. At present, if we
indeed journey to Ashby-de-la-Zouche, we do so with my noble
neighbour and countryman Athelstane of Coningsburgh, and with such a
train as would set outlaws and feudal enemies at defiance.—I drink
to you, Sir Prior, in this cup of wine, which I trust your taste
will approve, and I thank you for your courtesy. Should you be so
rigid in adhering to monastic rule," he added, "as to prefer your
acid preparation of milk, I hope you will not strain courtesy to do
me reason."
"Nay," said the Priest,
laughing, "it is only in our abbey that we confine ourselves to the
'lac dulce' or the 'lac acidum' either. Conversing with, the world,
we use the world's fashions, and therefore I answer your pledge in
this honest wine, and leave the weaker liquor to my lay-brother."
"And I," said the Templar,
filling his goblet, "drink wassail to the fair Rowena; for since her
namesake introduced the word into England, has never been one more
worthy of such a tribute. By my faith, I could pardon the unhappy
Vortigern, had he half the cause that we now witness, for making
shipwreck of his honour and his kingdom."
"I will spare your courtesy,
Sir Knight," said Rowena with dignity, and without unveiling
herself; "or rather I will tax it so far as to require of you the
latest news from Palestine, a theme more agreeable to our English
ears than the compliments which your French breeding teaches."
"I have little of importance
to say, lady," answered Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, "excepting the
confirmed tidings of a truce with Saladin."
He was interrupted by Wamba,
who had taken his appropriated seat upon a chair, the back of which
was decorated with two ass's ears, and which was placed about two
steps behind that of his master, who, from time to time, supplied
him with victuals from his own trencher; a favour, however, which
the Jester shared with the favourite dogs, of whom, as we have
already noticed, there were several in attendance. Here sat Wamba,
with a small table before him, his heels tucked up against the bar
of the chair, his cheeks sucked up so as to make his jaws resemble a
pair of nut-crackers, and his eyes half-shut, yet watching with
alertness every opportunity to exercise his licensed foolery.
"These truces with the
infidels," he exclaimed, without caring how suddenly he interrupted
the stately Templar, "make an old man of me!"
"Go to, knave, how so?" said
Cedric, his features prepared to receive favourably the expected
jest.
"Because," answered Wamba,
"I remember three of them in my day, each of which was to endure for
the course of fifty years; so that, by computation, I must be at
least a hundred and fifty years old."
"I will warrant you against
dying of old age, however," said the Templar, who now recognised his
friend of the forest; "I will assure you from all deaths but a
violent one, if you give such directions to wayfarers, as you did
this night to the Prior and me."
"How, sirrah!" said Cedric,
"misdirect travellers? We must have you whipt; you are at least as
much rogue as fool."
"I pray thee, uncle,"
answered the Jester, "let my folly, for once, protect my roguery. I
did but make a mistake between my right hand and my left; and he
might have pardoned a greater, who took a fool for his counsellor
and guide."
Conversation was here
interrupted by the entrance of the porter's page, who announced that
there was a stranger at the gate, imploring admittance and
hospitality.
"Admit him," said Cedric,
"be he who or what he may;—a night like that which roars without,
compels even wild animals to herd with tame, and to seek the
protection of man, their mortal foe, rather than perish by the
elements. Let his wants be ministered to with all care—look to it,
Oswald."
And the steward left the
banqueting hall to see the commands of his patron obeyed.
CHAPTER V
Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions,
senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with
the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the
same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as
a Christian is?
—Merchant of Venice
Oswald, returning, whispered
into the ear of his master, "It is a Jew, who calls himself Isaac of
York; is it fit I should marshall him into the hall?"
"Let Gurth do thine office,
Oswald," said Wamba with his usual effrontery; "the swineherd will
be a fit usher to the Jew."
"St Mary," said the Abbot,
crossing himself, "an unbelieving Jew, and admitted into this
presence!"
"A dog Jew," echoed the
Templar, "to approach a defender of the Holy Sepulchre?"
"By my faith," said Wamba,
"it would seem the Templars love the Jews' inheritance better than
they do their company."
"Peace, my worthy guests,"
said Cedric; "my hospitality must not be bounded by your dislikes.
If Heaven bore with the whole nation of stiff-necked unbelievers for
more years than a layman can number, we may endure the presence of
one Jew for a few hours. But I constrain no man to converse or to
feed with him.—Let him have a board and a morsel apart,—unless," he
said smiling, "these turban'd strangers will admit his society."
"Sir Franklin," answered the
Templar, "my Saracen slaves are true Moslems, and scorn as much as
any Christian to hold intercourse with a Jew."
"Now, in faith," said Wamba,
"I cannot see that the worshippers of Mahound and Termagaunt have so
greatly the advantage over the people once chosen of Heaven."
"He shall sit with thee,
Wamba," said Cedric; "the fool and the knave will be well met."
"The fool," answered Wamba,
raising the relics of a gammon of bacon, "will take care to erect a
bulwark against the knave."
"Hush," said Cedric, "for
here he comes."
Introduced with little
ceremony, and advancing with fear and hesitation, and many a bow of
deep humility, a tall thin old man, who, however, had lost by the
habit of stooping much of his actual height, approached the lower
end of the board. His features, keen and regular, with an aquiline
nose, and piercing black eyes; his high and wrinkled forehead, and
long grey hair and beard, would have been considered as handsome,
had they not been the marks of a physiognomy peculiar to a race,
which, during those dark ages, was alike detested by the credulous
and prejudiced vulgar, and persecuted by the greedy and rapacious
nobility, and who, perhaps, owing to that very hatred and
persecution, had adopted a national character, in which there was
much, to say the least, mean and unamiable.
The Jew's dress, which
appeared to have suffered considerably from the storm, was a plain
russet cloak of many folds, covering a dark purple tunic. He had
large boots lined with fur, and a belt around his waist, which
sustained a small knife, together with a case for writing materials,
but no weapon. He wore a high square yellow cap of a peculiar
fashion, assigned to his nation to distinguish them from Christians,
and which he doffed with great humility at the door of the hall.
The reception of this person
in the hall of Cedric the Saxon, was such as might have satisfied
the most prejudiced enemy of the tribes of Israel. Cedric himself
coldly nodded in answer to the Jew's repeated salutations, and
signed to him to take place at the lower end of the table, where,
however, no one offered to make room for him. On the contrary, as he
passed along the file, casting a timid supplicating glance, and
turning towards each of those who occupied the lower end of the
board, the Saxon domestics squared their shoulders, and continued to
devour their supper with great perseverance, paying not the least
attention to the wants of the new guest. The attendants of the Abbot
crossed themselves, with looks of pious horror, and the very heathen
Saracens, as Isaac drew near them, curled up their whiskers with
indignation, and laid their hands on their poniards, as if ready to
rid themselves by the most desperate means from the apprehended
contamination of his nearer approach.
Probably the same motives
which induced Cedric to open his hall to this son of a rejected
people, would have made him insist on his attendants receiving Isaac
with more courtesy. But the Abbot had, at this moment, engaged him
in a most interesting discussion on the breed and character of his
favourite hounds, which he would not have interrupted for matters of
much greater importance than that of a Jew going to bed supperless.
While Isaac thus stood an outcast in the present society, like his
people among the nations, looking in vain for welcome or resting
place, the pilgrim who sat by the chimney took compassion upon him,
and resigned his seat, saying briefly, "Old man, my garments are
dried, my hunger is appeased, thou art both wet and fasting." So
saying, he gathered together, and brought to a flame, the decaying
brands which lay scattered on the ample hearth; took from the larger
board a mess of pottage and seethed kid, placed it upon the small
table at which he had himself supped, and, without waiting the Jew's
thanks, went to the other side of the hall;—whether from
unwillingness to hold more close communication with the object of
his benevolence, or from a wish to draw near to the upper end of the
table, seemed uncertain.
Had there been painters in
those days capable to execute such a subject, the Jew, as he bent
his withered form, and expanded his chilled and trembling hands over
the fire, would have formed no bad emblematical personification of
the Winter season. Having dispelled the cold, he turned eagerly to
the smoking mess which was placed before him, and ate with a haste
and an apparent relish, that seemed to betoken long abstinence from
food.
Meanwhile the Abbot and
Cedric continued their discourse upon hunting; the Lady Rowena
seemed engaged in conversation with one of her attendant females;
and the haughty Templar, whose eye wandered from the Jew to the
Saxon beauty, revolved in his mind thoughts which appeared deeply to
interest him.
"I marvel, worthy Cedric,"
said the Abbot, as their discourse proceeded, "that, great as your
predilection is for your own manly language, you do not receive the
Norman-French into your favour, so far at least as the mystery of
wood-craft and hunting is concerned. Surely no tongue is so rich in
the various phrases which the field-sports demand, or furnishes
means to the experienced woodman so well to express his jovial art."
"Good Father Aymer,"
said the Saxon, "be it known to you, I care not for those over-sea
refinements, without which I can well enough take my pleasure in the
woods. I can wind my horn, though I call not the blast either a
'recheate' or a 'morte'—I can cheer my dogs on the prey, and I can
flay and quarter the animal when it is brought down, without using
the newfangled jargon of 'curee, arbor, nombles', and all the babble
of the fabulous Sir Tristrem."
14
"The French," said the
Templar, raising his voice with the presumptuous and authoritative
tone which he used upon all occasions, "is not only the natural
language of the chase, but that of love and of war, in which ladies
should be won and enemies defied."
"Pledge me in a cup of wine,
Sir Templar," said Cedric, "and fill another to the Abbot, while I
look back some thirty years to tell you another tale. As Cedric the
Saxon then was, his plain English tale needed no garnish from French
troubadours, when it was told in the ear of beauty; and the field of
Northallerton, upon the day of the Holy Standard, could tell whether
the Saxon war-cry was not heard as far within the ranks of the
Scottish host as the 'cri de guerre' of the boldest Norman baron. To
the memory of the brave who fought there!—Pledge me, my guests." He
drank deep, and went on with increasing warmth. "Ay, that was a day
of cleaving of shields, when a hundred banners were bent forwards
over the heads of the valiant, and blood flowed round like water,
and death was held better than flight. A Saxon bard had called it a
feast of the swords—a gathering of the eagles to the prey—the
clashing of bills upon shield and helmet, the shouting of battle
more joyful than the clamour of a bridal. But our bards are no
more," he said; "our deeds are lost in those of another race—our
language—our very name—is hastening to decay, and none mourns for it
save one solitary old man—Cupbearer! knave, fill the goblets—To the
strong in arms, Sir Templar, be their race or language what it will,
who now bear them best in Palestine among the champions of the
Cross!"
"It becomes not one wearing
this badge to answer," said Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert; "yet to
whom, besides the sworn Champions of the Holy Sepulchre, can the
palm be assigned among the champions of the Cross?"
"To the Knights
Hospitallers," said the Abbot; "I have a brother of their order."
"I impeach not their fame,"
said the Templar; "nevertheless—-"
"I think, friend Cedric,"
said Wamba, interfering, "that had Richard of the Lion's Heart been
wise enough to have taken a fool's advice, he might have staid at
home with his merry Englishmen, and left the recovery of Jerusalem
to those same Knights who had most to do with the loss of it."
"Were there, then, none in
the English army," said the Lady Rowena, "whose names are worthy to
be mentioned with the Knights of the Temple, and of St John?"
"Forgive me, lady," replied
De Bois-Guilbert; "the English monarch did, indeed, bring to
Palestine a host of gallant warriors, second only to those whose
breasts have been the unceasing bulwark of that blessed land."
"Second to NONE," said the
Pilgrim, who had stood near enough to hear, and had listened to this
conversation with marked impatience. All turned toward the spot from
whence this unexpected asseveration was heard.
"I say," repeated the
Pilgrim in a firm and strong voice, "that the English chivalry were
second to NONE who ever drew sword in defence of the Holy Land. I
say besides, for I saw it, that King Richard himself, and five of
his knights, held a tournament after the taking of St John-de-Acre,
as challengers against all comers. I say that, on that day, each
knight ran three courses, and cast to the ground three antagonists.
I add, that seven of these assailants were Knights of the Temple—and
Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert well knows the truth of what I tell you."
It is impossible for
language to describe the bitter scowl of rage which rendered yet
darker the swarthy countenance of the Templar. In the extremity of
his resentment and confusion, his quivering fingers griped towards
the handle of his sword, and perhaps only withdrew, from the
consciousness that no act of violence could be safely executed in
that place and presence. Cedric, whose feelings were all of a right
onward and simple kind, and were seldom occupied by more than one
object at once, omitted, in the joyous glee with which he heard of
the glory of his countrymen, to remark the angry confusion of his
guest; "I would give thee this golden bracelet, Pilgrim," he said,
"couldst thou tell me the names of those knights who upheld so
gallantly the renown of merry England."
"That will I do blithely,"
replied the Pilgrim, "and without guerdon; my oath, for a time,
prohibits me from touching gold."
"I will wear the bracelet
for you, if you will, friend Palmer," said Wamba.
"The first in honour as in
arms, in renown as in place," said the Pilgrim, "was the brave
Richard, King of England."
"I forgive him," said
Cedric; "I forgive him his descent from the tyrant Duke William."
"The Earl of Leicester was
the second," continued the Pilgrim; "Sir Thomas Multon of Gilsland
was the third."
"Of Saxon descent, he at
least," said Cedric, with exultation.
"Sir Foulk Doilly the
fourth," proceeded the Pilgrim.
"Saxon also, at least by the
mother's side," continued Cedric, who listened with the utmost
eagerness, and forgot, in part at least, his hatred to the Normans,
in the common triumph of the King of England and his islanders. "And
who was the fifth?" he demanded.
"The fifth was Sir Edwin
Turneham."
"Genuine Saxon, by the soul
of Hengist!" shouted Cedric—"And the sixth?" he continued with
eagerness—"how name you the sixth?"
"The sixth," said the
Palmer, after a pause, in which he seemed to recollect himself, "was
a young knight of lesser renown and lower rank, assumed into that
honourable company, less to aid their enterprise than to make up
their number—his name dwells not in my memory."
"Sir Palmer," said Sir Brian
de Bois-Guilbert scornfully, "this assumed forgetfulness, after so
much has been remembered, comes too late to serve your purpose. I
will myself tell the name of the knight before whose lance fortune
and my horse's fault occasioned my falling—it was the Knight of
Ivanhoe; nor was there one of the six that, for his years, had more
renown in arms.—Yet this will I say, and loudly—that were he in
England, and durst repeat, in this week's tournament, the challenge
of St John-de-Acre, I, mounted and armed as I now am, would give him
every advantage of weapons, and abide the result."
"Your challenge would soon
be answered," replied the Palmer, "were your antagonist near you. As
the matter is, disturb not the peaceful hall with vaunts of the
issue of the conflict, which you well know cannot take place. If
Ivanhoe ever returns from Palestine, I will be his surety that he
meets you."
"A goodly security!" said
the Knight Templar; "and what do you proffer as a pledge?"
"This reliquary," said the
Palmer, taking a small ivory box from his bosom, and crossing
himself, "containing a portion of the true cross, brought from the
Monastery of Mount Carmel."
The Prior of Jorvaulx
crossed himself and repeated a pater noster, in which all devoutly
joined, excepting the Jew, the Mahomedans, and the Templar; the
latter of whom, without vailing his bonnet, or testifying any
reverence for the alleged sanctity of the relic, took from his neck
a gold chain, which he flung on the board, saying—"Let Prior Aymer
hold my pledge and that of this nameless vagrant, in token that when
the Knight of Ivanhoe comes within the four seas of Britain, he
underlies the challenge of Brian de Bois-Guilbert, which, if he
answer not, I will proclaim him as a coward on the walls of every
Temple Court in Europe."
"It will not need," said the
Lady Rowena, breaking silence; "My voice shall be heard, if no other
in this hall is raised in behalf of the absent Ivanhoe. I affirm he
will meet fairly every honourable challenge. Could my weak warrant
add security to the inestimable pledge of this holy pilgrim, I would
pledge name and fame that Ivanhoe gives this proud knight the
meeting he desires."
A crowd of conflicting
emotions seemed to have occupied Cedric, and kept him silent during
this discussion. Gratified pride, resentment, embarrassment, chased
each other over his broad and open brow, like the shadow of clouds
drifting over a harvest-field; while his attendants, on whom the
name of the sixth knight seemed to produce an effect almost
electrical, hung in suspense upon their master's looks. But when
Rowena spoke, the sound of her voice seemed to startle him from his
silence.
"Lady," said Cedric, "this
beseems not; were further pledge necessary, I myself, offended, and
justly offended, as I am, would yet gage my honour for the honour of
Ivanhoe. But the wager of battle is complete, even according to the
fantastic fashions of Norman chivalry—Is it not, Father Aymer?"
"It is," replied the Prior;
"and the blessed relic and rich chain will I bestow safely in the
treasury of our convent, until the decision of this warlike
challenge."
Having thus spoken, he
crossed himself again and again, and after many genuflections and
muttered prayers, he delivered the reliquary to Brother Ambrose, his
attendant monk, while he himself swept up with less ceremony, but
perhaps with no less internal satisfaction, the golden chain, and
bestowed it in a pouch lined with perfumed leather, which opened
under his arm. "And now, Sir Cedric," he said, "my ears are chiming
vespers with the strength of your good wine—permit us another pledge
to the welfare of the Lady Rowena, and indulge us with liberty to
pass to our repose."
"By the rood of Bromholme,"
said the Saxon, "you do but small credit to your fame, Sir Prior!
Report speaks you a bonny monk, that would hear the matin chime ere
he quitted his bowl; and, old as I am, I feared to have shame in
encountering you. But, by my faith, a Saxon boy of twelve, in my
time, would not so soon have relinquished his goblet."
The Prior had his own
reasons, however, for persevering in the course of temperance which
he had adopted. He was not only a professional peacemaker, but from
practice a hater of all feuds and brawls. It was not altogether from
a love to his neighbour, or to himself, or from a mixture of both.
On the present occasion, he had an instinctive apprehension of the
fiery temper of the Saxon, and saw the danger that the reckless and
presumptuous spirit, of which his companion had already given so
many proofs, might at length produce some disagreeable explosion. He
therefore gently insinuated the incapacity of the native of any
other country to engage in the genial conflict of the bowl with the
hardy and strong-headed Saxons; something he mentioned, but
slightly, about his own holy character, and ended by pressing his
proposal to depart to repose.
The grace-cup was
accordingly served round, and the guests, after making deep
obeisance to their landlord and to the Lady Rowena, arose and
mingled in the hall, while the heads of the family, by separate
doors, retired with their attendants.
"Unbelieving dog," said the
Templar to Isaac the Jew, as he passed him in the throng, "dost thou
bend thy course to the tournament?"
"I do so propose," replied
Isaac, bowing in all humility, "if it please your reverend valour."
"Ay," said the Knight, "to
gnaw the bowels of our nobles with usury, and to gull women and boys
with gauds and toys—I warrant thee store of shekels in thy Jewish
scrip."
"Not a shekel, not a
silver penny, not a halfling—so help me the God of Abraham!" said
the Jew, clasping his hands; "I go but to seek the assistance of
some brethren of my tribe to aid me to pay the fine which the
Exchequer of the Jews have imposed upon me—Father Jacob be my speed!
I am an impoverished wretch—the very gaberdine I wear is borrowed
from Reuben of Tadcaster."
15
The Templar smiled sourly as
he replied, "Beshrew thee for a false-hearted liar!" and passing
onward, as if disdaining farther conference, he communed with his
Moslem slaves in a language unknown to the bystanders. The poor
Israelite seemed so staggered by the address of the military monk,
that the Templar had passed on to the extremity of the hall ere he
raised his head from the humble posture which he had assumed, so far
as to be sensible of his departure. And when he did look around, it
was with the astonished air of one at whose feet a thunderbolt has
just burst, and who hears still the astounding report ringing in his
ears.
The Templar and Prior were
shortly after marshalled to their sleeping apartments by the steward
and the cupbearer, each attended by two torchbearers and two
servants carrying refreshments, while servants of inferior condition
indicated to their retinue and to the other guests their respective
places of repose.
CHAPTER VI
To buy his favour I extend this friendship:
If he will take it, so; if not, adieu;
And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not.
—Merchant of Venice
As the Palmer, lighted by a
domestic with a torch, passed through the intricate combination of
apartments of this large and irregular mansion, the cupbearer coming
behind him whispered in his ear, that if he had no objection to a
cup of good mead in his apartment, there were many domestics in that
family who would gladly hear the news he had brought from the Holy
Land, and particularly that which concerned the Knight of Ivanhoe.
Wamba presently appeared to urge the same request, observing that a
cup after midnight was worth three after curfew. Without disputing a
maxim urged by such grave authority, the Palmer thanked them for
their courtesy, but observed that he had included in his religious
vow, an obligation never to speak in the kitchen on matters which
were prohibited in the hall. "That vow," said Wamba to the
cupbearer, "would scarce suit a serving-man."
The cupbearer shrugged up
his shoulders in displeasure. "I thought to have lodged him in the
solere chamber," said he; "but since he is so unsocial to
Christians, e'en let him take the next stall to Isaac the
Jew's.—Anwold," said he to the torchbearer, "carry the Pilgrim to
the southern cell.—I give you good-night," he added, "Sir Palmer,
with small thanks for short courtesy."
"Good-night, and Our Lady's
benison," said the Palmer, with composure; and his guide moved
forward.
In a small antechamber, into
which several doors opened, and which was lighted by a small iron
lamp, they met a second interruption from the waiting-maid of
Rowena, who, saying in a tone of authority, that her mistress
desired to speak with the Palmer, took the torch from the hand of
Anwold, and, bidding him await her return, made a sign to the Palmer
to follow. Apparently he did not think it proper to decline this
invitation as he had done the former; for, though his gesture
indicated some surprise at the summons, he obeyed it without answer
or remonstrance.
A short passage, and an
ascent of seven steps, each of which was composed of a solid beam of
oak, led him to the apartment of the Lady Rowena, the rude
magnificence of which corresponded to the respect which was paid to
her by the lord of the mansion. The walls were covered with
embroidered hangings, on which different-coloured silks, interwoven
with gold and silver threads, had been employed with all the art of
which the age was capable, to represent the sports of hunting and
hawking. The bed was adorned with the same rich tapestry, and
surrounded with curtains dyed with purple. The seats had also their
stained coverings, and one, which was higher than the rest, was
accommodated with a footstool of ivory, curiously carved.
No fewer than four silver
candelabras, holding great waxen torches, served to illuminate this
apartment. Yet let not modern beauty envy the magnificence of a
Saxon princess. The walls of the apartment were so ill finished and
so full of crevices, that the rich hangings shook in the night
blast, and, in despite of a sort of screen intended to protect them
from the wind, the flame of the torches streamed sideways into the
air, like the unfurled pennon of a chieftain. Magnificence there
was, with some rude attempt at taste; but of comfort there was
little, and, being unknown, it was unmissed.
The Lady Rowena, with three
of her attendants standing at her back, and arranging her hair ere
she lay down to rest, was seated in the sort of throne already
mentioned, and looked as if born to exact general homage. The
Pilgrim acknowledged her claim to it by a low genuflection.
"Rise, Palmer," said she
graciously. "The defender of the absent has a right to favourable
reception from all who value truth, and honour manhood." She then
said to her train, "Retire, excepting only Elgitha; I would speak
with this holy Pilgrim."
The maidens, without leaving
the apartment, retired to its further extremity, and sat down on a
small bench against the wall, where they remained mute as statues,
though at such a distance that their whispers could not have
interrupted the conversation of their mistress.
"Pilgrim," said the lady,
after a moment's pause, during which she seemed uncertain how to
address him, "you this night mentioned a name—I mean," she said,
with a degree of effort, "the name of Ivanhoe, in the halls where by
nature and kindred it should have sounded most acceptably; and yet,
such is the perverse course of fate, that of many whose hearts must
have throbbed at the sound, I, only, dare ask you where, and in what
condition, you left him of whom you spoke?—We heard, that, having
remained in Palestine, on account of his impaired health, after the
departure of the English army, he had experienced the persecution of
the French faction, to whom the Templars are known to be attached."
"I know little of the Knight
of Ivanhoe," answered the Palmer, with a troubled voice. "I would I
knew him better, since you, lady, are interested in his fate. He
hath, I believe, surmounted the persecution of his enemies in
Palestine, and is on the eve of returning to England, where you,
lady, must know better than I, what is his chance of happiness."
The Lady Rowena sighed
deeply, and asked more particularly when the Knight of Ivanhoe might
be expected in his native country, and whether he would not be
exposed to great dangers by the road. On the first point, the Palmer
professed ignorance; on the second, he said that the voyage might be
safely made by the way of Venice and Genoa, and from thence through
France to England. "Ivanhoe," he said, "was so well acquainted with
the language and manners of the French, that there was no fear of
his incurring any hazard during that part of his travels."
"Would to God," said the
Lady Rowena, "he were here safely arrived, and able to bear arms in
the approaching tourney, in which the chivalry of this land are
expected to display their address and valour. Should Athelstane of
Coningsburgh obtain the prize, Ivanhoe is like to hear evil tidings
when he reaches England.—How looked he, stranger, when you last saw
him? Had disease laid her hand heavy upon his strength and
comeliness?"
"He was darker," said the
Palmer, "and thinner, than when he came from Cyprus in the train of
Coeur-de-Lion, and care seemed to sit heavy on his brow; but I
approached not his presence, because he is unknown to me."
"He will," said the lady, "I
fear, find little in his native land to clear those clouds from his
countenance. Thanks, good Pilgrim, for your information concerning
the companion of my childhood.—Maidens," she said, "draw near—offer
the sleeping cup to this holy man, whom I will no longer detain from
repose."
One of the maidens presented
a silver cup, containing a rich mixture of wine and spice, which
Rowena barely put to her lips. It was then offered to the Palmer,
who, after a low obeisance, tasted a few drops.
"Accept this alms, friend,"
continued the lady, offering a piece of gold, "in acknowledgment of
thy painful travail, and of the shrines thou hast visited."
The Palmer received the boon
with another low reverence, and followed Edwina out of the
apartment.
In the anteroom he found his
attendant Anwold, who, taking the torch from the hand of the
waiting-maid, conducted him with more haste than ceremony to an
exterior and ignoble part of the building, where a number of small
apartments, or rather cells, served for sleeping places to the lower
order of domestics, and to strangers of mean degree.
"In which of these sleeps
the Jew?" said the Pilgrim.
"The unbelieving dog,"
answered Anwold, "kennels in the cell next your holiness.—St
Dunstan, how it must be scraped and cleansed ere it be again fit for
a Christian!"
"And where sleeps Gurth the
swineherd?" said the stranger.
"Gurth," replied the
bondsman, "sleeps in the cell on your right, as the Jew on that to
your left; you serve to keep the child of circumcision separate from
the abomination of his tribe. You might have occupied a more
honourable place had you accepted of Oswald's invitation."
"It is as well as it is,"
said the Palmer; "the company, even of a Jew, can hardly spread
contamination through an oaken partition."
So saying, he entered the
cabin allotted to him, and taking the torch from the domestic's
hand, thanked him, and wished him good-night. Having shut the door
of his cell, he placed the torch in a candlestick made of wood, and
looked around his sleeping apartment, the furniture of which was of
the most simple kind. It consisted of a rude wooden stool, and still
ruder hutch or bed-frame, stuffed with clean straw, and accommodated
with two or three sheepskins by way of bed-clothes.
The Palmer, having
extinguished his torch, threw himself, without taking off any part
of his clothes, on this rude couch, and slept, or at least retained
his recumbent posture, till the earliest sunbeams found their way
through the little grated window, which served at once to admit both
air and light to his uncomfortable cell. He then started up, and
after repeating his matins, and adjusting his dress, he left it, and
entered that of Isaac the Jew, lifting the latch as gently as he
could.
The inmate was lying in
troubled slumber upon a couch similar to that on which the Palmer
himself had passed the night. Such parts of his dress as the Jew had
laid aside on the preceding evening, were disposed carefully around
his person, as if to prevent the hazard of their being carried off
during his slumbers. There was a trouble on his brow amounting
almost to agony. His hands and arms moved convulsively, as if
struggling with the nightmare; and besides several ejaculations in
Hebrew, the following were distinctly heard in the Norman-English,
or mixed language of the country: "For the sake of the God of
Abraham, spare an unhappy old man! I am poor, I am penniless—should
your irons wrench my limbs asunder, I could not gratify you!"
The Palmer awaited not the
end of the Jew's vision, but stirred him with his pilgrim's staff.
The touch probably associated, as is usual, with some of the
apprehensions excited by his dream; for the old man started up, his
grey hair standing almost erect upon his head, and huddling some
part of his garments about him, while he held the detached pieces
with the tenacious grasp of a falcon, he fixed upon the Palmer his
keen black eyes, expressive of wild surprise and of bodily
apprehension.
"Fear nothing from me,
Isaac," said the Palmer, "I come as your friend."
"The God of Israel requite
you," said the Jew, greatly relieved; "I dreamed—But Father Abraham
be praised, it was but a dream." Then, collecting himself, he added
in his usual tone, "And what may it be your pleasure to want at so
early an hour with the poor Jew?"
"It is to tell you," said
the Palmer, "that if you leave not this mansion instantly, and
travel not with some haste, your journey may prove a dangerous one."
"Holy father!" said the Jew,
"whom could it interest to endanger so poor a wretch as I am?"
"The purpose you can best
guess," said the Pilgrim; "but rely on this, that when the Templar
crossed the hall yesternight, he spoke to his Mussulman slaves in
the Saracen language, which I well understand, and charged them this
morning to watch the journey of the Jew, to seize upon him when at a
convenient distance from the mansion, and to conduct him to the
castle of Philip de Malvoisin, or to that of Reginald
Front-de-Boeuf."
It is impossible to describe
the extremity of terror which seized upon the Jew at this
information, and seemed at once to overpower his whole faculties.
His arms fell down to his sides, and his head drooped on his breast,
his knees bent under his weight, every nerve and muscle of his frame
seemed to collapse and lose its energy, and he sunk at the foot of
the Palmer, not in the fashion of one who intentionally stoops,
kneels, or prostrates himself to excite compassion, but like a man
borne down on all sides by the pressure of some invisible force,
which crushes him to the earth without the power of resistance.
"Holy God of Abraham!" was
his first exclamation, folding and elevating his wrinkled hands, but
without raising his grey head from the pavement; "Oh, holy Moses! O,
blessed Aaron! the dream is not dreamed for nought, and the vision
cometh not in vain! I feel their irons already tear my sinews! I
feel the rack pass over my body like the saws, and harrows, and axes
of iron over the men of Rabbah, and of the cities of the children of
Ammon!"
"Stand up, Isaac, and
hearken to me," said the Palmer, who viewed the extremity of his
distress with a compassion in which contempt was largely mingled;
"you have cause for your terror, considering how your brethren have
been used, in order to extort from them their hoards, both by
princes and nobles; but stand up, I say, and I will point out to you
the means of escape. Leave this mansion instantly, while its inmates
sleep sound after the last night's revel. I will guide you by the
secret paths of the forest, known as well to me as to any forester
that ranges it, and I will not leave you till you are under safe
conduct of some chief or baron going to the tournament, whose
good-will you have probably the means of securing."
As the ears of Isaac
received the hopes of escape which this speech intimated, he began
gradually, and inch by inch, as it were, to raise himself up from
the ground, until he fairly rested upon his knees, throwing back his
long grey hair and beard, and fixing his keen black eyes upon the
Palmer's face, with a look expressive at once of hope and fear, not
unmingled with suspicion. But when he heard the concluding part of
the sentence, his original terror appeared to revive in full force,
and he dropt once more on his face, exclaiming, "'I' possess the
means of securing good-will! alas! there is but one road to the
favour of a Christian, and how can the poor Jew find it, whom
extortions have already reduced to the misery of Lazarus?" Then, as
if suspicion had overpowered his other feelings, he suddenly
exclaimed, "For the love of God, young man, betray me not—for the
sake of the Great Father who made us all, Jew as well as Gentile,
Israelite and Ishmaelite—do me no treason! I have not means to
secure the good-will of a Christian beggar, were he rating it at a
single penny." As he spoke these last words, he raised himself, and
grasped the Palmer's mantle with a look of the most earnest
entreaty. The pilgrim extricated himself, as if there were
contamination in the touch.
"Wert thou loaded with all
the wealth of thy tribe," he said, "what interest have I to injure
thee?—In this dress I am vowed to poverty, nor do I change it for
aught save a horse and a coat of mail. Yet think not that I care for
thy company, or propose myself advantage by it; remain here if thou
wilt—Cedric the Saxon may protect thee."
"Alas!" said the Jew, "he
will not let me travel in his train—Saxon or Norman will be equally
ashamed of the poor Israelite; and to travel by myself through the
domains of Philip de Malvoisin and Reginald Front-de-Boeuf—Good
youth, I will go with you!—Let us haste—let us gird up our loins—let
us flee!—Here is thy staff, why wilt thou tarry?"
"I tarry not," said the
Pilgrim, giving way to the urgency of his companion; "but I must
secure the means of leaving this place—follow me."
He led the way to the
adjoining cell, which, as the reader is apprised, was occupied by
Gurth the swineherd.—"Arise, Gurth," said the Pilgrim, "arise
quickly. Undo the postern gate, and let out the Jew and me."
Gurth, whose occupation,
though now held so mean, gave him as much consequence in Saxon
England as that of Eumaeus in Ithaca, was offended at the familiar
and commanding tone assumed by the Palmer. "The Jew leaving
Rotherwood," said he, raising himself on his elbow, and looking
superciliously at him without quitting his pallet, "and travelling
in company with the Palmer to boot—"
"I should as soon have
dreamt," said Wamba, who entered the apartment at the instant, "of
his stealing away with a gammon of bacon."
"Nevertheless," said Gurth,
again laying down his head on the wooden log which served him for a
pillow, "both Jew and Gentile must be content to abide the opening
of the great gate—we suffer no visitors to depart by stealth at
these unseasonable hours."
"Nevertheless," said the
Pilgrim, in a commanding tone, "you will not, I think, refuse me
that favour."
So saying, he stooped over
the bed of the recumbent swineherd, and whispered something in his
ear in Saxon. Gurth started up as if electrified. The Pilgrim,
raising his finger in an attitude as if to express caution, added,
"Gurth, beware—thou are wont to be prudent. I say, undo the
postern—thou shalt know more anon."
With hasty alacrity Gurth
obeyed him, while Wamba and the Jew followed, both wondering at the
sudden change in the swineherd's demeanour. "My mule, my mule!" said
the Jew, as soon as they stood without the postern.
"Fetch him his mule," said
the Pilgrim; "and, hearest thou,—let me have another, that I may
bear him company till he is beyond these parts—I will return it
safely to some of Cedric's train at Ashby. And do thou"—he whispered
the rest in Gurth's ear.
"Willingly, most willingly
shall it be done," said Gurth, and instantly departed to execute the
commission.
"I wish I knew," said Wamba,
when his comrade's back was turned, "what you Palmers learn in the
Holy Land."
"To say our orisons, fool,"
answered the Pilgrim, "to repent our sins, and to mortify ourselves
with fastings, vigils, and long prayers."
"Something more potent than
that," answered the Jester; "for when would repentance or prayer
make Gurth do a courtesy, or fasting or vigil persuade him to lend
you a mule?—I trow you might as well have told his favourite black
boar of thy vigils and penance, and wouldst have gotten as civil an
answer."
"Go to," said the Pilgrim,
"thou art but a Saxon fool."
"Thou sayst well," said the
Jester; "had I been born a Norman, as I think thou art, I would have
had luck on my side, and been next door to a wise man."
At this moment Gurth
appeared on the opposite side of the moat with the mules. The
travellers crossed the ditch upon a drawbridge of only two planks
breadth, the narrowness of which was matched with the straitness of
the postern, and with a little wicket in the exterior palisade,
which gave access to the forest. No sooner had they reached the
mules, than the Jew, with hasty and trembling hands, secured behind
the saddle a small bag of blue buckram, which he took from under his
cloak, containing, as he muttered, "a change of raiment—only a
change of raiment." Then getting upon the animal with more alacrity
and haste than could have been anticipated from his years, he lost
no time in so disposing of the skirts of his gabardine as to conceal
completely from observation the burden which he had thus deposited
"en croupe".
The Pilgrim mounted with
more deliberation, reaching, as he departed, his hand to Gurth, who
kissed it with the utmost possible veneration. The swineherd stood
gazing after the travellers until they were lost under the boughs of
the forest path, when he was disturbed from his reverie by the voice
of Wamba.
"Knowest thou," said the
Jester, "my good friend Gurth, that thou art strangely courteous and
most unwontedly pious on this summer morning? I would I were a black
Prior or a barefoot Palmer, to avail myself of thy unwonted zeal and
courtesy—certes, I would make more out of it than a kiss of the
hand."
"Thou art no fool thus far,
Wamba," answered Gurth, "though thou arguest from appearances, and
the wisest of us can do no more—But it is time to look after my
charge."
So saying, he turned back to
the mansion, attended by the Jester.
Meanwhile the travellers
continued to press on their journey with a dispatch which argued the
extremity of the Jew's fears, since persons at his age are seldom
fond of rapid motion. The Palmer, to whom every path and outlet in
the wood appeared to be familiar, led the way through the most
devious paths, and more than once excited anew the suspicion of the
Israelite, that he intended to betray him into some ambuscade of his
enemies.
His doubts might have been
indeed pardoned; for, except perhaps the flying fish, there was no
race existing on the earth, in the air, or the waters, who were the
object of such an unintermitting, general, and relentless
persecution as the Jews of this period. Upon the slightest and most
unreasonable pretences, as well as upon accusations the most absurd
and groundless, their persons and property were exposed to every
turn of popular fury; for Norman, Saxon, Dane, and Briton, however
adverse these races were to each other, contended which should look
with greatest detestation upon a people, whom it was accounted a
point of religion to hate, to revile, to despise, to plunder, and to
persecute. The kings of the Norman race, and the independent nobles,
who followed their example in all acts of tyranny, maintained
against this devoted people a persecution of a more regular,
calculated, and self-interested kind. It is a well-known story of
King John, that he confined a wealthy Jew in one of the royal
castles, and daily caused one of his teeth to be torn out, until,
when the jaw of the unhappy Israelite was half disfurnished, he
consented to pay a large sum, which it was the tyrant's object to
extort from him. The little ready money which was in the country was
chiefly in possession of this persecuted people, and the nobility
hesitated not to follow the example of their sovereign, in wringing
it from them by every species of oppression, and even personal
torture. Yet the passive courage inspired by the love of gain,
induced the Jews to dare the various evils to which they were
subjected, in consideration of the immense profits which they were
enabled to realize in a country naturally so wealthy as England. In
spite of every kind of discouragement, and even of the special court
of taxations already mentioned, called the Jews' Exchequer, erected
for the very purpose of despoiling and distressing them, the Jews
increased, multiplied, and accumulated huge sums, which they
transferred from one hand to another by means of bills of
exchange—an invention for which commerce is said to be indebted to
them, and which enabled them to transfer their wealth from land to
land, that when threatened with oppression in one country, their
treasure might be secured in another.
The obstinacy and avarice of
the Jews being thus in a measure placed in opposition to the
fanaticism that tyranny of those under whom they lived, seemed to
increase in proportion to the persecution with which they were
visited; and the immense wealth they usually acquired in commerce,
while it frequently placed them in danger, was at other times used
to extend their influence, and to secure to them a certain degree of
protection. On these terms they lived; and their character,
influenced accordingly, was watchful, suspicious, and timid—yet
obstinate, uncomplying, and skilful in evading the dangers to which
they were exposed.
When the travellers had
pushed on at a rapid rate through many devious paths, the Palmer at
length broke silence.
"That large decayed oak," he
said, "marks the boundaries over which Front-de-Boeuf claims
authority—we are long since far from those of Malvoisin. There is
now no fear of pursuit."
"May the wheels of their
chariots be taken off," said the Jew, "like those of the host of
Pharaoh, that they may drive heavily!—But leave me not, good
Pilgrim—Think but of that fierce and savage Templar, with his
Saracen slaves—they will regard neither territory, nor manor, nor
lordship."
"Our road," said the Palmer,
"should here separate; for it beseems not men of my character and
thine to travel together longer than needs must be. Besides, what
succour couldst thou have from me, a peaceful Pilgrim, against two
armed heathens?"
"O good youth," answered the
Jew, "thou canst defend me, and I know thou wouldst. Poor as I am, I
will requite it—not with money, for money, so help me my Father
Abraham, I have none—but—-"
"Money and recompense," said
the Palmer, interrupting him, "I have already said I require not of
thee. Guide thee I can; and, it may be, even in some sort defend
thee; since to protect a Jew against a Saracen, can scarce be
accounted unworthy of a Christian. Therefore, Jew, I will see thee
safe under some fitting escort. We are now not far from the town of
Sheffield, where thou mayest easily find many of thy tribe with whom
to take refuge."
"The blessing of Jacob be
upon thee, good youth!" said the Jew; "in Sheffield I can harbour
with my kinsman Zareth, and find some means of travelling forth with
safety."
"Be it so," said the Palmer;
"at Sheffield then we part, and half-an-hour's riding will bring us
in sight of that town."
The half hour was spent in
perfect silence on both parts; the Pilgrim perhaps disdaining to
address the Jew, except in case of absolute necessity, and the Jew
not presuming to force a conversation with a person whose journey to
the Holy Sepulchre gave a sort of sanctity to his character. They
paused on the top of a gently rising bank, and the Pilgrim, pointing
to the town of Sheffield, which lay beneath them, repeated the
words, "Here, then, we part."
"Not till you have had the
poor Jew's thanks," said Isaac; "for I presume not to ask you to go
with me to my kinsman Zareth's, who might aid me with some means of
repaying your good offices."
"I have already said,"
answered the Pilgrim, "that I desire no recompense. If among the
huge list of thy debtors, thou wilt, for my sake, spare the gyves
and the dungeon to some unhappy Christian who stands in thy danger,
I shall hold this morning's service to thee well bestowed."
"Stay, stay," said the Jew,
laying hold of his garment; "something would I do more than this,
something for thyself.—God knows the Jew is poor—yes, Isaac is the
beggar of his tribe—but forgive me should I guess what thou most
lackest at this moment."
"If thou wert to guess
truly," said the Palmer, "it is what thou canst not supply, wert
thou as wealthy as thou sayst thou art poor."
"As I say?" echoed the Jew;
"O! believe it, I say but the truth; I am a plundered, indebted,
distressed man. Hard hands have wrung from me my goods, my money, my
ships, and all that I possessed—Yet I can tell thee what thou
lackest, and, it may be, supply it too. Thy wish even now is for a
horse and armour."
The Palmer started, and
turned suddenly towards the Jew:—"What fiend prompted that guess?"
said he, hastily.
"No matter," said the Jew,
smiling, "so that it be a true one—and, as I can guess thy want, so
I can supply it."
"But consider," said the
Palmer, "my character, my dress, my vow."
"I know you Christians,"
replied the Jew, "and that the noblest of you will take the staff
and sandal in superstitious penance, and walk afoot to visit the
graves of dead men."
"Blaspheme not, Jew," said
the Pilgrim, sternly.
"Forgive me," said the Jew;
"I spoke rashly. But there dropt words from you last night and this
morning, that, like sparks from flint, showed the metal within; and
in the bosom of that Palmer's gown, is hidden a knight's chain and
spurs of gold. They glanced as you stooped over my bed in the
morning."
The Pilgrim could not
forbear smiling. "Were thy garments searched by as curious an eye,
Isaac," said he, "what discoveries might not be made?"
"No more of that," said the
Jew, changing colour; and drawing forth his writing materials in
haste, as if to stop the conversation, he began to write upon a
piece of paper which he supported on the top of his yellow cap,
without dismounting from his mule. When he had finished, he
delivered the scroll, which was in the Hebrew character, to the
Pilgrim, saying, "In the town of Leicester all men know the rich
Jew, Kirjath Jairam of Lombardy; give him this scroll—he hath on
sale six Milan harnesses, the worst would suit a crowned head—ten
goodly steeds, the worst might mount a king, were he to do battle
for his throne. Of these he will give thee thy choice, with every
thing else that can furnish thee forth for the tournament: when it
is over, thou wilt return them safely—unless thou shouldst have
wherewith to pay their value to the owner."
"But, Isaac," said the
Pilgrim, smiling, "dost thou know that in these sports, the arms and
steed of the knight who is unhorsed are forfeit to his victor? Now I
may be unfortunate, and so lose what I cannot replace or repay."
The Jew looked somewhat
astounded at this possibility; but collecting his courage, he
replied hastily. "No—no—no—It is impossible—I will not think so. The
blessing of Our Father will be upon thee. Thy lance will be powerful
as the rod of Moses."
So saying, he was turning
his mule's head away, when the Palmer, in his turn, took hold of his
gaberdine. "Nay, but Isaac, thou knowest not all the risk. The steed
may be slain, the armour injured—for I will spare neither horse nor
man. Besides, those of thy tribe give nothing for nothing; something
there must be paid for their use."
The Jew twisted himself in
the saddle, like a man in a fit of the colic; but his better
feelings predominated over those which were most familiar to him. "I
care not," he said, "I care not—let me go. If there is damage, it
will cost you nothing—if there is usage money, Kirjath Jairam will
forgive it for the sake of his kinsman Isaac. Fare thee well!—Yet
hark thee, good youth," said he, turning about, "thrust thyself not
too forward into this vain hurly-burly—I speak not for endangering
the steed, and coat of armour, but for the sake of thine own life
and limbs."
"Gramercy for thy caution,"
said the Palmer, again smiling; "I will use thy courtesy frankly,
and it will go hard with me but I will requite it."
They parted, and took
different roads for the town of Sheffield.
CHAPTER VII
Knights, with a long retinue of their squires,
In gaudy liveries march and quaint attires;
One laced the helm, another held the lance,
A third the shining buckler did advance.
The courser paw'd the ground with restless feet,
And snorting foam'd and champ'd the golden bit.
The smiths and armourers on palfreys ride,
Files in their hands, and hammers at their side;
And nails for loosen'd spears, and thongs for shields provide.
The yeomen guard the streets in seemly bands;
And clowns come crowding on, with cudgels in their hands.
—Palamon and Arcite
The condition of the English
nation was at this time sufficiently miserable. King Richard was
absent a prisoner, and in the power of the perfidious and cruel Duke
of Austria. Even the very place of his captivity was uncertain, and
his fate but very imperfectly known to the generality of his
subjects, who were, in the meantime, a prey to every species of
subaltern oppression.
Prince John, in league with
Philip of France, Coeur-de-Lion's mortal enemy, was using every
species of influence with the Duke of Austria, to prolong the
captivity of his brother Richard, to whom he stood indebted for so
many favours. In the meantime, he was strengthening his own faction
in the kingdom, of which he proposed to dispute the succession, in
case of the King's death, with the legitimate heir, Arthur Duke of
Brittany, son of Geoffrey Plantagenet, the elder brother of John.
This usurpation, it is well known, he afterwards effected. His own
character being light, profligate, and perfidious, John easily
attached to his person and faction, not only all who had reason to
dread the resentment of Richard for criminal proceedings during his
absence, but also the numerous class of "lawless resolutes," whom
the crusades had turned back on their country, accomplished in the
vices of the East, impoverished in substance, and hardened in
character, and who placed their hopes of harvest in civil commotion.
To these causes of public distress and apprehension, must be added,
the multitude of outlaws, who, driven to despair by the oppression
of the feudal nobility, and the severe exercise of the forest laws,
banded together in large gangs, and, keeping possession of the
forests and the wastes, set at defiance the justice and magistracy
of the country. The nobles themselves, each fortified within his own
castle, and playing the petty sovereign over his own dominions, were
the leaders of bands scarce less lawless and oppressive than those
of the avowed depredators. To maintain these retainers, and to
support the extravagance and magnificence which their pride induced
them to affect, the nobility borrowed sums of money from the Jews at
the most usurious interest, which gnawed into their estates like
consuming cankers, scarce to be cured unless when circumstances gave
them an opportunity of getting free, by exercising upon their
creditors some act of unprincipled violence.
Under the various burdens
imposed by this unhappy state of affairs, the people of England
suffered deeply for the present, and had yet more dreadful cause to
fear for the future. To augment their misery, a contagious disorder
of a dangerous nature spread through the land; and, rendered more
virulent by the uncleanness, the indifferent food, and the wretched
lodging of the lower classes, swept off many whose fate the
survivors were tempted to envy, as exempting them from the evils
which were to come.
Yet amid these accumulated
distresses, the poor as well as the rich, the vulgar as well as the
noble, in the event of a tournament, which was the grand spectacle
of that age, felt as much interested as the half-starved citizen of
Madrid, who has not a real left to buy provisions for his family,
feels in the issue of a bull-feast. Neither duty nor infirmity could
keep youth or age from such exhibitions. The Passage of Arms, as it
was called, which was to take place at Ashby, in the county of
Leicester, as champions of the first renown were to take the field
in the presence of Prince John himself, who was expected to grace
the lists, had attracted universal attention, and an immense
confluence of persons of all ranks hastened upon the appointed
morning to the place of combat.
The scene was singularly
romantic. On the verge of a wood, which approached to within a mile
of the town of Ashby, was an extensive meadow, of the finest and
most beautiful green turf, surrounded on one side by the forest, and
fringed on the other by straggling oak-trees, some of which had
grown to an immense size. The ground, as if fashioned on purpose for
the martial display which was intended, sloped gradually down on all
sides to a level bottom, which was enclosed for the lists with
strong palisades, forming a space of a quarter of a mile in length,
and about half as broad. The form of the enclosure was an oblong
square, save that the corners were considerably rounded off, in
order to afford more convenience for the spectators. The openings
for the entry of the combatants were at the northern and southern
extremities of the lists, accessible by strong wooden gates, each
wide enough to admit two horsemen riding abreast. At each of these
portals were stationed two heralds, attended by six trumpets, as
many pursuivants, and a strong body of men-at-arms for maintaining
order, and ascertaining the quality of the knights who proposed to
engage in this martial game.
On a platform beyond
the southern entrance, formed by a natural elevation of the ground,
were pitched five magnificent pavilions, adorned with pennons of
russet and black, the chosen colours of the five knights
challengers. The cords of the tents were of the same colour. Before
each pavilion was suspended the shield of the knight by whom it was
occupied, and beside it stood his squire, quaintly disguised as a
salvage or silvan man, or in some other fantastic dress, according
to the taste of his master, and the character he was pleased to
assume during the game.
16
The central pavilion, as the
place of honour, had been assigned to Brian be Bois-Guilbert, whose
renown in all games of chivalry, no less than his connexions with
the knights who had undertaken this Passage of Arms, had occasioned
him to be eagerly received into the company of the challengers, and
even adopted as their chief and leader, though he had so recently
joined them. On one side of his tent were pitched those of Reginald
Front-de-Boeuf and Richard de Malvoisin, and on the other was the
pavilion of Hugh de Grantmesnil, a noble baron in the vicinity,
whose ancestor had been Lord High Steward of England in the time of
the Conqueror, and his son William Rufus. Ralph de Vipont, a knight
of St John of Jerusalem, who had some ancient possessions at a place
called Heather, near Ashby-de-la-Zouche, occupied the fifth
pavilion. From the entrance into the lists, a gently sloping
passage, ten yards in breadth, led up to the platform on which the
tents were pitched. It was strongly secured by a palisade on each
side, as was the esplanade in front of the pavilions, and the whole
was guarded by men-at-arms.
The northern access to the
lists terminated in a similar entrance of thirty feet in breadth, at
the extremity of which was a large enclosed space for such knights
as might be disposed to enter the lists with the challengers, behind
which were placed tents containing refreshments of every kind for
their accommodation, with armourers, tarriers, and other attendants,
in readiness to give their services wherever they might be
necessary.
The exterior of the lists
was in part occupied by temporary galleries, spread with tapestry
and carpets, and accommodated with cushions for the convenience of
those ladies and nobles who were expected to attend the tournament.
A narrow space, betwixt these galleries and the lists, gave
accommodation for yeomanry and spectators of a better degree than
the mere vulgar, and might be compared to the pit of a theatre. The
promiscuous multitude arranged themselves upon large banks of turf
prepared for the purpose, which, aided by the natural elevation of
the ground, enabled them to overlook the galleries, and obtain a
fair view into the lists. Besides the accommodation which these
stations afforded, many hundreds had perched themselves on the
branches of the trees which surrounded the meadow; and even the
steeple of a country church, at some distance, was crowded with
spectators.
It only remains to notice
respecting the general arrangement, that one gallery in the very
centre of the eastern side of the lists, and consequently exactly
opposite to the spot where the shock of the combat was to take
place, was raised higher than the others, more richly decorated, and
graced by a sort of throne and canopy, on which the royal arms were
emblazoned. Squires, pages, and yeomen in rich liveries, waited
around this place of honour, which was designed for Prince John and
his attendants. Opposite to this royal gallery was another, elevated
to the same height, on the western side of the lists; and more
gaily, if less sumptuously decorated, than that destined for the
Prince himself. A train of pages and of young maidens, the most
beautiful who could be selected, gaily dressed in fancy habits of
green and pink, surrounded a throne decorated in the same colours.
Among pennons and flags bearing wounded hearts, burning hearts,
bleeding hearts, bows and quivers, and all the commonplace emblems
of the triumphs of Cupid, a blazoned inscription informed the
spectators, that this seat of honour was designed for "La Royne de
las Beaulte et des Amours". But who was to represent the Queen of
Beauty and of Love on the present occasion no one was prepared to
guess.
Meanwhile, spectators of
every description thronged forward to occupy their respective
stations, and not without many quarrels concerning those which they
were entitled to hold. Some of these were settled by the men-at-arms
with brief ceremony; the shafts of their battle-axes, and pummels of
their swords, being readily employed as arguments to convince the
more refractory. Others, which involved the rival claims of more
elevated persons, were determined by the heralds, or by the two
marshals of the field, William de Wyvil, and Stephen de Martival,
who, armed at all points, rode up and down the lists to enforce and
preserve good order among the spectators.
Gradually the galleries
became filled with knights and nobles, in their robes of peace,
whose long and rich-tinted mantles were contrasted with the gayer
and more splendid habits of the ladies, who, in a greater proportion
than even the men themselves, thronged to witness a sport, which one
would have thought too bloody and dangerous to afford their sex much
pleasure. The lower and interior space was soon filled by
substantial yeomen and burghers, and such of the lesser gentry, as,
from modesty, poverty, or dubious title, durst not assume any higher
place. It was of course amongst these that the most frequent
disputes for precedence occurred.
"Dog of an unbeliever," said
an old man, whose threadbare tunic bore witness to his poverty, as
his sword, and dagger, and golden chain intimated his pretensions to
rank,—"whelp of a she-wolf! darest thou press upon a Christian, and
a Norman gentleman of the blood of Montdidier?"
This rough expostulation was
addressed to no other than our acquaintance Isaac, who, richly and
even magnificently dressed in a gaberdine ornamented with lace and
lined with fur, was endeavouring to make place in the foremost row
beneath the gallery for his daughter, the beautiful Rebecca, who had
joined him at Ashby, and who was now hanging on her father's arm,
not a little terrified by the popular displeasure which seemed
generally excited by her parent's presumption. But Isaac, though we
have seen him sufficiently timid on other occasions, knew well that
at present he had nothing to fear. It was not in places of general
resort, or where their equals were assembled, that any avaricious or
malevolent noble durst offer him injury. At such meetings the Jews
were under the protection of the general law; and if that proved a
weak assurance, it usually happened that there were among the
persons assembled some barons, who, for their own interested
motives, were ready to act as their protectors. On the present
occasion, Isaac felt more than usually confident, being aware that
Prince John was even then in the very act of negotiating a large
loan from the Jews of York, to be secured upon certain jewels and
lands. Isaac's own share in this transaction was considerable, and
he well knew that the Prince's eager desire to bring it to a
conclusion would ensure him his protection in the dilemma in which
he stood.
Emboldened by these
considerations, the Jew pursued his point, and jostled the Norman
Christian, without respect either to his descent, quality, or
religion. The complaints of the old man, however, excited the
indignation of the bystanders. One of these, a stout well-set
yeoman, arrayed in Lincoln green, having twelve arrows stuck in his
belt, with a baldric and badge of silver, and a bow of six feet
length in his hand, turned short round, and while his countenance,
which his constant exposure to weather had rendered brown as a hazel
nut, grew darker with anger, he advised the Jew to remember that all
the wealth he had acquired by sucking the blood of his miserable
victims had but swelled him like a bloated spider, which might be
overlooked while he kept in a comer, but would be crushed if it
ventured into the light. This intimation, delivered in
Norman-English with a firm voice and a stern aspect, made the Jew
shrink back; and he would have probably withdrawn himself altogether
from a vicinity so dangerous, had not the attention of every one
been called to the sudden entrance of Prince John, who at that
moment entered the lists, attended by a numerous and gay train,
consisting partly of laymen, partly of churchmen, as light in their
dress, and as gay in their demeanour, as their companions. Among the
latter was the Prior of Jorvaulx, in the most gallant trim which a
dignitary of the church could venture to exhibit. Fur and gold were
not spared in his garments; and the points of his boots,
out-heroding the preposterous fashion of the time, turned up so very
far, as to be attached, not to his knees merely, but to his very
girdle, and effectually prevented him from putting his foot into the
stirrup. This, however, was a slight inconvenience to the gallant
Abbot, who, perhaps, even rejoicing in the opportunity to display
his accomplished horsemanship before so many spectators, especially
of the fair sex, dispensed with the use of these supports to a timid
rider. The rest of Prince John's retinue consisted of the favourite
leaders of his mercenary troops, some marauding barons and
profligate attendants upon the court, with several Knights Templars
and Knights of St John.
It may be here remarked,
that the knights of these two orders were accounted hostile to King
Richard, having adopted the side of Philip of France in the long
train of disputes which took place in Palestine betwixt that monarch
and the lion-hearted King of England. It was the well-known
consequence of this discord that Richard's repeated victories had
been rendered fruitless, his romantic attempts to besiege Jerusalem
disappointed, and the fruit of all the glory which he had acquired
had dwindled into an uncertain truce with the Sultan Saladin. With
the same policy which had dictated the conduct of their brethren in
the Holy Land, the Templars and Hospitallers in England and Normandy
attached themselves to the faction of Prince John, having little
reason to desire the return of Richard to England, or the succession
of Arthur, his legitimate heir. For the opposite reason, Prince John
hated and contemned the few Saxon families of consequence which
subsisted in England, and omitted no opportunity of mortifying and
affronting them; being conscious that his person and pretensions
were disliked by them, as well as by the greater part of the English
commons, who feared farther innovation upon their rights and
liberties, from a sovereign of John's licentious and tyrannical
disposition.
Attended by this gallant
equipage, himself well mounted, and splendidly dressed in crimson
and in gold, bearing upon his hand a falcon, and having his head
covered by a rich fur bonnet, adorned with a circle of precious
stones, from which his long curled hair escaped and overspread his
shoulders, Prince John, upon a grey and high-mettled palfrey,
caracoled within the lists at the head of his jovial party, laughing
loud with his train, and eyeing with all the boldness of royal
criticism the beauties who adorned the lofty galleries.
Those who remarked in the
physiognomy of the Prince a dissolute audacity, mingled with extreme
haughtiness and indifference to the feelings of others could not yet
deny to his countenance that sort of comeliness which belongs to an
open set of features, well formed by nature, modelled by art to the
usual rules of courtesy, yet so far frank and honest, that they
seemed as if they disclaimed to conceal the natural workings of the
soul. Such an expression is often mistaken for manly frankness, when
in truth it arises from the reckless indifference of a libertine
disposition, conscious of superiority of birth, of wealth, or of
some other adventitious advantage, totally unconnected with personal
merit. To those who did not think so deeply, and they were the
greater number by a hundred to one, the splendour of Prince John's
"rheno", (i.e. fur tippet,) the richness of his cloak, lined with
the most costly sables, his maroquin boots and golden spurs,
together with the grace with which he managed his palfrey, were
sufficient to merit clamorous applause.
In his joyous caracole round
the lists, the attention of the Prince was called by the commotion,
not yet subsided, which had attended the ambitious movement of Isaac
towards the higher places of the assembly. The quick eye of Prince
John instantly recognised the Jew, but was much more agreeably
attracted by the beautiful daughter of Zion, who, terrified by the
tumult, clung close to the arm of her aged father.
The figure of Rebecca might
indeed have compared with the proudest beauties of England, even
though it had been judged by as shrewd a connoisseur as Prince John.
Her form was exquisitely symmetrical, and was shown to advantage by
a sort of Eastern dress, which she wore according to the fashion of
the females of her nation. Her turban of yellow silk suited well
with the darkness of her complexion. The brilliancy of her eyes, the
superb arch of her eyebrows, her well-formed aquiline nose, her
teeth as white as pearl, and the profusion of her sable tresses,
which, each arranged in its own little spiral of twisted curls, fell
down upon as much of a lovely neck and bosom as a simarre of the
richest Persian silk, exhibiting flowers in their natural colours
embossed upon a purple ground, permitted to be visible—all these
constituted a combination of loveliness, which yielded not to the
most beautiful of the maidens who surrounded her. It is true, that
of the golden and pearl-studded clasps, which closed her vest from
the throat to the waist, the three uppermost were left unfastened on
account of the heat, which something enlarged the prospect to which
we allude. A diamond necklace, with pendants of inestimable value,
were by this means also made more conspicuous. The feather of an
ostrich, fastened in her turban by an agraffe set with brilliants,
was another distinction of the beautiful Jewess, scoffed and sneered
at by the proud dames who sat above her, but secretly envied by
those who affected to deride them.
"By the bald scalp of
Abraham," said Prince John, "yonder Jewess must be the very model of
that perfection, whose charms drove frantic the wisest king that
ever lived! What sayest thou, Prior Aymer?—By the Temple of that
wise king, which our wiser brother Richard proved unable to recover,
she is the very Bride of the Canticles!"
"The Rose of Sharon and the
Lily of the Valley,"—answered the Prior, in a sort of snuffling
tone; "but your Grace must remember she is still but a Jewess."
"Ay!" added Prince John,
without heeding him, "and there is my Mammon of unrighteousness
too—the Marquis of Marks, the Baron of Byzants, contesting for place
with penniless dogs, whose threadbare cloaks have not a single cross
in their pouches to keep the devil from dancing there. By the body
of St Mark, my prince of supplies, with his lovely Jewess, shall
have a place in the gallery!—What is she, Isaac? Thy wife or thy
daughter, that Eastern houri that thou lockest under thy arm as thou
wouldst thy treasure-casket?"
"My daughter Rebecca, so
please your Grace," answered Isaac, with a low congee, nothing
embarrassed by the Prince's salutation, in which, however, there was
at least as much mockery as courtesy.
"The wiser man thou," said
John, with a peal of laughter, in which his gay followers
obsequiously joined. "But, daughter or wife, she should be preferred
according to her beauty and thy merits.—Who sits above there?" he
continued, bending his eye on the gallery. "Saxon churls, lolling at
their lazy length!—out upon them!—let them sit close, and make room
for my prince of usurers and his lovely daughter. I'll make the
hinds know they must share the high places of the synagogue with
those whom the synagogue properly belongs to."
Those who occupied the
gallery to whom this injurious and unpolite speech was addressed,
were the family of Cedric the Saxon, with that of his ally and
kinsman, Athelstane of Coningsburgh, a personage, who, on account of
his descent from the last Saxon monarchs of England, was held in the
highest respect by all the Saxon natives of the north of England.
But with the blood of this ancient royal race, many of their
infirmities had descended to Athelstane. He was comely in
countenance, bulky and strong in person, and in the flower of his
age—yet inanimate in expression, dull-eyed, heavy-browed, inactive
and sluggish in all his motions, and so slow in resolution, that the
soubriquet of one of his ancestors was conferred upon him, and he
was very generally called Athelstane the Unready. His friends, and
he had many, who, as well as Cedric, were passionately attached to
him, contended that this sluggish temper arose not from want of
courage, but from mere want of decision; others alleged that his
hereditary vice of drunkenness had obscured his faculties, never of
a very acute order, and that the passive courage and meek
good-nature which remained behind, were merely the dregs of a
character that might have been deserving of praise, but of which all
the valuable parts had flown off in the progress of a long course of
brutal debauchery.
It was to this person, such
as we have described him, that the Prince addressed his imperious
command to make place for Isaac and Rebecca. Athelstane, utterly
confounded at an order which the manners and feelings of the times
rendered so injuriously insulting, unwilling to obey, yet
undetermined how to resist, opposed only the "vis inertiae" to the
will of John; and, without stirring or making any motion whatever of
obedience, opened his large grey eyes, and stared at the Prince with
an astonishment which had in it something extremely ludicrous. But
the impatient John regarded it in no such light.
"The Saxon porker," he said,
"is either asleep or minds me not—Prick him with your lance, De
Bracy," speaking to a knight who rode near him, the leader of a band
of Free Companions, or Condottieri; that is, of mercenaries
belonging to no particular nation, but attached for the time to any
prince by whom they were paid. There was a murmur even among the
attendants of Prince John; but De Bracy, whose profession freed him
from all scruples, extended his long lance over the space which
separated the gallery from the lists, and would have executed the
commands of the Prince before Athelstane the Unready had recovered
presence of mind sufficient even to draw back his person from the
weapon, had not Cedric, as prompt as his companion was tardy,
unsheathed, with the speed of lightning, the short sword which he
wore, and at a single blow severed the point of the lance from the
handle. The blood rushed into the countenance of Prince John. He
swore one of his deepest oaths, and was about to utter some threat
corresponding in violence, when he was diverted from his purpose,
partly by his own attendants, who gathered around him conjuring him
to be patient, partly by a general exclamation of the crowd, uttered
in loud applause of the spirited conduct of Cedric. The Prince
rolled his eyes in indignation, as if to collect some safe and easy
victim; and chancing to encounter the firm glance of the same archer
whom we have already noticed, and who seemed to persist in his
gesture of applause, in spite of the frowning aspect which the
Prince bent upon him, he demanded his reason for clamouring thus.
"I always add my hollo,"
said the yeoman, "when I see a good shot, or a gallant blow."
"Sayst thou?" answered the
Prince; "then thou canst hit the white thyself, I'll warrant."
"A woodsman's mark, and at
woodsman's distance, I can hit," answered the yeoman.
"And Wat Tyrrel's mark, at a
hundred yards," said a voice from behind, but by whom uttered could
not be discerned.
This allusion to the fate of
William Rufus, his Relative, at once incensed and alarmed Prince
John. He satisfied himself, however, with commanding the
men-at-arms, who surrounded the lists, to keep an eye on the
braggart, pointing to the yeoman.
"By St Grizzel," he added,
"we will try his own skill, who is so ready to give his voice to the
feats of others!"
"I shall not fly the trial,"
said the yeoman, with the composure which marked his whole
deportment.
"Meanwhile, stand up, ye
Saxon churls," said the fiery Prince; "for, by the light of Heaven,
since I have said it, the Jew shall have his seat amongst ye!"
"By no means, an it please
your Grace!—it is not fit for such as we to sit with the rulers of
the land," said the Jew; whose ambition for precedence though it had
led him to dispute Place with the extenuated and impoverished
descendant of the line of Montdidier, by no means stimulated him to
an intrusion upon the privileges of the wealthy Saxons.
"Up, infidel dog when I
command you," said Prince John, "or I will have thy swarthy hide
stript off, and tanned for horse-furniture."
Thus urged, the Jew began to
ascend the steep and narrow steps which led up to the gallery.
"Let me see," said the
Prince, "who dare stop him," fixing his eye on Cedric, whose
attitude intimated his intention to hurl the Jew down headlong.
The catastrophe was
prevented by the clown Wamba, who, springing betwixt his master and
Isaac, and exclaiming, in answer to the Prince's defiance, "Marry,
that will I!" opposed to the beard of the Jew a shield of brawn,
which he plucked from beneath his cloak, and with which, doubtless,
he had furnished himself, lest the tournament should have proved
longer than his appetite could endure abstinence. Finding the
abomination of his tribe opposed to his very nose, while the Jester,
at the same time, flourished his wooden sword above his head, the
Jew recoiled, missed his footing, and rolled down the steps,—an
excellent jest to the spectators, who set up a loud laughter, in
which Prince John and his attendants heartily joined.
"Deal me the prize, cousin
Prince," said Wamba; "I have vanquished my foe in fair fight with
sword and shield," he added, brandishing the brawn in one hand and
the wooden sword in the other.
"Who, and what art thou,
noble champion?" said Prince John, still laughing.
"A fool by right of
descent," answered the Jester; "I am Wamba, the son of Witless, who
was the son of Weatherbrain, who was the son of an Alderman."
"Make room for the Jew in
front of the lower ring," said Prince John, not unwilling perhaps
to, seize an apology to desist from his original purpose; "to place
the vanquished beside the victor were false heraldry."
"Knave upon fool were
worse," answered the Jester, "and Jew upon bacon worst of all."
"Gramercy! good fellow,"
cried Prince John, "thou pleasest me—Here, Isaac, lend me a handful
of byzants."
As the Jew, stunned by the
request, afraid to refuse, and unwilling to comply, fumbled in the
furred bag which hung by his girdle, and was perhaps endeavouring to
ascertain how few coins might pass for a handful, the Prince stooped
from his jennet and settled Isaac's doubts by snatching the pouch
itself from his side; and flinging to Wamba a couple of the gold
pieces which it contained, he pursued his career round the lists,
leaving the Jew to the derision of those around him, and himself
receiving as much applause from the spectators as if he had done
some honest and honourable action.
CHAPTER VIII
At this the challenger with fierce defy
His trumpet sounds; the challenged makes reply:
With clangour rings the field, resounds the vaulted sky.
Their visors closed, their lances in the rest,
Or at the helmet pointed or the crest,
They vanish from the barrier, speed the race,
And spurring see decrease the middle space.
Palamon and Arcite
In the midst of Prince
John's cavalcade, he suddenly stopt, and appealing to the Prior of
Jorvaulx, declared the principal business of the day had been
forgotten.
"By my halidom," said he,
"we have forgotten, Sir Prior, to name the fair Sovereign of Love
and of Beauty, by whose white hand the palm is to be distributed.
For my part, I am liberal in my ideas, and I care not if I give my
vote for the black-eyed Rebecca."
"Holy Virgin," answered the
Prior, turning up his eyes in horror, "a Jewess!—We should deserve
to be stoned out of the lists; and I am not yet old enough to be a
martyr. Besides, I swear by my patron saint, that she is far
inferior to the lovely Saxon, Rowena."
"Saxon or Jew," answered the
Prince, "Saxon or Jew, dog or hog, what matters it? I say, name
Rebecca, were it only to mortify the Saxon churls."
A murmur arose even among
his own immediate attendants.
"This passes a jest, my
lord," said De Bracy; "no knight here will lay lance in rest if such
an insult is attempted."
"It is the mere wantonness
of insult," said one of the oldest and most important of Prince
John's followers, Waldemar Fitzurse, "and if your Grace attempt it,
cannot but prove ruinous to your projects."
"I entertained you, sir,"
said John, reining up his palfrey haughtily, "for my follower, but
not for my counsellor."
"Those who follow your Grace
in the paths which you tread," said Waldemar, but speaking in a low
voice, "acquire the right of counsellors; for your interest and
safety are not more deeply gaged than their own."
From the tone in which this
was spoken, John saw the necessity of acquiescence "I did but jest,"
he said; "and you turn upon me like so many adders! Name whom you
will, in the fiend's name, and please yourselves."
"Nay, nay," said De Bracy,
"let the fair sovereign's throne remain unoccupied, until the
conqueror shall be named, and then let him choose the lady by whom
it shall be filled. It will add another grace to his triumph, and
teach fair ladies to prize the love of valiant knights, who can
exalt them to such distinction."
"If Brian de Bois-Guilbert
gain the prize," said the Prior, "I will gage my rosary that I name
the Sovereign of Love and Beauty."
"Bois-Guilbert," answered De
Bracy, "is a good lance; but there are others around these lists,
Sir Prior, who will not fear to encounter him."
"Silence, sirs," said
Waldemar, "and let the Prince assume his seat. The knights and
spectators are alike impatient, the time advances, and highly fit it
is that the sports should commence."
Prince John, though not yet
a monarch, had in Waldemar Fitzurse all the inconveniences of a
favourite minister, who, in serving his sovereign, must always do so
in his own way. The Prince acquiesced, however, although his
disposition was precisely of that kind which is apt to be obstinate
upon trifles, and, assuming his throne, and being surrounded by his
followers, gave signal to the heralds to proclaim the laws of the
tournament, which were briefly as follows:
First, the five challengers
were to undertake all comers.
Secondly, any knight
proposing to combat, might, if he pleased, select a special
antagonist from among the challengers, by touching his shield. If he
did so with the reverse of his lance, the trial of skill was made
with what were called the arms of courtesy, that is, with lances at
whose extremity a piece of round flat board was fixed, so that no
danger was encountered, save from the shock of the horses and
riders. But if the shield was touched with the sharp end of the
lance, the combat was understood to be at "outrance", that is, the
knights were to fight with sharp weapons, as in actual battle.
Thirdly, when the knights
present had accomplished their vow, by each of them breaking five
lances, the Prince was to declare the victor in the first day's
tourney, who should receive as prize a warhorse of exquisite beauty
and matchless strength; and in addition to this reward of valour, it
was now declared, he should have the peculiar honour of naming the
Queen of Love and Beauty, by whom the prize should be given on the
ensuing day.
Fourthly, it was announced,
that, on the second day, there should be a general tournament, in
which all the knights present, who were desirous to win praise,
might take part; and being divided into two bands of equal numbers,
might fight it out manfully, until the signal was given by Prince
John to cease the combat. The elected Queen of Love and Beauty was
then to crown the knight whom the Prince should adjudge to have
borne himself best in this second day, with a coronet composed of
thin gold plate, cut into the shape of a laurel crown. On this
second day the knightly games ceased. But on that which was to
follow, feats of archery, of bull-baiting, and other popular
amusements, were to be practised, for the more immediate amusement
of the populace. In this manner did Prince John endeavour to lay the
foundation of a popularity, which he was perpetually throwing down
by some inconsiderate act of wanton aggression upon the feelings and
prejudices of the people.
The lists now presented a
most splendid spectacle. The sloping galleries were crowded with all
that was noble, great, wealthy, and beautiful in the northern and
midland parts of England; and the contrast of the various dresses of
these dignified spectators, rendered the view as gay as it was rich,
while the interior and lower space, filled with the substantial
burgesses and yeomen of merry England, formed, in their more plain
attire, a dark fringe, or border, around this circle of brilliant
embroidery, relieving, and, at the same time, setting off its
splendour.
The heralds finished their
proclamation with their usual cry of "Largesse, largesse, gallant
knights!" and gold and silver pieces were showered on them from the
galleries, it being a high point of chivalry to exhibit liberality
towards those whom the age accounted at once the secretaries and the
historians of honour. The bounty of the spectators was acknowledged
by the customary shouts of "Love of Ladies—Death of Champions—Honour
to the Generous—Glory to the Brave!" To which the more humble
spectators added their acclamations, and a numerous band of
trumpeters the flourish of their martial instruments. When these
sounds had ceased, the heralds withdrew from the lists in gay and
glittering procession, and none remained within them save the
marshals of the field, who, armed cap-a-pie, sat on horseback,
motionless as statues, at the opposite ends of the lists. Meantime,
the enclosed space at the northern extremity of the lists, large as
it was, was now completely crowded with knights desirous to prove
their skill against the challengers, and, when viewed from the
galleries, presented the appearance of a sea of waving plumage,
intermixed with glistening helmets, and tall lances, to the
extremities of which were, in many cases, attached small pennons of
about a span's breadth, which, fluttering in the air as the breeze
caught them, joined with the restless motion of the feathers to add
liveliness to the scene.
At length the barriers were
opened, and five knights, chosen by lot, advanced slowly into the
area; a single champion riding in front, and the other four
following in pairs. All were splendidly armed, and my Saxon
authority (in the Wardour Manuscript) records at great length their
devices, their colours, and the embroidery of their horse trappings.
It is unnecessary to be particular on these subjects. To borrow
lines from a contemporary poet, who has written but too little:
"The knights are dust,
And their good swords are rust,
Their souls are with the saints, we trust." 17
Their escutcheons have long
mouldered from the walls of their castles. Their castles themselves
are but green mounds and shattered ruins—the place that once knew
them, knows them no more—nay, many a race since theirs has died out
and been forgotten in the very land which they occupied, with all
the authority of feudal proprietors and feudal lords. What, then,
would it avail the reader to know their names, or the evanescent
symbols of their martial rank!
Now, however, no whit
anticipating the oblivion which awaited their names and feats, the
champions advanced through the lists, restraining their fiery
steeds, and compelling them to move slowly, while, at the same time,
they exhibited their paces, together with the grace and dexterity of
the riders. As the procession entered the lists, the sound of a wild
Barbaric music was heard from behind the tents of the challengers,
where the performers were concealed. It was of Eastern origin,
having been brought from the Holy Land; and the mixture of the
cymbals and bells seemed to bid welcome at once, and defiance, to
the knights as they advanced. With the eyes of an immense concourse
of spectators fixed upon them, the five knights advanced up the
platform upon which the tents of the challengers stood, and there
separating themselves, each touched slightly, and with the reverse
of his lance, the shield of the antagonist to whom he wished to
oppose himself. The lower orders of spectators in general—nay, many
of the higher class, and it is even said several of the ladies, were
rather disappointed at the champions choosing the arms of courtesy.
For the same sort of persons, who, in the present day, applaud most
highly the deepest tragedies, were then interested in a tournament
exactly in proportion to the danger incurred by the champions
engaged.
Having intimated their more
pacific purpose, the champions retreated to the extremity of the
lists, where they remained drawn up in a line; while the
challengers, sallying each from his pavilion, mounted their horses,
and, headed by Brian de Bois-Guilbert, descended from the platform,
and opposed themselves individually to the knights who had touched
their respective shields.
At the flourish of clarions
and trumpets, they started out against each other at full gallop;
and such was the superior dexterity or good fortune of the
challengers, that those opposed to Bois-Guilbert, Malvoisin, and
Front-de-Boeuf, rolled on the ground. The antagonist of Grantmesnil,
instead of bearing his lance-point fair against the crest or the
shield of his enemy, swerved so much from the direct line as to
break the weapon athwart the person of his opponent—a circumstance
which was accounted more disgraceful than that of being actually
unhorsed; because the latter might happen from accident, whereas the
former evinced awkwardness and want of management of the weapon and
of the horse. The fifth knight alone maintained the honour of his
party, and parted fairly with the Knight of St John, both
splintering their lances without advantage on either side.
The shouts of the multitude,
together with the acclamations of the heralds, and the clangour of
the trumpets, announced the triumph of the victors and the defeat of
the vanquished. The former retreated to their pavilions, and the
latter, gathering themselves up as they could, withdrew from the
lists in disgrace and dejection, to agree with their victors
concerning the redemption of their arms and their horses, which,
according to the laws of the tournament, they had forfeited. The
fifth of their number alone tarried in the lists long enough to be
greeted by the applauses of the spectators, amongst whom he
retreated, to the aggravation, doubtless, of his companions'
mortification.
A second and a third
party of knights took the field; and although they had various
success, yet, upon the whole, the advantage decidedly remained with
the challengers, not one of whom lost his seat or swerved from his
charge—misfortunes which befell one or two of their antagonists in
each encounter. The spirits, therefore, of those opposed to them,
seemed to be considerably damped by their continued success. Three
knights only appeared on the fourth entry, who, avoiding the shields
of Bois-Guilbert and Front-de-Boeuf, contented themselves with
touching those of the three other knights, who had not altogether
manifested the same strength and dexterity. This politic selection
did not alter the fortune of the field, the challengers were still
successful: one of their antagonists was overthrown, and both the
others failed in the "attaint",
18
that is, in striking the helmet and shield of their antagonist
firmly and strongly, with the lance held in a direct line, so that
the weapon might break unless the champion was overthrown.
After this fourth encounter,
there was a considerable pause; nor did it appear that any one was
very desirous of renewing the contest. The spectators murmured among
themselves; for, among the challengers, Malvoisin and Front-de-Boeuf
were unpopular from their characters, and the others, except
Grantmesnil, were disliked as strangers and foreigners.
But none shared the general
feeling of dissatisfaction so keenly as Cedric the Saxon, who saw,
in each advantage gained by the Norman challengers, a repeated
triumph over the honour of England. His own education had taught him
no skill in the games of chivalry, although, with the arms of his
Saxon ancestors, he had manifested himself, on many occasions, a
brave and determined soldier. He looked anxiously to Athelstane, who
had learned the accomplishments of the age, as if desiring that he
should make some personal effort to recover the victory which was
passing into the hands of the Templar and his associates. But,
though both stout of heart, and strong of person, Athelstane had a
disposition too inert and unambitious to make the exertions which
Cedric seemed to expect from him.
"The day is against England,
my lord," said Cedric, in a marked tone; "are you not tempted to
take the lance?"
"I shall tilt to-morrow"
answered Athelstane, "in the 'melee'; it is not worth while for me
to arm myself to-day."
Two things displeased Cedric
in this speech. It contained the Norman word "melee", (to express
the general conflict,) and it evinced some indifference to the
honour of the country; but it was spoken by Athelstane, whom he held
in such profound respect, that he would not trust himself to canvass
his motives or his foibles. Moreover, he had no time to make any
remark, for Wamba thrust in his word, observing, "It was better,
though scarce easier, to be the best man among a hundred, than the
best man of two."
Athelstane took the
observation as a serious compliment; but Cedric, who better
understood the Jester's meaning, darted at him a severe and menacing
look; and lucky it was for Wamba, perhaps, that the time and place
prevented his receiving, notwithstanding his place and service, more
sensible marks of his master's resentment.
The pause in the tournament
was still uninterrupted, excepting by the voices of the heralds
exclaiming—"Love of ladies, splintering of lances! stand forth
gallant knights, fair eyes look upon your deeds!"
The music also of the
challengers breathed from time to time wild bursts expressive of
triumph or defiance, while the clowns grudged a holiday which seemed
to pass away in inactivity; and old knights and nobles lamented in
whispers the decay of martial spirit, spoke of the triumphs of their
younger days, but agreed that the land did not now supply dames of
such transcendent beauty as had animated the jousts of former times.
Prince John began to talk to his attendants about making ready the
banquet, and the necessity of adjudging the prize to Brian de
Bois-Guilbert, who had, with a single spear, overthrown two knights,
and foiled a third.
At length, as the Saracenic
music of the challengers concluded one of those long and high
flourishes with which they had broken the silence of the lists, it
was answered by a solitary trumpet, which breathed a note of
defiance from the northern extremity. All eyes were turned to see
the new champion which these sounds announced, and no sooner were
the barriers opened than he paced into the lists. As far as could be
judged of a man sheathed in armour, the new adventurer did not
greatly exceed the middle size, and seemed to be rather slender than
strongly made. His suit of armour was formed of steel, richly inlaid
with gold, and the device on his shield was a young oak-tree pulled
up by the roots, with the Spanish word Desdichado, signifying
Disinherited. He was mounted on a gallant black horse, and as he
passed through the lists he gracefully saluted the Prince and the
ladies by lowering his lance. The dexterity with which he managed
his steed, and something of youthful grace which he displayed in his
manner, won him the favour of the multitude, which some of the lower
classes expressed by calling out, "Touch Ralph de Vipont's
shield—touch the Hospitallers shield; he has the least sure seat, he
is your cheapest bargain."
The champion, moving onward
amid these well-meant hints, ascended the platform by the sloping
alley which led to it from the lists, and, to the astonishment of
all present, riding straight up to the central pavilion, struck with
the sharp end of his spear the shield of Brian de Bois-Guilbert
until it rung again. All stood astonished at his presumption, but
none more than the redoubted Knight whom he had thus defied to
mortal combat, and who, little expecting so rude a challenge, was
standing carelessly at the door of the pavilion.
"Have you confessed
yourself, brother," said the Templar, "and have you heard mass this
morning, that you peril your life so frankly?"
"I am fitter to meet death
than thou art" answered the Disinherited Knight; for by this name
the stranger had recorded himself in the books of the tourney.
"Then take your place in the
lists," said Bois-Guilbert, "and look your last upon the sun; for
this night thou shalt sleep in paradise."
"Gramercy for thy courtesy,"
replied the Disinherited Knight, "and to requite it, I advise thee
to take a fresh horse and a new lance, for by my honour you will
need both."
Having expressed himself
thus confidently, he reined his horse backward down the slope which
he had ascended, and compelled him in the same manner to move
backward through the lists, till he reached the northern extremity,
where he remained stationary, in expectation of his antagonist. This
feat of horsemanship again attracted the applause of the multitude.
However incensed at his
adversary for the precautions which he recommended, Brian de
Bois-Guilbert did not neglect his advice; for his honour was too
nearly concerned, to permit his neglecting any means which might
ensure victory over his presumptuous opponent. He changed his horse
for a proved and fresh one of great strength and spirit. He chose a
new and a tough spear, lest the wood of the former might have been
strained in the previous encounters he had sustained. Lastly, he
laid aside his shield, which had received some little damage, and
received another from his squires. His first had only borne the
general device of his rider, representing two knights riding upon
one horse, an emblem expressive of the original humility and poverty
of the Templars, qualities which they had since exchanged for the
arrogance and wealth that finally occasioned their suppression.
Bois-Guilbert's new shield bore a raven in full flight, holding in
its claws a skull, and bearing the motto, "Gare le Corbeau".
When the two champions stood
opposed to each other at the two extremities of the lists, the
public expectation was strained to the highest pitch. Few augured
the possibility that the encounter could terminate well for the
Disinherited Knight, yet his courage and gallantry secured the
general good wishes of the spectators.
The trumpets had no sooner
given the signal, than the champions vanished from their posts with
the speed of lightning, and closed in the centre of the lists with
the shock of a thunderbolt. The lances burst into shivers up to the
very grasp, and it seemed at the moment that both knights had
fallen, for the shock had made each horse recoil backwards upon its
haunches. The address of the riders recovered their steeds by use of
the bridle and spur; and having glared on each other for an instant
with eyes which seemed to flash fire through the bars of their
visors, each made a demi-volte, and, retiring to the extremity of
the lists, received a fresh lance from the attendants.
A loud shout from the
spectators, waving of scarfs and handkerchiefs, and general
acclamations, attested the interest taken by the spectators in this
encounter; the most equal, as well as the best performed, which had
graced the day. But no sooner had the knights resumed their station,
than the clamour of applause was hushed into a silence, so deep and
so dead, that it seemed the multitude were afraid even to breathe.
A few minutes pause having
been allowed, that the combatants and their horses might recover
breath, Prince John with his truncheon signed to the trumpets to
sound the onset. The champions a second time sprung from their
stations, and closed in the centre of the lists, with the same
speed, the same dexterity, the same violence, but not the same equal
fortune as before.
In this second encounter,
the Templar aimed at the centre of his antagonist's shield, and
struck it so fair and forcibly, that his spear went to shivers, and
the Disinherited Knight reeled in his saddle. On the other hand,
that champion had, in the beginning of his career, directed the
point of his lance towards Bois-Guilbert's shield, but, changing his
aim almost in the moment of encounter, he addressed it to the
helmet, a mark more difficult to hit, but which, if attained,
rendered the shock more irresistible. Fair and true he hit the
Norman on the visor, where his lance's point kept hold of the bars.
Yet, even at this disadvantage, the Templar sustained his high
reputation; and had not the girths of his saddle burst, he might not
have been unhorsed. As it chanced, however, saddle, horse, and man,
rolled on the ground under a cloud of dust.
To extricate himself from
the stirrups and fallen steed, was to the Templar scarce the work of
a moment; and, stung with madness, both at his disgrace and at the
acclamations with which it was hailed by the spectators, he drew his
sword and waved it in defiance of his conqueror. The Disinherited
Knight sprung from his steed, and also unsheathed his sword. The
marshals of the field, however, spurred their horses between them,
and reminded them, that the laws of the tournament did not, on the
present occasion, permit this species of encounter.
"We shall meet again, I
trust," said the Templar, casting a resentful glance at his
antagonist; "and where there are none to separate us."
"If we do not," said the
Disinherited Knight, "the fault shall not be mine. On foot or
horseback, with spear, with axe, or with sword, I am alike ready to
encounter thee."
More and angrier words would
have been exchanged, but the marshals, crossing their lances betwixt
them, compelled them to separate. The Disinherited Knight returned
to his first station, and Bois-Guilbert to his tent, where he
remained for the rest of the day in an agony of despair.
Without alighting from his
horse, the conqueror called for a bowl of wine, and opening the
beaver, or lower part of his helmet, announced that he quaffed it,
"To all true English hearts, and to the confusion of foreign
tyrants." He then commanded his trumpet to sound a defiance to the
challengers, and desired a herald to announce to them, that he
should make no election, but was willing to encounter them in the
order in which they pleased to advance against him.
The gigantic Front-de-Boeuf,
armed in sable armour, was the first who took the field. He bore on
a white shield a black bull's head, half defaced by the numerous
encounters which he had undergone, and bearing the arrogant motto,
"Cave, Adsum". Over this champion the Disinherited Knight obtained a
slight but decisive advantage. Both Knights broke their lances
fairly, but Front-de-Boeuf, who lost a stirrup in the encounter, was
adjudged to have the disadvantage.
In the stranger's third
encounter with Sir Philip Malvoisin, he was equally successful;
striking that baron so forcibly on the casque, that the laces of the
helmet broke, and Malvoisin, only saved from falling by being
unhelmeted, was declared vanquished like his companions.
In his fourth combat with De
Grantmesnil, the Disinherited Knight showed as much courtesy as he
had hitherto evinced courage and dexterity. De Grantmesnil's horse,
which was young and violent, reared and plunged in the course of the
career so as to disturb the rider's aim, and the stranger, declining
to take the advantage which this accident afforded him, raised his
lance, and passing his antagonist without touching him, wheeled his
horse and rode back again to his own end of the lists, offering his
antagonist, by a herald, the chance of a second encounter. This De
Grantmesnil declined, avowing himself vanquished as much by the
courtesy as by the address of his opponent.
Ralph de Vipont summed up
the list of the stranger's triumphs, being hurled to the ground with
such force, that the blood gushed from his nose and his mouth, and
he was borne senseless from the lists.
The acclamations of
thousands applauded the unanimous award of the Prince and marshals,
announcing that day's honours to the Disinherited Knight.
CHAPTER IX
——In the midst was seen
A lady of a more majestic mien,
By stature and by beauty mark'd their sovereign Queen.
And as in beauty she surpass'd the choir,
So nobler than the rest was her attire;
A crown of ruddy gold enclosed her brow,
Plain without pomp, and rich without a show;
A branch of Agnus Castus in her hand,
She bore aloft her symbol of command.
The Flower and the Leaf
William de Wyvil and Stephen
de Martival, the marshals of the field, were the first to offer
their congratulations to the victor, praying him, at the same time,
to suffer his helmet to be unlaced, or, at least, that he would
raise his visor ere they conducted him to receive the prize of the
day's tourney from the hands of Prince John. The Disinherited
Knight, with all knightly courtesy, declined their request,
alleging, that he could not at this time suffer his face to be seen,
for reasons which he had assigned to the heralds when he entered the
lists. The marshals were perfectly satisfied by this reply; for
amidst the frequent and capricious vows by which knights were
accustomed to bind themselves in the days of chivalry, there were
none more common than those by which they engaged to remain
incognito for a certain space, or until some particular adventure
was achieved. The marshals, therefore, pressed no farther into the
mystery of the Disinherited Knight, but, announcing to Prince John
the conqueror's desire to remain unknown, they requested permission
to bring him before his Grace, in order that he might receive the
reward of his valour.
John's curiosity was excited
by the mystery observed by the stranger; and, being already
displeased with the issue of the tournament, in which the
challengers whom he favoured had been successively defeated by one
knight, he answered haughtily to the marshals, "By the light of Our
Lady's brow, this same knight hath been disinherited as well of his
courtesy as of his lands, since he desires to appear before us
without uncovering his face.—Wot ye, my lords," he said, turning
round to his train, "who this gallant can be, that bears himself
thus proudly?"
"I cannot guess," answered
De Bracy, "nor did I think there had been within the four seas that
girth Britain a champion that could bear down these five knights in
one day's jousting. By my faith, I shall never forget the force with
which he shocked De Vipont. The poor Hospitaller was hurled from his
saddle like a stone from a sling."
"Boast not of that," said a
Knight of St John, who was present; "your Temple champion had no
better luck. I saw your brave lance, Bois-Guilbert, roll thrice
over, grasping his hands full of sand at every turn."
De Bracy, being attached to
the Templars, would have replied, but was prevented by Prince John.
"Silence, sirs!" he said; "what unprofitable debate have we here?"
"The victor," said De Wyvil,
"still waits the pleasure of your highness."
"It is our pleasure,"
answered John, "that he do so wait until we learn whether there is
not some one who can at least guess at his name and quality. Should
he remain there till night-fall, he has had work enough to keep him
warm."
"Your Grace," said Waldemar
Fitzurse, "will do less than due honour to the victor, if you compel
him to wait till we tell your highness that which we cannot know; at
least I can form no guess—unless he be one of the good lances who
accompanied King Richard to Palestine, and who are now straggling
homeward from the Holy Land."
"It may be the Earl of
Salisbury," said De Bracy; "he is about the same pitch."
"Sir Thomas de Multon, the
Knight of Gilsland, rather," said Fitzurse; "Salisbury is bigger in
the bones." A whisper arose among the train, but by whom first
suggested could not be ascertained. "It might be the King—it might
be Richard Coeur-de-Lion himself!"
"Over God's forbode!" said
Prince John, involuntarily turning at the same time as pale as
death, and shrinking as if blighted by a flash of lightning;
"Waldemar!—De Bracy! brave knights and gentlemen, remember your
promises, and stand truly by me!"
"Here is no danger
impending," said Waldemar Fitzurse; "are you so little acquainted
with the gigantic limbs of your father's son, as to think they can
be held within the circumference of yonder suit of armour?—De Wyvil
and Martival, you will best serve the Prince by bringing forward the
victor to the throne, and ending an error that has conjured all the
blood from his cheeks.—Look at him more closely," he continued,
"your highness will see that he wants three inches of King Richard's
height, and twice as much of his shoulder-breadth. The very horse he
backs, could not have carried the ponderous weight of King Richard
through a single course."
While he was yet speaking,
the marshals brought forward the Disinherited Knight to the foot of
a wooden flight of steps, which formed the ascent from the lists to
Prince John's throne. Still discomposed with the idea that his
brother, so much injured, and to whom he was so much indebted, had
suddenly arrived in his native kingdom, even the distinctions
pointed out by Fitzurse did not altogether remove the Prince's
apprehensions; and while, with a short and embarrassed eulogy upon
his valour, he caused to be delivered to him the war-horse assigned
as the prize, he trembled lest from the barred visor of the mailed
form before him, an answer might be returned, in the deep and awful
accents of Richard the Lion-hearted.
But the Disinherited Knight
spoke not a word in reply to the compliment of the Prince, which he
only acknowledged with a profound obeisance.
The horse was led into the
lists by two grooms richly dressed, the animal itself being fully
accoutred with the richest war-furniture; which, however, scarcely
added to the value of the noble creature in the eyes of those who
were judges. Laying one hand upon the pommel of the saddle, the
Disinherited Knight vaulted at once upon the back of the steed
without making use of the stirrup, and, brandishing aloft his lance,
rode twice around the lists, exhibiting the points and paces of the
horse with the skill of a perfect horseman.
The appearance of vanity,
which might otherwise have been attributed to this display, was
removed by the propriety shown in exhibiting to the best advantage
the princely reward with which he had been just honoured, and the
Knight was again greeted by the acclamations of all present.
In the meanwhile, the
bustling Prior of Jorvaulx had reminded Prince John, in a whisper,
that the victor must now display his good judgment, instead of his
valour, by selecting from among the beauties who graced the
galleries a lady, who should fill the throne of the Queen of Beauty
and of Love, and deliver the prize of the tourney upon the ensuing
day. The Prince accordingly made a sign with his truncheon, as the
Knight passed him in his second career around the lists. The Knight
turned towards the throne, and, sinking his lance, until the point
was within a foot of the ground, remained motionless, as if
expecting John's commands; while all admired the sudden dexterity
with which he instantly reduced his fiery steed from a state of
violent emotion and high excitation to the stillness of an
equestrian statue.
"Sir Disinherited Knight,"
said Prince John, "since that is the only title by which we can
address you, it is now your duty, as well as privilege, to name the
fair lady, who, as Queen of Honour and of Love, is to preside over
next day's festival. If, as a stranger in our land, you should
require the aid of other judgment to guide your own, we can only say
that Alicia, the daughter of our gallant knight Waldemar Fitzurse,
has at our court been long held the first in beauty as in place.
Nevertheless, it is your undoubted prerogative to confer on whom you
please this crown, by the delivery of which to the lady of your
choice, the election of to-morrow's Queen will be formal and
complete.—Raise your lance."
The Knight obeyed; and
Prince John placed upon its point a coronet of green satin, having
around its edge a circlet of gold, the upper edge of which was
relieved by arrow-points and hearts placed interchangeably, like the
strawberry leaves and balls upon a ducal crown.
In the broad hint which he
dropped respecting the daughter of Waldemar Fitzurse, John had more
than one motive, each the offspring of a mind, which was a strange
mixture of carelessness and presumption with low artifice and
cunning. He wished to banish from the minds of the chivalry around
him his own indecent and unacceptable jest respecting the Jewess
Rebecca; he was desirous of conciliating Alicia's father Waldemar,
of whom he stood in awe, and who had more than once shown himself
dissatisfied during the course of the day's proceedings. He had also
a wish to establish himself in the good graces of the lady; for John
was at least as licentious in his pleasures as profligate in his
ambition. But besides all these reasons, he was desirous to raise up
against the Disinherited Knight (towards whom he already entertained
a strong dislike) a powerful enemy in the person of Waldemar
Fitzurse, who was likely, he thought, highly to resent the injury
done to his daughter, in case, as was not unlikely, the victor
should make another choice.
And so indeed it proved. For
the Disinherited Knight passed the gallery close to that of the
Prince, in which the Lady Alicia was seated in the full pride of
triumphant beauty, and, pacing forwards as slowly as he had hitherto
rode swiftly around the lists, he seemed to exercise his right of
examining the numerous fair faces which adorned that splendid
circle.
It was worth while to see
the different conduct of the beauties who underwent this
examination, during the time it was proceeding. Some blushed, some
assumed an air of pride and dignity, some looked straight forward,
and essayed to seem utterly unconscious of what was going on, some
drew back in alarm, which was perhaps affected, some endeavoured to
forbear smiling, and there were two or three who laughed outright.
There were also some who dropped their veils over their charms; but,
as the Wardour Manuscript says these were fair ones of ten years
standing, it may be supposed that, having had their full share of
such vanities, they were willing to withdraw their claim, in order
to give a fair chance to the rising beauties of the age.
At length the champion
paused beneath the balcony in which the Lady Rowena was placed, and
the expectation of the spectators was excited to the utmost.
It must be owned, that if an
interest displayed in his success could have bribed the Disinherited
Knight, the part of the lists before which he paused had merited his
predilection. Cedric the Saxon, overjoyed at the discomfiture of the
Templar, and still more so at the miscarriage of his two malevolent
neighbours, Front-de-Boeuf and Malvoisin, had, with his body half
stretched over the balcony, accompanied the victor in each course,
not with his eyes only, but with his whole heart and soul. The Lady
Rowena had watched the progress of the day with equal attention,
though without openly betraying the same intense interest. Even the
unmoved Athelstane had shown symptoms of shaking off his apathy,
when, calling for a huge goblet of muscadine, he quaffed it to the
health of the Disinherited Knight. Another group, stationed under
the gallery occupied by the Saxons, had shown no less interest in
the fate of the day.
"Father Abraham!" said Isaac
of York, when the first course was run betwixt the Templar and the
Disinherited Knight, "how fiercely that Gentile rides! Ah, the good
horse that was brought all the long way from Barbary, he takes no
more care of him than if he were a wild ass's colt—and the noble
armour, that was worth so many zecchins to Joseph Pareira, the
armourer of Milan, besides seventy in the hundred of profits, he
cares for it as little as if he had found it in the highways!"
"If he risks his own person
and limbs, father," said Rebecca, "in doing such a dreadful battle,
he can scarce be expected to spare his horse and armour."
"Child!" replied Isaac,
somewhat heated, "thou knowest not what thou speakest—His neck and
limbs are his own, but his horse and armour belong to—Holy Jacob!
what was I about to say!—Nevertheless, it is a good youth—See,
Rebecca! see, he is again about to go up to battle against the
Philistine—Pray, child—pray for the safety of the good youth,—and of
the speedy horse, and the rich armour.—God of my fathers!" he again
exclaimed, "he hath conquered, and the uncircumcised Philistine hath
fallen before his lance,—even as Og the King of Bashan, and Sihon,
King of the Amorites, fell before the sword of our fathers!—Surely
he shall take their gold and their silver, and their war-horses, and
their armour of brass and of steel, for a prey and for a spoil."
The same anxiety did the
worthy Jew display during every course that was run, seldom failing
to hazard a hasty calculation concerning the value of the horse and
armour which was forfeited to the champion upon each new success.
There had been therefore no small interest taken in the success of
the Disinherited Knight, by those who occupied the part of the lists
before which he now paused.
Whether from indecision, or
some other motive of hesitation, the champion of the day remained
stationary for more than a minute, while the eyes of the silent
audience were riveted upon his motions; and then, gradually and
gracefully sinking the point of his lance, he deposited the coronet
which it supported at the feet of the fair Rowena. The trumpets
instantly sounded, while the heralds proclaimed the Lady Rowena the
Queen of Beauty and of Love for the ensuing day, menacing with
suitable penalties those who should be disobedient to her authority.
They then repeated their cry of Largesse, to which Cedric, in the
height of his joy, replied by an ample donative, and to which
Athelstane, though less promptly, added one equally large.
There was some murmuring
among the damsels of Norman descent, who were as much unused to see
the preference given to a Saxon beauty, as the Norman nobles were to
sustain defeat in the games of chivalry which they themselves had
introduced. But these sounds of disaffection were drowned by the
popular shout of "Long live the Lady Rowena, the chosen and lawful
Queen of Love and of Beauty!" To which many in the lower area added,
"Long live the Saxon Princess! long live the race of the immortal
Alfred!"
However unacceptable these
sounds might be to Prince John, and to those around him, he saw
himself nevertheless obliged to confirm the nomination of the
victor, and accordingly calling to horse, he left his throne; and
mounting his jennet, accompanied by his train, he again entered the
lists. The Prince paused a moment beneath the gallery of the Lady
Alicia, to whom he paid his compliments, observing, at the same
time, to those around him—"By my halidome, sirs! if the Knight's
feats in arms have shown that he hath limbs and sinews, his choice
hath no less proved that his eyes are none of the clearest."
It was on this occasion, as
during his whole life, John's misfortune, not perfectly to
understand the characters of those whom he wished to conciliate.
Waldemar Fitzurse was rather offended than pleased at the Prince
stating thus broadly an opinion, that his daughter had been
slighted.
"I know no right of
chivalry," he said, "more precious or inalienable than that of each
free knight to choose his lady-love by his own judgment. My daughter
courts distinction from no one; and in her own character, and in her
own sphere, will never fail to receive the full proportion of that
which is her due."
Prince John replied not;
but, spurring his horse, as if to give vent to his vexation, he made
the animal bound forward to the gallery where Rowena was seated,
with the crown still at her feet.
"Assume," he said, "fair
lady, the mark of your sovereignty, to which none vows homage more
sincerely than ourself, John of Anjou; and if it please you to-day,
with your noble sire and friends, to grace our banquet in the Castle
of Ashby, we shall learn to know the empress to whose service we
devote to-morrow."
Rowena remained silent, and
Cedric answered for her in his native Saxon.
"The Lady Rowena," he said,
"possesses not the language in which to reply to your courtesy, or
to sustain her part in your festival. I also, and the noble
Athelstane of Coningsburgh, speak only the language, and practise
only the manners, of our fathers. We therefore decline with thanks
your Highness's courteous invitation to the banquet. To-morrow, the
Lady Rowena will take upon her the state to which she has been
called by the free election of the victor Knight, confirmed by the
acclamations of the people."
So saying, he lifted the
coronet, and placed it upon Rowena's head, in token of her
acceptance of the temporary authority assigned to her.
"What says he?" said Prince
John, affecting not to understand the Saxon language, in which,
however, he was well skilled. The purport of Cedric's speech was
repeated to him in French. "It is well," he said; "to-morrow we will
ourself conduct this mute sovereign to her seat of dignity.—You, at
least, Sir Knight," he added, turning to the victor, who had
remained near the gallery, "will this day share our banquet?"
The Knight, speaking for the
first time, in a low and hurried voice, excused himself by pleading
fatigue, and the necessity of preparing for to-morrow's encounter.
"It is well," said Prince
John, haughtily; "although unused to such refusals, we will
endeavour to digest our banquet as we may, though ungraced by the
most successful in arms, and his elected Queen of Beauty."
So saying, he prepared to
leave the lists with his glittering train, and his turning his steed
for that purpose, was the signal for the breaking up and dispersion
of the spectators.
Yet, with the vindictive
memory proper to offended pride, especially when combined with
conscious want of desert, John had hardly proceeded three paces, ere
again, turning around, he fixed an eye of stern resentment upon the
yeoman who had displeased him in the early part of the day, and
issued his commands to the men-at-arms who stood near—"On your life,
suffer not that fellow to escape."
The yeoman stood the angry
glance of the Prince with the same unvaried steadiness which had
marked his former deportment, saying, with a smile, "I have no
intention to leave Ashby until the day after to-morrow—I must see
how Staffordshire and Leicestershire can draw their bows—the forests
of Needwood and Charnwood must rear good archers."
"I," said Prince John to his
attendants, but not in direct reply,—"I will see how he can draw his
own; and woe betide him unless his skill should prove some apology
for his insolence!"
"It is full time,"
said De Bracy, "that the 'outrecuidance'
19
of these peasants should be restrained by some striking example."
Waldemar Fitzurse, who
probably thought his patron was not taking the readiest road to
popularity, shrugged up his shoulders and was silent. Prince John
resumed his retreat from the lists, and the dispersion of the
multitude became general.
In various routes, according
to the different quarters from which they came, and in groups of
various numbers, the spectators were seen retiring over the plain.
By far the most numerous part streamed towards the town of Ashby,
where many of the distinguished persons were lodged in the castle,
and where others found accommodation in the town itself. Among these
were most of the knights who had already appeared in the tournament,
or who proposed to fight there the ensuing day, and who, as they
rode slowly along, talking over the events of the day, were greeted
with loud shouts by the populace. The same acclamations were
bestowed upon Prince John, although he was indebted for them rather
to the splendour of his appearance and train, than to the popularity
of his character.
A more sincere and more
general, as well as a better-merited acclamation, attended the
victor of the day, until, anxious to withdraw himself from popular
notice, he accepted the accommodation of one of those pavilions
pitched at the extremities of the lists, the use of which was
courteously tendered him by the marshals of the field. On his
retiring to his tent, many who had lingered in the lists, to look
upon and form conjectures concerning him, also dispersed.
The signs and sounds of a
tumultuous concourse of men lately crowded together in one place,
and agitated by the same passing events, were now exchanged for the
distant hum of voices of different groups retreating in all
directions, and these speedily died away in silence. No other sounds
were heard save the voices of the menials who stripped the galleries
of their cushions and tapestry, in order to put them in safety for
the night, and wrangled among themselves for the half-used bottles
of wine and relics of the refreshment which had been served round to
the spectators.
Beyond the precincts of the
lists more than one forge was erected; and these now began to
glimmer through the twilight, announcing the toil of the armourers,
which was to continue through the whole night, in order to repair or
alter the suits of armour to be used again on the morrow.
A strong guard of
men-at-arms, renewed at intervals, from two hours to two hours,
surrounded the lists, and kept watch during the night.
CHAPTER X
Thus, like the sad presaging raven, that tolls
The sick man's passport in her hollow beak,
And in the shadow of the silent night
Doth shake contagion from her sable wings;
Vex'd and tormented, runs poor Barrabas,
With fatal curses towards these Christians.
—Jew of Malta
The Disinherited Knight had
no sooner reached his pavilion, than squires and pages in abundance
tendered their services to disarm him, to bring fresh attire, and to
offer him the refreshment of the bath. Their zeal on this occasion
was perhaps sharpened by curiosity, since every one desired to know
who the knight was that had gained so many laurels, yet had refused,
even at the command of Prince John, to lift his visor or to name his
name. But their officious inquisitiveness was not gratified. The
Disinherited Knight refused all other assistance save that of his
own squire, or rather yeoman—a clownish-looking man, who, wrapt in a
cloak of dark-coloured felt, and having his head and face
half-buried in a Norman bonnet made of black fur, seemed to affect
the incognito as much as his master. All others being excluded from
the tent, this attendant relieved his master from the more
burdensome parts of his armour, and placed food and wine before him,
which the exertions of the day rendered very acceptable.
The Knight had scarcely
finished a hasty meal, ere his menial announced to him that five
men, each leading a barbed steed, desired to speak with him. The
Disinherited Knight had exchanged his armour for the long robe
usually worn by those of his condition, which, being furnished with
a hood, concealed the features, when such was the pleasure of the
wearer, almost as completely as the visor of the helmet itself, but
the twilight, which was now fast darkening, would of itself have
rendered a disguise unnecessary, unless to persons to whom the face
of an individual chanced to be particularly well known.
The Disinherited Knight,
therefore, stept boldly forth to the front of his tent, and found in
attendance the squires of the challengers, whom he easily knew by
their russet and black dresses, each of whom led his master's
charger, loaded with the armour in which he had that day fought.
"According to the laws of
chivalry," said the foremost of these men, "I, Baldwin de Oyley,
squire to the redoubted Knight Brian de Bois-Guilbert, make offer to
you, styling yourself, for the present, the Disinherited Knight, of
the horse and armour used by the said Brian de Bois-Guilbert in this
day's Passage of Arms, leaving it with your nobleness to retain or
to ransom the same, according to your pleasure; for such is the law
of arms."
The other squires repeated
nearly the same formula, and then stood to await the decision of the
Disinherited Knight.
"To you four, sirs," replied
the Knight, addressing those who had last spoken, "and to your
honourable and valiant masters, I have one common reply. Commend me
to the noble knights, your masters, and say, I should do ill to
deprive them of steeds and arms which can never be used by braver
cavaliers.—I would I could here end my message to these gallant
knights; but being, as I term myself, in truth and earnest, the
Disinherited, I must be thus far bound to your masters, that they
will, of their courtesy, be pleased to ransom their steeds and
armour, since that which I wear I can hardly term mine own."
"We stand commissioned, each
of us," answered the squire of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, "to offer a
hundred zecchins in ransom of these horses and suits of armour."
"It is sufficient," said the
Disinherited Knight. "Half the sum my present necessities compel me
to accept; of the remaining half, distribute one moiety among
yourselves, sir squires, and divide the other half betwixt the
heralds and the pursuivants, and minstrels, and attendants."
The squires, with cap in
hand, and low reverences, expressed their deep sense of a courtesy
and generosity not often practised, at least upon a scale so
extensive. The Disinherited Knight then addressed his discourse to
Baldwin, the squire of Brian de Bois-Guilbert. "From your master,"
said he, "I will accept neither arms nor ransom. Say to him in my
name, that our strife is not ended—no, not till we have fought as
well with swords as with lances—as well on foot as on horseback. To
this mortal quarrel he has himself defied me, and I shall not forget
the challenge.—Meantime, let him be assured, that I hold him not as
one of his companions, with whom I can with pleasure exchange
courtesies; but rather as one with whom I stand upon terms of mortal
defiance."
"My master," answered
Baldwin, "knows how to requite scorn with scorn, and blows with
blows, as well as courtesy with courtesy. Since you disdain to
accept from him any share of the ransom at which you have rated the
arms of the other knights, I must leave his armour and his horse
here, being well assured that he will never deign to mount the one
nor wear the other."
"You have spoken well, good
squire," said the Disinherited Knight, "well and boldly, as it
beseemeth him to speak who answers for an absent master. Leave not,
however, the horse and armour here. Restore them to thy master; or,
if he scorns to accept them, retain them, good friend, for thine own
use. So far as they are mine, I bestow them upon you freely."
Baldwin made a deep
obeisance, and retired with his companions; and the Disinherited
Knight entered the pavilion.
"Thus far, Gurth," said he,
addressing his attendant, "the reputation of English chivalry hath
not suffered in my hands."
"And I," said Gurth, "for a
Saxon swineherd, have not ill played the personage of a Norman
squire-at-arms."
"Yea, but," answered the
Disinherited Knight, "thou hast ever kept me in anxiety lest thy
clownish bearing should discover thee."
"Tush!" said Gurth, "I fear
discovery from none, saving my playfellow, Wamba the Jester, of whom
I could never discover whether he were most knave or fool. Yet I
could scarce choose but laugh, when my old master passed so near to
me, dreaming all the while that Gurth was keeping his porkers many a
mile off, in the thickets and swamps of Rotherwood. If I am
discovered—-"
"Enough," said the
Disinherited Knight, "thou knowest my promise."
"Nay, for that matter," said
Gurth, "I will never fail my friend for fear of my skin-cutting. I
have a tough hide, that will bear knife or scourge as well as any
boar's hide in my herd."
"Trust me, I will requite
the risk you run for my love, Gurth," said the Knight. "Meanwhile, I
pray you to accept these ten pieces of gold."
"I am richer," said Gurth,
putting them into his pouch, "than ever was swineherd or bondsman."
"Take this bag of gold to
Ashby," continued his master, "and find out Isaac the Jew of York,
and let him pay himself for the horse and arms with which his credit
supplied me."
"Nay, by St Dunstan,"
replied Gurth, "that I will not do."
"How, knave," replied his
master, "wilt thou not obey my commands?"
"So they be honest,
reasonable, and Christian commands," replied Gurth; "but this is
none of these. To suffer the Jew to pay himself would be dishonest,
for it would be cheating my master; and unreasonable, for it were
the part of a fool; and unchristian, since it would be plundering a
believer to enrich an infidel."
"See him contented, however,
thou stubborn varlet," said the Disinherited Knight.
"I will do so," said Gurth,
taking the bag under his cloak, and leaving the apartment; "and it
will go hard," he muttered, "but I content him with one-half of his
own asking." So saying, he departed, and left the Disinherited
Knight to his own perplexed ruminations; which, upon more accounts
than it is now possible to communicate to the reader, were of a
nature peculiarly agitating and painful.
We must now change the scene
to the village of Ashby, or rather to a country house in its
vicinity belonging to a wealthy Israelite, with whom Isaac, his
daughter, and retinue, had taken up their quarters; the Jews, it is
well known, being as liberal in exercising the duties of hospitality
and charity among their own people, as they were alleged to be
reluctant and churlish in extending them to those whom they termed
Gentiles, and whose treatment of them certainly merited little
hospitality at their hand.
In an apartment, small
indeed, but richly furnished with decorations of an Oriental taste,
Rebecca was seated on a heap of embroidered cushions, which, piled
along a low platform that surrounded the chamber, served, like the
estrada of the Spaniards, instead of chairs and stools. She was
watching the motions of her father with a look of anxious and filial
affection, while he paced the apartment with a dejected mien and
disordered step; sometimes clasping his hands together—sometimes
casting his eyes to the roof of the apartment, as one who laboured
under great mental tribulation. "O, Jacob!" he exclaimed—"O, all ye
twelve Holy Fathers of our tribe! what a losing venture is this for
one who hath duly kept every jot and tittle of the law of
Moses—Fifty zecchins wrenched from me at one clutch, and by the
talons of a tyrant!"
"But, father," said Rebecca,
"you seemed to give the gold to Prince John willingly."
"Willingly? the blotch of
Egypt upon him!—Willingly, saidst thou?—Ay, as willingly as when, in
the Gulf of Lyons, I flung over my merchandise to lighten the ship,
while she laboured in the tempest—robed the seething billows in my
choice silks—perfumed their briny foam with myrrh and aloes—enriched
their caverns with gold and silver work! And was not that an hour of
unutterable misery, though my own hands made the sacrifice?"
"But it was a sacrifice
which Heaven exacted to save our lives," answered Rebecca, "and the
God of our fathers has since blessed your store and your gettings."
"Ay," answered Isaac, "but
if the tyrant lays hold on them as he did to-day, and compels me to
smile while he is robbing me?—O, daughter, disinherited and
wandering as we are, the worst evil which befalls our race is, that
when we are wronged and plundered, all the world laughs around, and
we are compelled to suppress our sense of injury, and to smile
tamely, when we would revenge bravely."
"Think not thus of it, my
father," said Rebecca; "we also have advantages. These Gentiles,
cruel and oppressive as they are, are in some sort dependent on the
dispersed children of Zion, whom they despise and persecute. Without
the aid of our wealth, they could neither furnish forth their hosts
in war, nor their triumphs in peace, and the gold which we lend them
returns with increase to our coffers. We are like the herb which
flourisheth most when it is most trampled on. Even this day's
pageant had not proceeded without the consent of the despised Jew,
who furnished the means."
"Daughter," said Isaac,
"thou hast harped upon another string of sorrow. The goodly steed
and the rich armour, equal to the full profit of my adventure with
our Kirjath Jairam of Leicester—there is a dead loss too—ay, a loss
which swallows up the gains of a week; ay, of the space between two
Sabbaths—and yet it may end better than I now think, for 'tis a good
youth."
"Assuredly," said Rebecca,
"you shall not repent you of requiting the good deed received of the
stranger knight."
"I trust so, daughter," said
Isaac, "and I trust too in the rebuilding of Zion; but as well do I
hope with my own bodily eyes to see the walls and battlements of the
new Temple, as to see a Christian, yea, the very best of Christians,
repay a debt to a Jew, unless under the awe of the judge and
jailor."
So saying, he resumed his
discontented walk through the apartment; and Rebecca, perceiving
that her attempts at consolation only served to awaken new subjects
of complaint, wisely desisted from her unavailing efforts—a
prudential line of conduct, and we recommend to all who set up for
comforters and advisers, to follow it in the like circumstances.
The evening was now becoming
dark, when a Jewish servant entered the apartment, and placed upon
the table two silver lamps, fed with perfumed oil; the richest
wines, and the most delicate refreshments, were at the same time
displayed by another Israelitish domestic on a small ebony table,
inlaid with silver; for, in the interior of their houses, the Jews
refused themselves no expensive indulgences. At the same time the
servant informed Isaac, that a Nazarene (so they termed Christians,
while conversing among themselves) desired to speak with him. He
that would live by traffic, must hold himself at the disposal of
every one claiming business with him. Isaac at once replaced on the
table the untasted glass of Greek wine which he had just raised to
his lips, and saying hastily to his daughter, "Rebecca, veil
thyself," commanded the stranger to be admitted.
Just as Rebecca had dropped
over her fine features a screen of silver gauze which reached to her
feet, the door opened, and Gurth entered, wrapt in the ample folds
of his Norman mantle. His appearance was rather suspicious than
prepossessing, especially as, instead of doffing his bonnet, he
pulled it still deeper over his rugged brow.
"Art thou Isaac the Jew of
York?" said Gurth, in Saxon.
"I am," replied Isaac, in
the same language, (for his traffic had rendered every tongue spoken
in Britain familiar to him)—"and who art thou?"
"That is not to the
purpose," answered Gurth.
"As much as my name is to
thee," replied Isaac; "for without knowing thine, how can I hold
intercourse with thee?"
"Easily," answered Gurth;
"I, being to pay money, must know that I deliver it to the right
person; thou, who are to receive it, will not, I think, care very
greatly by whose hands it is delivered."
"O," said the Jew, "you are
come to pay moneys?—Holy Father Abraham! that altereth our relation
to each other. And from whom dost thou bring it?"
"From the Disinherited
Knight," said Gurth, "victor in this day's tournament. It is the
price of the armour supplied to him by Kirjath Jairam of Leicester,
on thy recommendation. The steed is restored to thy stable. I desire
to know the amount of the sum which I am to pay for the armour."
"I said he was a good
youth!" exclaimed Isaac with joyful exultation. "A cup of wine will
do thee no harm," he added, filling and handing to the swineherd a
richer drought than Gurth had ever before tasted. "And how much
money," continued Isaac, "has thou brought with thee?"
"Holy Virgin!" said Gurth,
setting down the cup, "what nectar these unbelieving dogs drink,
while true Christians are fain to quaff ale as muddy and thick as
the draff we give to hogs!—What money have I brought with me?"
continued the Saxon, when he had finished this uncivil ejaculation,
"even but a small sum; something in hand the whilst. What, Isaac!
thou must bear a conscience, though it be a Jewish one."
"Nay, but," said Isaac, "thy
master has won goodly steeds and rich armours with the strength of
his lance, and of his right hand—but 'tis a good youth—the Jew will
take these in present payment, and render him back the surplus."
"My master has disposed of
them already," said Gurth.
"Ah! that was wrong," said
the Jew, "that was the part of a fool. No Christians here could buy
so many horses and armour—no Jew except myself would give him half
the values. But thou hast a hundred zecchins with thee in that bag,"
said Isaac, prying under Gurth's cloak, "it is a heavy one."
"I have heads for cross-bow
bolts in it," said Gurth, readily.
"Well, then"—said Isaac,
panting and hesitating between habitual love of gain and a new-born
desire to be liberal in the present instance, "if I should say that
I would take eighty zecchins for the good steed and the rich armour,
which leaves me not a guilder's profit, have you money to pay me?"
"Barely," said Gurth, though
the sum demanded was more reasonable than he expected, "and it will
leave my master nigh penniless. Nevertheless, if such be your least
offer, I must be content."
"Fill thyself another goblet
of wine," said the Jew. "Ah! eighty zecchins is too little. It
leaveth no profit for the usages of the moneys; and, besides, the
good horse may have suffered wrong in this day's encounter. O, it
was a hard and a dangerous meeting! man and steed rushing on each
other like wild bulls of Bashan! The horse cannot but have had
wrong."
"And I say," replied Gurth,
"he is sound, wind and limb; and you may see him now, in your
stable. And I say, over and above, that seventy zecchins is enough
for the armour, and I hope a Christian's word is as good as a Jew's.
If you will not take seventy, I will carry this bag" (and he shook
it till the contents jingled) "back to my master."
"Nay, nay!" said Isaac; "lay
down the talents—the shekels—the eighty zecchins, and thou shalt see
I will consider thee liberally."
Gurth at length complied;
and telling out eighty zecchins upon the table, the Jew delivered
out to him an acquittance for the horse and suit of armour. The
Jew's hand trembled for joy as he wrapped up the first seventy
pieces of gold. The last ten he told over with much deliberation,
pausing, and saying something as he took each piece from the table,
and dropt it into his purse. It seemed as if his avarice were
struggling with his better nature, and compelling him to pouch
zecchin after zecchin while his generosity urged him to restore some
part at least to his benefactor, or as a donation to his agent. His
whole speech ran nearly thus:
"Seventy-one—seventy-two;
thy master is a good youth—seventy-three, an excellent
youth—seventy-four—that piece hath been clipt within the
ring—seventy-five—and that looketh light of weight—seventy-six—when
thy master wants money, let him come to Isaac of
York—seventy-seven—that is, with reasonable security." Here he made
a considerable pause, and Gurth had good hope that the last three
pieces might escape the fate of their comrades; but the enumeration
proceeded.—"Seventy-eight—thou art a good fellow—seventy-nine—and
deservest something for thyself—-"
Here the Jew paused again,
and looked at the last zecchin, intending, doubtless, to bestow it
upon Gurth. He weighed it upon the tip of his finger, and made it
ring by dropping it upon the table. Had it rung too flat, or had it
felt a hair's breadth too light, generosity had carried the day;
but, unhappily for Gurth, the chime was full and true, the zecchin
plump, newly coined, and a grain above weight. Isaac could not find
in his heart to part with it, so dropt it into his purse as if in
absence of mind, with the words, "Eighty completes the tale, and I
trust thy master will reward thee handsomely.—Surely," he added,
looking earnestly at the bag, "thou hast more coins in that pouch?"
Gurth grinned, which was his
nearest approach to a laugh, as he replied, "About the same quantity
which thou hast just told over so carefully." He then folded the
quittance, and put it under his cap, adding,—"Peril of thy beard,
Jew, see that this be full and ample!" He filled himself unbidden, a
third goblet of wine, and left the apartment without ceremony.
"Rebecca," said the Jew,
"that Ishmaelite hath gone somewhat beyond me. Nevertheless his
master is a good youth—ay, and I am well pleased that he hath gained
shekels of gold and shekels of silver, even by the speed of his
horse and by the strength of his lance, which, like that of Goliath
the Philistine, might vie with a weaver's beam."
As he turned to receive
Rebecca's answer, he observed, that during his chattering with
Gurth, she had left the apartment unperceived.
In the meanwhile, Gurth had
descended the stair, and, having reached the dark antechamber or
hall, was puzzling about to discover the entrance, when a figure in
white, shown by a small silver lamp which she held in her hand,
beckoned him into a side apartment. Gurth had some reluctance to
obey the summons. Rough and impetuous as a wild boar, where only
earthly force was to be apprehended, he had all the characteristic
terrors of a Saxon respecting fawns, forest-fiends, white women, and
the whole of the superstitions which his ancestors had brought with
them from the wilds of Germany. He remembered, moreover, that he was
in the house of a Jew, a people who, besides the other unamiable
qualities which popular report ascribed to them, were supposed to be
profound necromancers and cabalists. Nevertheless, after a moment's
pause, he obeyed the beckoning summons of the apparition, and
followed her into the apartment which she indicated, where he found
to his joyful surprise that his fair guide was the beautiful Jewess
whom he had seen at the tournament, and a short time in her father's
apartment.
She asked him the
particulars of his transaction with Isaac, which he detailed
accurately.
"My father did but jest with
thee, good fellow," said Rebecca; "he owes thy master deeper
kindness than these arms and steed could pay, were their value
tenfold. What sum didst thou pay my father even now?"
"Eighty zecchins," said
Gurth, surprised at the question.
"In this purse," said
Rebecca, "thou wilt find a hundred. Restore to thy master that which
is his due, and enrich thyself with the remainder. Haste—begone—stay
not to render thanks! and beware how you pass through this crowded
town, where thou mayst easily lose both thy burden and thy
life.—Reuben," she added, clapping her hands together, "light forth
this stranger, and fail not to draw lock and bar behind him."
Reuben, a dark-brow'd and black-bearded Israelite, obeyed her
summons, with a torch in his hand; undid the outward door of the
house, and conducting Gurth across a paved court, let him out
through a wicket in the entrance-gate, which he closed behind him
with such bolts and chains as would well have become that of a
prison.
"By St Dunstan," said Gurth,
as he stumbled up the dark avenue, "this is no Jewess, but an angel
from heaven! Ten zecchins from my brave young master—twenty from
this pearl of Zion—Oh, happy day!—Such another, Gurth, will redeem
thy bondage, and make thee a brother as free of thy guild as the
best. And then do I lay down my swineherd's horn and staff, and take
the freeman's sword and buckler, and follow my young master to the
death, without hiding either my face or my name."
CHAPTER XI
1st Outlaw: Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about you;
If not, we'll make you sit, and rifle you.
Speed: Sir, we are undone! these are the villains
That all the travellers do fear so much.
Val: My friends,—
1st Out: That's not so, sir, we are your enemies.
2d Out: Peace! we'll hear him.
3d Out: Ay, by my beard, will we;
For he's a proper man.
—Two Gentlemen of Verona
The nocturnal adventures of
Gurth were not yet concluded; indeed he himself became partly of
that mind, when, after passing one or two straggling houses which
stood in the outskirts of the village, he found himself in a deep
lane, running between two banks overgrown with hazel and holly,
while here and there a dwarf oak flung its arms altogether across
the path. The lane was moreover much rutted and broken up by the
carriages which had recently transported articles of various kinds
to the tournament; and it was dark, for the banks and bushes
intercepted the light of the harvest moon.
From the village were heard
the distant sounds of revelry, mixed occasionally with loud
laughter, sometimes broken by screams, and sometimes by wild strains
of distant music. All these sounds, intimating the disorderly state
of the town, crowded with military nobles and their dissolute
attendants, gave Gurth some uneasiness. "The Jewess was right," he
said to himself. "By heaven and St Dunstan, I would I were safe at
my journey's end with all this treasure! Here are such numbers, I
will not say of arrant thieves, but of errant knights and errant
squires, errant monks and errant minstrels, errant jugglers and
errant jesters, that a man with a single merk would be in danger,
much more a poor swineherd with a whole bagful of zecchins. Would I
were out of the shade of these infernal bushes, that I might at
least see any of St Nicholas's clerks before they spring on my
shoulders."
Gurth accordingly hastened
his pace, in order to gain the open common to which the lane led,
but was not so fortunate as to accomplish his object. Just as he had
attained the upper end of the lane, where the underwood was
thickest, four men sprung upon him, even as his fears anticipated,
two from each side of the road, and seized him so fast, that
resistance, if at first practicable, would have been now too
late.—"Surrender your charge," said one of them; "we are the
deliverers of the commonwealth, who ease every man of his burden."
"You should not ease me of
mine so lightly," muttered Gurth, whose surly honesty could not be
tamed even by the pressure of immediate violence,—"had I it but in
my power to give three strokes in its defence."
"We shall see that
presently," said the robber; and, speaking to his companions, he
added, "bring along the knave. I see he would have his head broken,
as well as his purse cut, and so be let blood in two veins at once."
Gurth was hurried along
agreeably to this mandate, and having been dragged somewhat roughly
over the bank, on the left-hand side of the lane, found himself in a
straggling thicket, which lay betwixt it and the open common. He was
compelled to follow his rough conductors into the very depth of this
cover, where they stopt unexpectedly in an irregular open space,
free in a great measure from trees, and on which, therefore, the
beams of the moon fell without much interruption from boughs and
leaves. Here his captors were joined by two other persons,
apparently belonging to the gang. They had short swords by their
sides, and quarter-staves in their hands, and Gurth could now
observe that all six wore visors, which rendered their occupation a
matter of no question, even had their former proceedings left it in
doubt.
"What money hast thou,
churl?" said one of the thieves.
"Thirty zecchins of my own
property," answered Gurth, doggedly.
"A forfeit—a forfeit,"
shouted the robbers; "a Saxon hath thirty zecchins, and returns
sober from a village! An undeniable and unredeemable forfeit of all
he hath about him."
"I hoarded it to purchase my
freedom," said Gurth.
"Thou art an ass," replied
one of the thieves "three quarts of double ale had rendered thee as
free as thy master, ay, and freer too, if he be a Saxon like
thyself."
"A sad truth," replied
Gurth; "but if these same thirty zecchins will buy my freedom from
you, unloose my hands, and I will pay them to you."
"Hold," said one who seemed
to exercise some authority over the others; "this bag which thou
bearest, as I can feel through thy cloak, contains more coin than
thou hast told us of."
"It is the good knight my
master's," answered Gurth, "of which, assuredly, I would not have
spoken a word, had you been satisfied with working your will upon
mine own property."
"Thou art an honest fellow,"
replied the robber, "I warrant thee; and we worship not St Nicholas
so devoutly but what thy thirty zecchins may yet escape, if thou
deal uprightly with us. Meantime render up thy trust for a time." So
saying, he took from Gurth's breast the large leathern pouch, in
which the purse given him by Rebecca was enclosed, as well as the
rest of the zecchins, and then continued his interrogation.—"Who is
thy master?"
"The Disinherited Knight,"
said Gurth.
"Whose good lance," replied
the robber, "won the prize in to-day's tourney? What is his name and
lineage?"
"It is his pleasure,"
answered Gurth, "that they be concealed; and from me, assuredly, you
will learn nought of them."
"What is thine own name and
lineage?"
"To tell that," said Gurth,
"might reveal my master's."
"Thou art a saucy groom,"
said the robber, "but of that anon. How comes thy master by this
gold? is it of his inheritance, or by what means hath it accrued to
him?"
"By his good lance,"
answered Gurth.—"These bags contain the ransom of four good horses,
and four good suits of armour."
"How much is there?"
demanded the robber.
"Two hundred zecchins."
"Only two hundred zecchins!"
said the bandit; "your master hath dealt liberally by the
vanquished, and put them to a cheap ransom. Name those who paid the
gold."
Gurth did so.
"The armour and horse of the
Templar Brian de Bois-Guilbert, at what ransom were they held?—Thou
seest thou canst not deceive me."
"My master," replied Gurth,
"will take nought from the Templar save his life's-blood. They are
on terms of mortal defiance, and cannot hold courteous intercourse
together."
"Indeed!"—repeated the
robber, and paused after he had said the word. "And what wert thou
now doing at Ashby with such a charge in thy custody?"
"I went thither to render to
Isaac the Jew of York," replied Gurth, "the price of a suit of
armour with which he fitted my master for this tournament."
"And how much didst thou pay
to Isaac?—Methinks, to judge by weight, there is still two hundred
zecchins in this pouch."
"I paid to Isaac," said the
Saxon, "eighty zecchins, and he restored me a hundred in lieu
thereof."
"How! what!" exclaimed all
the robbers at once; "darest thou trifle with us, that thou tellest
such improbable lies?"
"What I tell you," said
Gurth, "is as true as the moon is in heaven. You will find the just
sum in a silken purse within the leathern pouch, and separate from
the rest of the gold."
"Bethink thee, man," said
the Captain, "thou speakest of a Jew—of an Israelite,—as unapt to
restore gold, as the dry sand of his deserts to return the cup of
water which the pilgrim spills upon them."
"There is no more mercy in
them," said another of the banditti, "than in an unbribed sheriffs
officer."
"It is, however, as I say,"
said Gurth.
"Strike a light instantly,"
said the Captain; "I will examine this said purse; and if it be as
this fellow says, the Jew's bounty is little less miraculous than
the stream which relieved his fathers in the wilderness."
A light was procured
accordingly, and the robber proceeded to examine the purse. The
others crowded around him, and even two who had hold of Gurth
relaxed their grasp while they stretched their necks to see the
issue of the search. Availing himself of their negligence, by a
sudden exertion of strength and activity, Gurth shook himself free
of their hold, and might have escaped, could he have resolved to
leave his master's property behind him. But such was no part of his
intention. He wrenched a quarter-staff from one of the fellows,
struck down the Captain, who was altogether unaware of his purpose,
and had well-nigh repossessed himself of the pouch and treasure. The
thieves, however, were too nimble for him, and again secured both
the bag and the trusty Gurth.
"Knave!" said the Captain,
getting up, "thou hast broken my head; and with other men of our
sort thou wouldst fare the worse for thy insolence. But thou shalt
know thy fate instantly. First let us speak of thy master; the
knight's matters must go before the squire's, according to the due
order of chivalry. Stand thou fast in the meantime—if thou stir
again, thou shalt have that will make thee quiet for thy
life—Comrades!" he then said, addressing his gang, "this purse is
embroidered with Hebrew characters, and I well believe the yeoman's
tale is true. The errant knight, his master, must needs pass us
toll-free. He is too like ourselves for us to make booty of him,
since dogs should not worry dogs where wolves and foxes are to be
found in abundance."
"Like us?" answered one of
the gang; "I should like to hear how that is made good."
"Why, thou fool," answered
the Captain, "is he not poor and disinherited as we are?—Doth he not
win his substance at the sword's point as we do?—Hath he not beaten
Front-de-Boeuf and Malvoisin, even as we would beat them if we
could? Is he not the enemy to life and death of Brian de
Bois-Guilbert, whom we have so much reason to fear? And were all
this otherwise, wouldst thou have us show a worse conscience than an
unbeliever, a Hebrew Jew?"
"Nay, that were a shame,"
muttered the other fellow; "and yet, when I served in the band of
stout old Gandelyn, we had no such scruples of conscience. And this
insolent peasant,—he too, I warrant me, is to be dismissed
scatheless?"
"Not if THOU canst scathe
him," replied the Captain.—"Here, fellow," continued he, addressing
Gurth, "canst thou use the staff, that thou starts to it so
readily?"
"I think," said Gurth, "thou
shouldst be best able to reply to that question."
"Nay, by my troth, thou
gavest me a round knock," replied the Captain; "do as much for this
fellow, and thou shalt pass scot-free; and if thou dost not—why, by
my faith, as thou art such a sturdy knave, I think I must pay thy
ransom myself.—Take thy staff, Miller," he added, "and keep thy
head; and do you others let the fellow go, and give him a
staff—there is light enough to lay on load by."
The two champions being
alike armed with quarter-staves, stepped forward into the centre of
the open space, in order to have the full benefit of the moonlight;
the thieves in the meantime laughing, and crying to their comrade,
"Miller! beware thy toll-dish." The Miller, on the other hand,
holding his quarter-staff by the middle, and making it flourish
round his head after the fashion which the French call "faire le
moulinet", exclaimed boastfully, "Come on, churl, an thou darest:
thou shalt feel the strength of a miller's thumb!"
"If thou be'st a miller,"
answered Gurth, undauntedly, making his weapon play around his head
with equal dexterity, "thou art doubly a thief, and I, as a true
man, bid thee defiance."
So saying, the two champions
closed together, and for a few minutes they displayed great equality
in strength, courage, and skill, intercepting and returning the
blows of their adversary with the most rapid dexterity, while, from
the continued clatter of their weapons, a person at a distance might
have supposed that there were at least six persons engaged on each
side. Less obstinate, and even less dangerous combats, have been
described in good heroic verse; but that of Gurth and the Miller
must remain unsung, for want of a sacred poet to do justice to its
eventful progress. Yet, though quarter-staff play be out of date,
what we can in prose we will do for these bold champions.
Long they fought equally,
until the Miller began to lose temper at finding himself so stoutly
opposed, and at hearing the laughter of his companions, who, as
usual in such cases, enjoyed his vexation. This was not a state of
mind favourable to the noble game of quarter-staff, in which, as in
ordinary cudgel-playing, the utmost coolness is requisite; and it
gave Gurth, whose temper was steady, though surly, the opportunity
of acquiring a decided advantage, in availing himself of which he
displayed great mastery.
The Miller pressed furiously
forward, dealing blows with either end of his weapon alternately,
and striving to come to half-staff distance, while Gurth defended
himself against the attack, keeping his hands about a yard asunder,
and covering himself by shifting his weapon with great celerity, so
as to protect his head and body. Thus did he maintain the defensive,
making his eye, foot, and hand keep true time, until, observing his
antagonist to lose wind, he darted the staff at his face with his
left hand; and, as the Miller endeavoured to parry the thrust, he
slid his right hand down to his left, and with the full swing of the
weapon struck his opponent on the left side of the head, who
instantly measured his length upon the green sward.
"Well and yeomanly done!"
shouted the robbers; "fair play and Old England for ever! The Saxon
hath saved both his purse and his hide, and the Miller has met his
match."
"Thou mayst go thy ways, my
friend," said the Captain, addressing Gurth, in special confirmation
of the general voice, "and I will cause two of my comrades to guide
thee by the best way to thy master's pavilion, and to guard thee
from night-walkers that might have less tender consciences than
ours; for there is many one of them upon the amble in such a night
as this. Take heed, however," he added sternly; "remember thou hast
refused to tell thy name—ask not after ours, nor endeavour to
discover who or what we are; for, if thou makest such an attempt,
thou wilt come by worse fortune than has yet befallen thee."
Gurth thanked the Captain
for his courtesy, and promised to attend to his recommendation. Two
of the outlaws, taking up their quarter-staves, and desiring Gurth
to follow close in the rear, walked roundly forward along a by-path,
which traversed the thicket and the broken ground adjacent to it. On
the very verge of the thicket two men spoke to his conductors, and
receiving an answer in a whisper, withdrew into the wood, and
suffered them to pass unmolested. This circumstance induced Gurth to
believe both that the gang was strong in numbers, and that they kept
regular guards around their place of rendezvous.
When they arrived on the
open heath, where Gurth might have had some trouble in finding his
road, the thieves guided him straight forward to the top of a little
eminence, whence he could see, spread beneath him in the moonlight,
the palisades of the lists, the glimmering pavilions pitched at
either end, with the pennons which adorned them fluttering in the
moonbeams, and from which could be heard the hum of the song with
which the sentinels were beguiling their night-watch.
Here the thieves stopt.
"We go with you no farther,"
said they; "it were not safe that we should do so.—Remember the
warning you have received—keep secret what has this night befallen
you, and you will have no room to repent it—neglect what is now told
you, and the Tower of London shall not protect you against our
revenge."
"Good night to you, kind
sirs," said Gurth; "I shall remember your orders, and trust that
there is no offence in wishing you a safer and an honester trade."
Thus they parted, the
outlaws returning in the direction from whence they had come, and
Gurth proceeding to the tent of his master, to whom, notwithstanding
the injunction he had received, he communicated the whole adventures
of the evening.
The Disinherited Knight was
filled with astonishment, no less at the generosity of Rebecca, by
which, however, he resolved he would not profit, than that of the
robbers, to whose profession such a quality seemed totally foreign.
His course of reflections upon these singular circumstances was,
however, interrupted by the necessity for taking repose, which the
fatigue of the preceding day, and the propriety of refreshing
himself for the morrow's encounter, rendered alike indispensable.
The knight, therefore,
stretched himself for repose upon a rich couch with which the tent
was provided; and the faithful Gurth, extending his hardy limbs upon
a bear-skin which formed a sort of carpet to the pavilion, laid
himself across the opening of the tent, so that no one could enter
without awakening him.
CHAPTER XII
The heralds left their pricking up and down,
Now ringen trumpets loud and clarion.
There is no more to say, but east and west,
In go the speares sadly in the rest,
In goth the sharp spur into the side,
There see men who can just and who can ride;
There shiver shaftes upon shieldes thick,
He feeleth through the heart-spone the prick;
Up springen speares, twenty feet in height,
Out go the swordes to the silver bright;
The helms they to-hewn and to-shred;
Out burst the blood with stern streames red.
Chaucer.
Morning arose in unclouded
splendour, and ere the sun was much above the horizon, the idlest or
the most eager of the spectators appeared on the common, moving to
the lists as to a general centre, in order to secure a favourable
situation for viewing the continuation of the expected games.
The marshals and their
attendants appeared next on the field, together with the heralds,
for the purpose of receiving the names of the knights who intended
to joust, with the side which each chose to espouse. This was a
necessary precaution, in order to secure equality betwixt the two
bodies who should be opposed to each other.
According to due formality,
the Disinherited Knight was to be considered as leader of the one
body, while Brian de Bois-Guilbert, who had been rated as having
done second-best in the preceding day, was named first champion of
the other band. Those who had concurred in the challenge adhered to
his party of course, excepting only Ralph de Vipont, whom his fall
had rendered unfit so soon to put on his armour. There was no want
of distinguished and noble candidates to fill up the ranks on either
side.
In fact, although the
general tournament, in which all knights fought at once, was more
dangerous than single encounters, they were, nevertheless, more
frequented and practised by the chivalry of the age. Many knights,
who had not sufficient confidence in their own skill to defy a
single adversary of high reputation, were, nevertheless, desirous of
displaying their valour in the general combat, where they might meet
others with whom they were more upon an equality. On the present
occasion, about fifty knights were inscribed as desirous of
combating upon each side, when the marshals declared that no more
could be admitted, to the disappointment of several who were too
late in preferring their claim to be included.
About the hour of ten
o'clock, the whole plain was crowded with horsemen, horsewomen, and
foot-passengers, hastening to the tournament; and shortly after, a
grand flourish of trumpets announced Prince John and his retinue,
attended by many of those knights who meant to take share in the
game, as well as others who had no such intention.
About the same time arrived
Cedric the Saxon, with the Lady Rowena, unattended, however, by
Athelstane. This Saxon lord had arrayed his tall and strong person
in armour, in order to take his place among the combatants; and,
considerably to the surprise of Cedric, had chosen to enlist himself
on the part of the Knight Templar. The Saxon, indeed, had
remonstrated strongly with his friend upon the injudicious choice he
had made of his party; but he had only received that sort of answer
usually given by those who are more obstinate in following their own
course, than strong in justifying it.
His best, if not his only
reason, for adhering to the party of Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
Athelstane had the prudence to keep to himself. Though his apathy of
disposition prevented his taking any means to recommend himself to
the Lady Rowena, he was, nevertheless, by no means insensible to her
charms, and considered his union with her as a matter already fixed
beyond doubt, by the assent of Cedric and her other friends. It had
therefore been with smothered displeasure that the proud though
indolent Lord of Coningsburgh beheld the victor of the preceding day
select Rowena as the object of that honour which it became his
privilege to confer. In order to punish him for a preference which
seemed to interfere with his own suit, Athelstane, confident of his
strength, and to whom his flatterers, at least, ascribed great skill
in arms, had determined not only to deprive the Disinherited Knight
of his powerful succour, but, if an opportunity should occur, to
make him feel the weight of his battle-axe.
De Bracy, and other knights
attached to Prince John, in obedience to a hint from him, had joined
the party of the challengers, John being desirous to secure, if
possible, the victory to that side. On the other hand, many other
knights, both English and Norman, natives and strangers, took part
against the challengers, the more readily that the opposite band was
to be led by so distinguished a champion as the Disinherited Knight
had approved himself.
As soon as Prince John
observed that the destined Queen of the day had arrived upon the
field, assuming that air of courtesy which sat well upon him when he
was pleased to exhibit it, he rode forward to meet her, doffed his
bonnet, and, alighting from his horse, assisted the Lady Rowena from
her saddle, while his followers uncovered at the same time, and one
of the most distinguished dismounted to hold her palfrey.
"It is thus," said Prince
John, "that we set the dutiful example of loyalty to the Queen of
Love and Beauty, and are ourselves her guide to the throne which she
must this day occupy.—Ladies," he said, "attend your Queen, as you
wish in your turn to be distinguished by like honours."
So saying, the Prince
marshalled Rowena to the seat of honour opposite his own, while the
fairest and most distinguished ladies present crowded after her to
obtain places as near as possible to their temporary sovereign.
No sooner was Rowena seated,
than a burst of music, half-drowned by the shouts of the multitude,
greeted her new dignity. Meantime, the sun shone fierce and bright
upon the polished arms of the knights of either side, who crowded
the opposite extremities of the lists, and held eager conference
together concerning the best mode of arranging their line of battle,
and supporting the conflict.
The heralds then proclaimed
silence until the laws of the tourney should be rehearsed. These
were calculated in some degree to abate the dangers of the day; a
precaution the more necessary, as the conflict was to be maintained
with sharp swords and pointed lances.
The champions were therefore
prohibited to thrust with the sword, and were confined to striking.
A knight, it was announced, might use a mace or battle-axe at
pleasure, but the dagger was a prohibited weapon. A knight unhorsed
might renew the fight on foot with any other on the opposite side in
the same predicament; but mounted horsemen were in that case
forbidden to assail him. When any knight could force his antagonist
to the extremity of the lists, so as to touch the palisade with his
person or arms, such opponent was obliged to yield himself
vanquished, and his armour and horse were placed at the disposal of
the conqueror. A knight thus overcome was not permitted to take
farther share in the combat. If any combatant was struck down, and
unable to recover his feet, his squire or page might enter the
lists, and drag his master out of the press; but in that case the
knight was adjudged vanquished, and his arms and horse declared
forfeited. The combat was to cease as soon as Prince John should
throw down his leading staff, or truncheon; another precaution
usually taken to prevent the unnecessary effusion of blood by the
too long endurance of a sport so desperate. Any knight breaking the
rules of the tournament, or otherwise transgressing the rules of
honourable chivalry, was liable to be stript of his arms, and,
having his shield reversed to be placed in that posture astride upon
the bars of the palisade, and exposed to public derision, in
punishment of his unknightly conduct. Having announced these
precautions, the heralds concluded with an exhortation to each good
knight to do his duty, and to merit favour from the Queen of Beauty
and of Love.
This proclamation having
been made, the heralds withdrew to their stations. The knights,
entering at either end of the lists in long procession, arranged
themselves in a double file, precisely opposite to each other, the
leader of each party being in the centre of the foremost rank, a
post which he did not occupy until each had carefully marshalled the
ranks of his party, and stationed every one in his place.
It was a goodly, and at the
same time an anxious, sight, to behold so many gallant champions,
mounted bravely, and armed richly, stand ready prepared for an
encounter so formidable, seated on their war-saddles like so many
pillars of iron, and awaiting the signal of encounter with the same
ardour as their generous steeds, which, by neighing and pawing the
ground, gave signal of their impatience.
As yet the knights held
their long lances upright, their bright points glancing to the sun,
and the streamers with which they were decorated fluttering over the
plumage of the helmets. Thus they remained while the marshals of the
field surveyed their ranks with the utmost exactness, lest either
party had more or fewer than the appointed number. The tale was
found exactly complete. The marshals then withdrew from the lists,
and William de Wyvil, with a voice of thunder, pronounced the signal
words—"Laissez aller!" The trumpets sounded as he spoke—the spears
of the champions were at once lowered and placed in the rests—the
spurs were dashed into the flanks of the horses, and the two
foremost ranks of either party rushed upon each other in full
gallop, and met in the middle of the lists with a shock, the sound
of which was heard at a mile's distance. The rear rank of each party
advanced at a slower pace to sustain the defeated, and follow up the
success of the victors of their party.
The consequences of the
encounter were not instantly seen, for the dust raised by the
trampling of so many steeds darkened the air, and it was a minute
ere the anxious spectator could see the fate of the encounter. When
the fight became visible, half the knights on each side were
dismounted, some by the dexterity of their adversary's lance,—some
by the superior weight and strength of opponents, which had borne
down both horse and man,—some lay stretched on earth as if never
more to rise,—some had already gained their feet, and were closing
hand to hand with those of their antagonists who were in the same
predicament,—and several on both sides, who had received wounds by
which they were disabled, were stopping their blood by their scarfs,
and endeavouring to extricate themselves from the tumult. The
mounted knights, whose lances had been almost all broken by the fury
of the encounter, were now closely engaged with their swords,
shouting their war-cries, and exchanging buffets, as if honour and
life depended on the issue of the combat.
The tumult was
presently increased by the advance of the second rank on either
side, which, acting as a reserve, now rushed on to aid their
companions. The followers of Brian de Bois-Guilbert shouted—"Ha!
Beau-seant! Beau-seant!
20
"—For the Temple—For the
Temple!" The opposite party shouted in answer—"Desdichado!
Desdichado!"—which watch-word they took from the motto upon their
leader's shield.
The champions thus
encountering each other with the utmost fury, and with alternate
success, the tide of battle seemed to flow now toward the southern,
now toward the northern extremity of the lists, as the one or the
other party prevailed. Meantime the clang of the blows, and the
shouts of the combatants, mixed fearfully with the sound of the
trumpets, and drowned the groans of those who fell, and lay rolling
defenceless beneath the feet of the horses. The splendid armour of
the combatants was now defaced with dust and blood, and gave way at
every stroke of the sword and battle-axe. The gay plumage, shorn
from the crests, drifted upon the breeze like snow-flakes. All that
was beautiful and graceful in the martial array had disappeared, and
what was now visible was only calculated to awake terror or
compassion.
Yet such is the force of
habit, that not only the vulgar spectators, who are naturally
attracted by sights of horror, but even the ladies of distinction
who crowded the galleries, saw the conflict with a thrilling
interest certainly, but without a wish to withdraw their eyes from a
sight so terrible. Here and there, indeed, a fair cheek might turn
pale, or a faint scream might be heard, as a lover, a brother, or a
husband, was struck from his horse. But, in general, the ladies
around encouraged the combatants, not only by clapping their hands
and waving their veils and kerchiefs, but even by exclaiming, "Brave
lance! Good sword!" when any successful thrust or blow took place
under their observation.
Such being the interest
taken by the fair sex in this bloody game, that of the men is the
more easily understood. It showed itself in loud acclamations upon
every change of fortune, while all eyes were so riveted on the
lists, that the spectators seemed as if they themselves had dealt
and received the blows which were there so freely bestowed. And
between every pause was heard the voice of the heralds, exclaiming,
"Fight on, brave knights! Man dies, but glory lives!—Fight on—death
is better than defeat!—Fight on, brave knights!—for bright eyes
behold your deeds!"
Amid the varied fortunes of
the combat, the eyes of all endeavoured to discover the leaders of
each band, who, mingling in the thick of the fight, encouraged their
companions both by voice and example. Both displayed great feats of
gallantry, nor did either Bois-Guilbert or the Disinherited Knight
find in the ranks opposed to them a champion who could be termed
their unquestioned match. They repeatedly endeavoured to single out
each other, spurred by mutual animosity, and aware that the fall of
either leader might be considered as decisive of victory. Such,
however, was the crowd and confusion, that, during the earlier part
of the conflict, their efforts to meet were unavailing, and they
were repeatedly separated by the eagerness of their followers, each
of whom was anxious to win honour, by measuring his strength against
the leader of the opposite party.
But when the field became
thin by the numbers on either side who had yielded themselves
vanquished, had been compelled to the extremity of the lists, or
been otherwise rendered incapable of continuing the strife, the
Templar and the Disinherited Knight at length encountered hand to
hand, with all the fury that mortal animosity, joined to rivalry of
honour, could inspire. Such was the address of each in parrying and
striking, that the spectators broke forth into a unanimous and
involuntary shout, expressive of their delight and admiration.
But at this moment the party
of the Disinherited Knight had the worst; the gigantic arm of
Front-de-Boeuf on the one flank, and the ponderous strength of
Athelstane on the other, bearing down and dispersing those
immediately exposed to them. Finding themselves freed from their
immediate antagonists, it seems to have occurred to both these
knights at the same instant, that they would render the most
decisive advantage to their party, by aiding the Templar in his
contest with his rival. Turning their horses, therefore, at the same
moment, the Norman spurred against the Disinherited Knight on the
one side, and the Saxon on the other. It was utterly impossible that
the object of this unequal and unexpected assault could have
sustained it, had he not been warned by a general cry from the
spectators, who could not but take interest in one exposed to such
disadvantage.
"Beware! beware! Sir
Disinherited!" was shouted so universally, that the knight became
aware of his danger; and, striking a full blow at the Templar, he
reined back his steed in the same moment, so as to escape the charge
of Athelstane and Front-de-Boeuf. These knights, therefore, their
aim being thus eluded, rushed from opposite sides betwixt the object
of their attack and the Templar, almost running their horses against
each other ere they could stop their career. Recovering their horses
however, and wheeling them round, the whole three pursued their
united purpose of bearing to the earth the Disinherited Knight.
Nothing could have saved
him, except the remarkable strength and activity of the noble horse
which he had won on the preceding day.
This stood him in the more
stead, as the horse of Bois-Guilbert was wounded, and those of
Front-de-Boeuf and Athelstane were both tired with the weight of
their gigantic masters, clad in complete armour, and with the
preceding exertions of the day. The masterly horsemanship of the
Disinherited Knight, and the activity of the noble animal which he
mounted, enabled him for a few minutes to keep at sword's point his
three antagonists, turning and wheeling with the agility of a hawk
upon the wing, keeping his enemies as far separate as he could, and
rushing now against the one, now against the other, dealing sweeping
blows with his sword, without waiting to receive those which were
aimed at him in return.
But although the lists rang
with the applauses of his dexterity, it was evident that he must at
last be overpowered; and the nobles around Prince John implored him
with one voice to throw down his warder, and to save so brave a
knight from the disgrace of being overcome by odds.
"Not I, by the light of
Heaven!" answered Prince John; "this same springald, who conceals
his name, and despises our proffered hospitality, hath already
gained one prize, and may now afford to let others have their turn."
As he spoke thus, an unexpected incident changed the fortune of the
day.
There was among the ranks of
the Disinherited Knight a champion in black armour, mounted on a
black horse, large of size, tall, and to all appearance powerful and
strong, like the rider by whom he was mounted, This knight, who bore
on his shield no device of any kind, had hitherto evinced very
little interest in the event of the fight, beating off with seeming
ease those combatants who attacked him, but neither pursuing his
advantages, nor himself assailing any one. In short, he had hitherto
acted the part rather of a spectator than of a party in the
tournament, a circumstance which procured him among the spectators
the name of "Le Noir Faineant", or the Black Sluggard.
At once this knight seemed
to throw aside his apathy, when he discovered the leader of his
party so hard bestead; for, setting spurs to his horse, which was
quite fresh, he came to his assistance like a thunderbolt,
exclaiming, in a voice like a trumpet-call, "Desdichado, to the
rescue!" It was high time; for, while the Disinherited Knight was
pressing upon the Templar, Front-de-Boeuf had got nigh to him with
his uplifted sword; but ere the blow could descend, the Sable Knight
dealt a stroke on his head, which, glancing from the polished
helmet, lighted with violence scarcely abated on the "chamfron" of
the steed, and Front-de-Boeuf rolled on the ground, both horse and
man equally stunned by the fury of the blow. "Le Noir Faineant" then
turned his horse upon Athelstane of Coningsburgh; and his own sword
having been broken in his encounter with Front-de-Boeuf, he wrenched
from the hand of the bulky Saxon the battle-axe which he wielded,
and, like one familiar with the use of the weapon, bestowed him such
a blow upon the crest, that Athelstane also lay senseless on the
field. Having achieved this double feat, for which he was the more
highly applauded that it was totally unexpected from him, the knight
seemed to resume the sluggishness of his character, returning calmly
to the northern extremity of the lists, leaving his leader to cope
as he best could with Brian de Bois-Guilbert. This was no longer
matter of so much difficulty as formerly. The Templars horse had
bled much, and gave way under the shock of the Disinherited Knight's
charge. Brian de Bois-Guilbert rolled on the field, encumbered with
the stirrup, from which he was unable to draw his foot. His
antagonist sprung from horseback, waved his fatal sword over the
head of his adversary, and commanded him to yield himself; when
Prince John, more moved by the Templars dangerous situation than he
had been by that of his rival, saved him the mortification of
confessing himself vanquished, by casting down his warder, and
putting an end to the conflict.
It was, indeed, only the
relics and embers of the fight which continued to burn; for of the
few knights who still continued in the lists, the greater part had,
by tacit consent, forborne the conflict for some time, leaving it to
be determined by the strife of the leaders.
The squires, who had found
it a matter of danger and difficulty to attend their masters during
the engagement, now thronged into the lists to pay their dutiful
attendance to the wounded, who were removed with the utmost care and
attention to the neighbouring pavilions, or to the quarters prepared
for them in the adjoining village.
Thus ended the memorable
field of Ashby-de-la-Zouche, one of the most gallantly contested
tournaments of that age; for although only four knights, including
one who was smothered by the heat of his armour, had died upon the
field, yet upwards of thirty were desperately wounded, four or five
of whom never recovered. Several more were disabled for life; and
those who escaped best carried the marks of the conflict to the
grave with them. Hence it is always mentioned in the old records, as
the Gentle and Joyous Passage of Arms of Ashby.
It being now the duty of
Prince John to name the knight who had done best, he determined that
the honour of the day remained with the knight whom the popular
voice had termed "Le Noir Faineant." It was pointed out to the
Prince, in impeachment of this decree, that the victory had been in
fact won by the Disinherited Knight, who, in the course of the day,
had overcome six champions with his own hand, and who had finally
unhorsed and struck down the leader of the opposite party. But
Prince John adhered to his own opinion, on the ground that the
Disinherited Knight and his party had lost the day, but for the
powerful assistance of the Knight of the Black Armour, to whom,
therefore, he persisted in awarding the prize.
To the surprise of all
present, however, the knight thus preferred was nowhere to be found.
He had left the lists immediately when the conflict ceased, and had
been observed by some spectators to move down one of the forest
glades with the same slow pace and listless and indifferent manner
which had procured him the epithet of the Black Sluggard. After he
had been summoned twice by sound of trumpet, and proclamation of the
heralds, it became necessary to name another to receive the honours
which had been assigned to him. Prince John had now no further
excuse for resisting the claim of the Disinherited Knight, whom,
therefore, he named the champion of the day.
Through a field slippery
with blood, and encumbered with broken armour and the bodies of
slain and wounded horses, the marshals of the lists again conducted
the victor to the foot of Prince John's throne.
"Disinherited Knight," said
Prince John, "since by that title only you will consent to be known
to us, we a second time award to you the honours of this tournament,
and announce to you your right to claim and receive from the hands
of the Queen of Love and Beauty, the Chaplet of Honour which your
valour has justly deserved." The Knight bowed low and gracefully,
but returned no answer.
While the trumpets sounded,
while the heralds strained their voices in proclaiming honour to the
brave and glory to the victor—while ladies waved their silken
kerchiefs and embroidered veils, and while all ranks joined in a
clamorous shout of exultation, the marshals conducted the
Disinherited Knight across the lists to the foot of that throne of
honour which was occupied by the Lady Rowena.
On the lower step of this
throne the champion was made to kneel down. Indeed his whole action
since the fight had ended, seemed rather to have been upon the
impulse of those around him than from his own free will; and it was
observed that he tottered as they guided him the second time across
the lists. Rowena, descending from her station with a graceful and
dignified step, was about to place the chaplet which she held in her
hand upon the helmet of the champion, when the marshals exclaimed
with one voice, "It must not be thus—his head must be bare." The
knight muttered faintly a few words, which were lost in the hollow
of his helmet, but their purport seemed to be a desire that his
casque might not be removed.
Whether from love of form,
or from curiosity, the marshals paid no attention to his expressions
of reluctance, but unhelmed him by cutting the laces of his casque,
and undoing the fastening of his gorget. When the helmet was
removed, the well-formed, yet sun-burnt features of a young man of
twenty-five were seen, amidst a profusion of short fair hair. His
countenance was as pale as death, and marked in one or two places
with streaks of blood.
Rowena had no sooner beheld
him than she uttered a faint shriek; but at once summoning up the
energy of her disposition, and compelling herself, as it were, to
proceed, while her frame yet trembled with the violence of sudden
emotion, she placed upon the drooping head of the victor the
splendid chaplet which was the destined reward of the day, and
pronounced, in a clear and distinct tone, these words: "I bestow on
thee this chaplet, Sir Knight, as the meed of valour assigned to
this day's victor:" Here she paused a moment, and then firmly added,
"And upon brows more worthy could a wreath of chivalry never be
placed!"
The knight stooped his head,
and kissed the hand of the lovely Sovereign by whom his valour had
been rewarded; and then, sinking yet farther forward, lay prostrate
at her feet.
There was a general
consternation. Cedric, who had been struck mute by the sudden
appearance of his banished son, now rushed forward, as if to
separate him from Rowena. But this had been already accomplished by
the marshals of the field, who, guessing the cause of Ivanhoe's
swoon, had hastened to undo his armour, and found that the head of a
lance had penetrated his breastplate, and inflicted a wound in his
side.
CHAPTER XIII
"Heroes, approach!" Atrides thus aloud,
"Stand forth distinguish'd from the circling crowd,
Ye who by skill or manly force may claim,
Your rivals to surpass and merit fame.
This cow, worth twenty oxen, is decreed,
For him who farthest sends the winged reed."
—Iliad
The name of Ivanhoe was no
sooner pronounced than it flew from mouth to mouth, with all the
celerity with which eagerness could convey and curiosity receive it.
It was not long ere it reached the circle of the Prince, whose brow
darkened as he heard the news. Looking around him, however, with an
air of scorn, "My Lords," said he, "and especially you, Sir Prior,
what think ye of the doctrine the learned tell us, concerning innate
attractions and antipathies? Methinks that I felt the presence of my
brother's minion, even when I least guessed whom yonder suit of
armour enclosed."
"Front-de-Boeuf must prepare
to restore his fief of Ivanhoe," said De Bracy, who, having
discharged his part honourably in the tournament, had laid his
shield and helmet aside, and again mingled with the Prince's
retinue.
"Ay," answered Waldemar
Fitzurse, "this gallant is likely to reclaim the castle and manor
which Richard assigned to him, and which your Highness's generosity
has since given to Front-de-Boeuf."
"Front-de-Boeuf," replied
John, "is a man more willing to swallow three manors such as
Ivanhoe, than to disgorge one of them. For the rest, sirs, I hope
none here will deny my right to confer the fiefs of the crown upon
the faithful followers who are around me, and ready to perform the
usual military service, in the room of those who have wandered to
foreign Countries, and can neither render homage nor service when
called upon."
The audience were too much
interested in the question not to pronounce the Prince's assumed
right altogether indubitable. "A generous Prince!—a most noble Lord,
who thus takes upon himself the task of rewarding his faithful
followers!"
Such were the words which
burst from the train, expectants all of them of similar grants at
the expense of King Richard's followers and favourites, if indeed
they had not as yet received such. Prior Aymer also assented to the
general proposition, observing, however, "That the blessed Jerusalem
could not indeed be termed a foreign country. She was 'communis
mater'—the mother of all Christians. But he saw not," he declared,
"how the Knight of Ivanhoe could plead any advantage from this,
since he" (the Prior) "was assured that the crusaders, under
Richard, had never proceeded much farther than Askalon, which, as
all the world knew, was a town of the Philistines, and entitled to
none of the privileges of the Holy City."
Waldemar, whose curiosity
had led him towards the place where Ivanhoe had fallen to the
ground, now returned. "The gallant," said he, "is likely to give
your Highness little disturbance, and to leave Front-de-Boeuf in the
quiet possession of his gains—he is severely wounded."
"Whatever becomes of him,"
said Prince John, "he is victor of the day; and were he tenfold our
enemy, or the devoted friend of our brother, which is perhaps the
same, his wounds must be looked to—our own physician shall attend
him."
A stern smile curled the
Prince's lip as he spoke. Waldemar Fitzurse hastened to reply, that
Ivanhoe was already removed from the lists, and in the custody of
his friends.
"I was somewhat afflicted,"
he said, "to see the grief of the Queen of Love and Beauty, whose
sovereignty of a day this event has changed into mourning. I am not
a man to be moved by a woman's lament for her lover, but this same
Lady Rowena suppressed her sorrow with such dignity of manner, that
it could only be discovered by her folded hands, and her tearless
eye, which trembled as it remained fixed on the lifeless form before
her."
"Who is this Lady Rowena,"
said Prince John, "of whom we have heard so much?"
"A Saxon heiress of large
possessions," replied the Prior Aymer; "a rose of loveliness, and a
jewel of wealth; the fairest among a thousand, a bundle of myrrh,
and a cluster of camphire."
"We shall cheer her
sorrows," said Prince John, "and amend her blood, by wedding her to
a Norman. She seems a minor, and must therefore be at our royal
disposal in marriage.—How sayst thou, De Bracy? What thinkst thou of
gaining fair lands and livings, by wedding a Saxon, after the
fashion of the followers of the Conqueror?"
"If the lands are to my
liking, my lord," answered De Bracy, "it will be hard to displease
me with a bride; and deeply will I hold myself bound to your
highness for a good deed, which will fulfil all promises made in
favour of your servant and vassal."
"We will not forget it,"
said Prince John; "and that we may instantly go to work, command our
seneschal presently to order the attendance of the Lady Rowena and
her company—that is, the rude churl her guardian, and the Saxon ox
whom the Black Knight struck down in the tournament, upon this
evening's banquet.—De Bigot," he added to his seneschal, "thou wilt
word this our second summons so courteously, as to gratify the pride
of these Saxons, and make it impossible for them again to refuse;
although, by the bones of Becket, courtesy to them is casting pearls
before swine."
Prince John had proceeded
thus far, and was about to give the signal for retiring from the
lists, when a small billet was put into his hand.
"From whence?" said Prince
John, looking at the person by whom it was delivered.
"From foreign parts, my
lord, but from whence I know not" replied his attendant. "A
Frenchman brought it hither, who said, he had ridden night and day
to put it into the hands of your highness."
The Prince looked narrowly
at the superscription, and then at the seal, placed so as to secure
the flex-silk with which the billet was surrounded, and which bore
the impression of three fleurs-de-lis. John then opened the billet
with apparent agitation, which visibly and greatly increased when he
had perused the contents, which were expressed in these words:
"Take heed to yourself for
the Devil is unchained!"
The Prince turned as pale as
death, looked first on the earth, and then up to heaven, like a man
who has received news that sentence of execution has been passed
upon him. Recovering from the first effects of his surprise, he took
Waldemar Fitzurse and De Bracy aside, and put the billet into their
hands successively. "It means," he added, in a faltering voice,
"that my brother Richard has obtained his freedom."
"This may be a false alarm,
or a forged letter," said De Bracy.
"It is France's own hand and
seal," replied Prince John.
"It is time, then," said
Fitzurse, "to draw our party to a head, either at York, or some
other centrical place. A few days later, and it will be indeed too
late. Your highness must break short this present mummery."
"The yeomen and commons,"
said De Bracy, "must not be dismissed discontented, for lack of
their share in the sports."
"The day," said Waldemar,
"is not yet very far spent—let the archers shoot a few rounds at the
target, and the prize be adjudged. This will be an abundant
fulfilment of the Prince's promises, so far as this herd of Saxon
serfs is concerned."
"I thank thee, Waldemar,"
said the Prince; "thou remindest me, too, that I have a debt to pay
to that insolent peasant who yesterday insulted our person. Our
banquet also shall go forward to-night as we proposed. Were this my
last hour of power, it should be an hour sacred to revenge and to
pleasure—let new cares come with to-morrow's new day."
The sound of the trumpets
soon recalled those spectators who had already begun to leave the
field; and proclamation was made that Prince John, suddenly called
by high and peremptory public duties, held himself obliged to
discontinue the entertainments of to-morrow's festival:
Nevertheless, that, unwilling so many good yeoman should depart
without a trial of skill, he was pleased to appoint them, before
leaving the ground, presently to execute the competition of archery
intended for the morrow. To the best archer a prize was to be
awarded, being a bugle-horn, mounted with silver, and a silken
baldric richly ornamented with a medallion of St Hubert, the patron
of silvan sport.
More than thirty yeomen at
first presented themselves as competitors, several of whom were
rangers and under-keepers in the royal forests of Needwood and
Charnwood. When, however, the archers understood with whom they were
to be matched, upwards of twenty withdrew themselves from the
contest, unwilling to encounter the dishonour of almost certain
defeat. For in those days the skill of each celebrated marksman was
as well known for many miles round him, as the qualities of a horse
trained at Newmarket are familiar to those who frequent that
well-known meeting.
The diminished list of
competitors for silvan fame still amounted to eight. Prince John
stepped from his royal seat to view more nearly the persons of these
chosen yeomen, several of whom wore the royal livery. Having
satisfied his curiosity by this investigation, he looked for the
object of his resentment, whom he observed standing on the same
spot, and with the same composed countenance which he had exhibited
upon the preceding day.
"Fellow," said Prince John,
"I guessed by thy insolent babble that thou wert no true lover of
the longbow, and I see thou darest not adventure thy skill among
such merry-men as stand yonder."
"Under favour, sir," replied
the yeoman, "I have another reason for refraining to shoot, besides
the fearing discomfiture and disgrace."
"And what is thy other
reason?" said Prince John, who, for some cause which perhaps he
could not himself have explained, felt a painful curiosity
respecting this individual.
"Because," replied the
woodsman, "I know not if these yeomen and I are used to shoot at the
same marks; and because, moreover, I know not how your Grace might
relish the winning of a third prize by one who has unwittingly
fallen under your displeasure."
Prince John coloured as he
put the question, "What is thy name, yeoman?"
"Locksley," answered the
yeoman.
"Then, Locksley," said
Prince John, "thou shalt shoot in thy turn, when these yeomen have
displayed their skill. If thou carriest the prize, I will add to it
twenty nobles; but if thou losest it, thou shalt be stript of thy
Lincoln green, and scourged out of the lists with bowstrings, for a
wordy and insolent braggart."
"And how if I refuse to
shoot on such a wager?" said the yeoman.—"Your Grace's power,
supported, as it is, by so many men-at-arms, may indeed easily strip
and scourge me, but cannot compel me to bend or to draw my bow."
"If thou refusest my fair
proffer," said the Prince, "the Provost of the lists shall cut thy
bowstring, break thy bow and arrows, and expel thee from the
presence as a faint-hearted craven."
"This is no fair chance you
put on me, proud Prince," said the yeoman, "to compel me to peril
myself against the best archers of Leicester And Staffordshire,
under the penalty of infamy if they should overshoot me.
Nevertheless, I will obey your pleasure."
"Look to him close,
men-at-arms," said Prince John, "his heart is sinking; I am jealous
lest he attempt to escape the trial.—And do you, good fellows, shoot
boldly round; a buck and a butt of wine are ready for your
refreshment in yonder tent, when the prize is won."
A target was placed at the
upper end of the southern avenue which led to the lists. The
contending archers took their station in turn, at the bottom of the
southern access, the distance between that station and the mark
allowing full distance for what was called a shot at rovers. The
archers, having previously determined by lot their order of
precedence, were to shoot each three shafts in succession. The
sports were regulated by an officer of inferior rank, termed the
Provost of the Games; for the high rank of the marshals of the lists
would have been held degraded, had they condescended to superintend
the sports of the yeomanry.
One by one the archers,
stepping forward, delivered their shafts yeomanlike and bravely. Of
twenty-four arrows, shot in succession, ten were fixed in the
target, and the others ranged so near it, that, considering the
distance of the mark, it was accounted good archery. Of the ten
shafts which hit the target, two within the inner ring were shot by
Hubert, a forester in the service of Malvoisin, who was accordingly
pronounced victorious.
"Now, Locksley," said Prince
John to the bold yeoman, with a bitter smile, "wilt thou try
conclusions with Hubert, or wilt thou yield up bow, baldric, and
quiver, to the Provost of the sports?"
"Sith it be no better," said
Locksley, "I am content to try my fortune; on condition that when I
have shot two shafts at yonder mark of Hubert's, he shall be bound
to shoot one at that which I shall propose."
"That is but fair," answered
Prince John, "and it shall not be refused thee.—If thou dost beat
this braggart, Hubert, I will fill the bugle with silver-pennies for
thee."
"A man can do but his best,"
answered Hubert; "but my grandsire drew a good long bow at Hastings,
and I trust not to dishonour his memory."
The former target was now
removed, and a fresh one of the same size placed in its room.
Hubert, who, as victor in the first trial of skill, had the right to
shoot first, took his aim with great deliberation, long measuring
the distance with his eye, while he held in his hand his bended bow,
with the arrow placed on the string. At length he made a step
forward, and raising the bow at the full stretch of his left arm,
till the centre or grasping-place was nigh level with his face, he
drew his bowstring to his ear. The arrow whistled through the air,
and lighted within the inner ring of the target, but not exactly in
the centre.
"You have not allowed for
the wind, Hubert," said his antagonist, bending his bow, "or that
had been a better shot."
So saying, and without
showing the least anxiety to pause upon his aim, Locksley stept to
the appointed station, and shot his arrow as carelessly in
appearance as if he had not even looked at the mark. He was speaking
almost at the instant that the shaft left the bowstring, yet it
alighted in the target two inches nearer to the white spot which
marked the centre than that of Hubert.
"By the light of heaven!"
said Prince John to Hubert, "an thou suffer that runagate knave to
overcome thee, thou art worthy of the gallows!"
Hubert had but one set
speech for all occasions. "An your highness were to hang me," he
said, "a man can but do his best. Nevertheless, my grandsire drew a
good bow—"
"The foul fiend on thy
grandsire and all his generation!" interrupted John, "shoot, knave,
and shoot thy best, or it shall be the worse for thee!"
Thus exhorted, Hubert
resumed his place, and not neglecting the caution which he had
received from his adversary, he made the necessary allowance for a
very light air of wind, which had just arisen, and shot so
successfully that his arrow alighted in the very centre of the
target.
"A Hubert! a Hubert!"
shouted the populace, more interested in a known person than in a
stranger. "In the clout!—in the clout!—a Hubert for ever!"
"Thou canst not mend that
shot, Locksley," said the Prince, with an insulting smile.
"I will notch his shaft for
him, however," replied Locksley.
And letting fly his arrow
with a little more precaution than before, it lighted right upon
that of his competitor, which it split to shivers. The people who
stood around were so astonished at his wonderful dexterity, that
they could not even give vent to their surprise in their usual
clamour. "This must be the devil, and no man of flesh and blood,"
whispered the yeomen to each other; "such archery was never seen
since a bow was first bent in Britain."
"And now," said Locksley, "I
will crave your Grace's permission to plant such a mark as is used
in the North Country; and welcome every brave yeoman who shall try a
shot at it to win a smile from the bonny lass he loves best."
He then turned to leave the
lists. "Let your guards attend me," he said, "if you please—I go but
to cut a rod from the next willow-bush."
Prince John made a signal
that some attendants should follow him in case of his escape: but
the cry of "Shame! shame!" which burst from the multitude, induced
him to alter his ungenerous purpose.
Locksley returned almost
instantly with a willow wand about six feet in length, perfectly
straight, and rather thicker than a man's thumb. He began to peel
this with great composure, observing at the same time, that to ask a
good woodsman to shoot at a target so broad as had hitherto been
used, was to put shame upon his skill. "For his own part," he said,
"and in the land where he was bred, men would as soon take for their
mark King Arthur's round-table, which held sixty knights around it.
A child of seven years old," he said, "might hit yonder target with
a headless shaft; but," added he, walking deliberately to the other
end of the lists, and sticking the willow wand upright in the
ground, "he that hits that rod at five-score yards, I call him an
archer fit to bear both bow and quiver before a king, an it were the
stout King Richard himself."
"My grandsire," said Hubert,
"drew a good bow at the battle of Hastings, and never shot at such a
mark in his life—and neither will I. If this yeoman can cleave that
rod, I give him the bucklers—or rather, I yield to the devil that is
in his jerkin, and not to any human skill; a man can but do his
best, and I will not shoot where I am sure to miss. I might as well
shoot at the edge of our parson's whittle, or at a wheat straw, or
at a sunbeam, as at a twinkling white streak which I can hardly
see."
"Cowardly dog!" said Prince
John.—"Sirrah Locksley, do thou shoot; but, if thou hittest such a
mark, I will say thou art the first man ever did so. However it be,
thou shalt not crow over us with a mere show of superior skill."
"I will do my best, as
Hubert says," answered Locksley; "no man can do more."
So saying, he again bent his
bow, but on the present occasion looked with attention to his
weapon, and changed the string, which he thought was no longer truly
round, having been a little frayed by the two former shots. He then
took his aim with some deliberation, and the multitude awaited the
event in breathless silence. The archer vindicated their opinion of
his skill: his arrow split the willow rod against which it was
aimed. A jubilee of acclamations followed; and even Prince John, in
admiration of Locksley's skill, lost for an instant his dislike to
his person. "These twenty nobles," he said, "which, with the bugle,
thou hast fairly won, are thine own; we will make them fifty, if
thou wilt take livery and service with us as a yeoman of our body
guard, and be near to our person. For never did so strong a hand
bend a bow, or so true an eye direct a shaft."
"Pardon me, noble Prince,"
said Locksley; "but I have vowed, that if ever I take service, it
should be with your royal brother King Richard. These twenty nobles
I leave to Hubert, who has this day drawn as brave a bow as his
grandsire did at Hastings. Had his modesty not refused the trial, he
would have hit the wand as well I."
Hubert shook his head as he
received with reluctance the bounty of the stranger, and Locksley,
anxious to escape further observation, mixed with the crowd, and was
seen no more.
The victorious archer would
not perhaps have escaped John's attention so easily, had not that
Prince had other subjects of anxious and more important meditation
pressing upon his mind at that instant. He called upon his
chamberlain as he gave the signal for retiring from the lists, and
commanded him instantly to gallop to Ashby, and seek out Isaac the
Jew. "Tell the dog," he said, "to send me, before sun-down, two
thousand crowns. He knows the security; but thou mayst show him this
ring for a token. The rest of the money must be paid at York within
six days. If he neglects, I will have the unbelieving villain's
head. Look that thou pass him not on the way; for the circumcised
slave was displaying his stolen finery amongst us."
So saying, the Prince
resumed his horse, and returned to Ashby, the whole crowd breaking
up and dispersing upon his retreat.
CHAPTER XIV
In rough magnificence array'd,
When ancient Chivalry display'd
The pomp of her heroic games,
And crested chiefs and tissued dames
Assembled, at the clarion's call,
In some proud castle's high arch'd hall.
—Warton
Prince John held his high
festival in the Castle of Ashby. This was not the same building of
which the stately ruins still interest the traveller, and which was
erected at a later period by the Lord Hastings, High Chamberlain of
England, one of the first victims of the tyranny of Richard the
Third, and yet better known as one of Shakspeare's characters than
by his historical fame. The castle and town of Ashby, at this time,
belonged to Roger de Quincy, Earl of Winchester, who, during the
period of our history, was absent in the Holy Land. Prince John, in
the meanwhile, occupied his castle, and disposed of his domains
without scruple; and seeking at present to dazzle men's eyes by his
hospitality and magnificence, had given orders for great
preparations, in order to render the banquet as splendid as
possible.
The purveyors of the Prince,
who exercised on this and other occasions the full authority of
royalty, had swept the country of all that could be collected which
was esteemed fit for their master's table. Guests also were invited
in great numbers; and in the necessity in which he then found
himself of courting popularity, Prince John had extended his
invitation to a few distinguished Saxon and Danish families, as well
as to the Norman nobility and gentry of the neighbourhood. However
despised and degraded on ordinary occasions, the great numbers of
the Anglo-Saxons must necessarily render them formidable in the
civil commotions which seemed approaching, and it was an obvious
point of policy to secure popularity with their leaders.
It was accordingly the
Prince's intention, which he for some time maintained, to treat
these unwonted guests with a courtesy to which they had been little
accustomed. But although no man with less scruple made his ordinary
habits and feelings bend to his interest, it was the misfortune of
this Prince, that his levity and petulance were perpetually breaking
out, and undoing all that had been gained by his previous
dissimulation.
Of this fickle temper he
gave a memorable example in Ireland, when sent thither by his
father, Henry the Second, with the purpose of buying golden opinions
of the inhabitants of that new and important acquisition to the
English crown. Upon this occasion the Irish chieftains contended
which should first offer to the young Prince their loyal homage and
the kiss of peace. But, instead of receiving their salutations with
courtesy, John and his petulant attendants could not resist the
temptation of pulling the long beards of the Irish chieftains; a
conduct which, as might have been expected, was highly resented by
these insulted dignitaries, and produced fatal consequences to the
English domination in Ireland. It is necessary to keep these
inconsistencies of John's character in view, that the reader may
understand his conduct during the present evening.
In execution of the
resolution which he had formed during his cooler moments, Prince
John received Cedric and Athelstane with distinguished courtesy, and
expressed his disappointment, without resentment, when the
indisposition of Rowena was alleged by the former as a reason for
her not attending upon his gracious summons. Cedric and Athelstane
were both dressed in the ancient Saxon garb, which, although not
unhandsome in itself, and in the present instance composed of costly
materials, was so remote in shape and appearance from that of the
other guests, that Prince John took great credit to himself with
Waldemar Fitzurse for refraining from laughter at a sight which the
fashion of the day rendered ridiculous. Yet, in the eye of sober
judgment, the short close tunic and long mantle of the Saxons was a
more graceful, as well as a more convenient dress, than the garb of
the Normans, whose under garment was a long doublet, so loose as to
resemble a shirt or waggoner's frock, covered by a cloak of scanty
dimensions, neither fit to defend the wearer from cold or from rain,
and the only purpose of which appeared to be to display as much fur,
embroidery, and jewellery work, as the ingenuity of the tailor could
contrive to lay upon it. The Emperor Charlemagne, in whose reign
they were first introduced, seems to have been very sensible of the
inconveniences arising from the fashion of this garment. "In
Heaven's name," said he, "to what purpose serve these abridged
cloaks? If we are in bed they are no cover, on horseback they are no
protection from the wind and rain, and when seated, they do not
guard our legs from the damp or the frost."
Nevertheless, spite of this
imperial objurgation, the short cloaks continued in fashion down to
the time of which we treat, and particularly among the princes of
the House of Anjou. They were therefore in universal use among
Prince John's courtiers; and the long mantle, which formed the upper
garment of the Saxons, was held in proportional derision.
The guests were seated at a
table which groaned under the quantity of good cheer. The numerous
cooks who attended on the Prince's progress, having exerted all
their art in varying the forms in which the ordinary provisions were
served up, had succeeded almost as well as the modern professors of
the culinary art in rendering them perfectly unlike their natural
appearance. Besides these dishes of domestic origin, there were
various delicacies brought from foreign parts, and a quantity of
rich pastry, as well as of the simnel-bread and wastle cakes, which
were only used at the tables of the highest nobility. The banquet
was crowned with the richest wines, both foreign and domestic.
But, though luxurious, the
Norman nobles were not generally speaking an intemperate race. While
indulging themselves in the pleasures of the table, they aimed at
delicacy, but avoided excess, and were apt to attribute gluttony and
drunkenness to the vanquished Saxons, as vices peculiar to their
inferior station. Prince John, indeed, and those who courted his
pleasure by imitating his foibles, were apt to indulge to excess in
the pleasures of the trencher and the goblet; and indeed it is well
known that his death was occasioned by a surfeit upon peaches and
new ale. His conduct, however, was an exception to the general
manners of his countrymen.
With sly gravity,
interrupted only by private signs to each other, the Norman knights
and nobles beheld the ruder demeanour of Athelstane and Cedric at a
banquet, to the form and fashion of which they were unaccustomed.
And while their manners were thus the subject of sarcastic
observation, the untaught Saxons unwittingly transgressed several of
the arbitrary rules established for the regulation of society. Now,
it is well known, that a man may with more impunity be guilty of an
actual breach either of real good breeding or of good morals, than
appear ignorant of the most minute point of fashionable etiquette.
Thus Cedric, who dried his hands with a towel, instead of suffering
the moisture to exhale by waving them gracefully in the air,
incurred more ridicule than his companion Athelstane, when he
swallowed to his own single share the whole of a large pasty
composed of the most exquisite foreign delicacies, and termed at
that time a "Karum-Pie". When, however, it was discovered, by a
serious cross-examination, that the Thane of Coningsburgh (or
Franklin, as the Normans termed him) had no idea what he had been
devouring, and that he had taken the contents of the Karum-pie for
larks and pigeons, whereas they were in fact beccaficoes and
nightingales, his ignorance brought him in for an ample share of the
ridicule which would have been more justly bestowed on his gluttony.
The long feast had at length
its end; and, while the goblet circulated freely, men talked of the
feats of the preceding tournament,—of the unknown victor in the
archery games, of the Black Knight, whose self-denial had induced
him to withdraw from the honours he had won,—and of the gallant
Ivanhoe, who had so dearly bought the honours of the day. The topics
were treated with military frankness, and the jest and laugh went
round the hall. The brow of Prince John alone was overclouded during
these discussions; some overpowering care seemed agitating his mind,
and it was only when he received occasional hints from his
attendants, that he seemed to take interest in what was passing
around him. On such occasions he would start up, quaff a cup of wine
as if to raise his spirits, and then mingle in the conversation by
some observation made abruptly or at random.
"We drink this beaker," said
he, "to the health of Wilfred of Ivanhoe, champion of this Passage
of Arms, and grieve that his wound renders him absent from our
board—Let all fill to the pledge, and especially Cedric of
Rotherwood, the worthy father of a son so promising."
"No, my lord," replied
Cedric, standing up, and placing on the table his untasted cup, "I
yield not the name of son to the disobedient youth, who at once
despises my commands, and relinquishes the manners and customs of
his fathers."
"'Tis impossible," cried
Prince John, with well-feigned astonishment, "that so gallant a
knight should be an unworthy or disobedient son!"
"Yet, my lord," answered
Cedric, "so it is with this Wilfred. He left my homely dwelling to
mingle with the gay nobility of your brother's court, where he
learned to do those tricks of horsemanship which you prize so
highly. He left it contrary to my wish and command; and in the days
of Alfred that would have been termed disobedience—ay, and a crime
severely punishable."
"Alas!" replied Prince John,
with a deep sigh of affected sympathy, "since your son was a
follower of my unhappy brother, it need not be enquired where or
from whom he learned the lesson of filial disobedience."
Thus spake Prince John,
wilfully forgetting, that of all the sons of Henry the Second,
though no one was free from the charge, he himself had been most
distinguished for rebellion and ingratitude to his father.
"I think," said he, after a
moment's pause, "that my brother proposed to confer upon his
favourite the rich manor of Ivanhoe."
"He did endow him with it,"
answered Cedric; "nor is it my least quarrel with my son, that he
stooped to hold, as a feudal vassal, the very domains which his
fathers possessed in free and independent right."
"We shall then have your
willing sanction, good Cedric," said Prince John, "to confer this
fief upon a person whose dignity will not be diminished by holding
land of the British crown.—Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," he said,
turning towards that Baron, "I trust you will so keep the goodly
Barony of Ivanhoe, that Sir Wilfred shall not incur his father's
farther displeasure by again entering upon that fief."
"By St Anthony!" answered
the black-brow'd giant, "I will consent that your highness shall
hold me a Saxon, if either Cedric or Wilfred, or the best that ever
bore English blood, shall wrench from me the gift with which your
highness has graced me."
"Whoever shall call thee
Saxon, Sir Baron," replied Cedric, offended at a mode of expression
by which the Normans frequently expressed their habitual contempt of
the English, "will do thee an honour as great as it is undeserved."
Front-de-Boeuf would have
replied, but Prince John's petulance and levity got the start.
"Assuredly," said be, "my
lords, the noble Cedric speaks truth; and his race may claim
precedence over us as much in the length of their pedigrees as in
the longitude of their cloaks."
"They go before us indeed in
the field—as deer before dogs," said Malvoisin.
"And with good right may
they go before us—forget not," said the Prior Aymer, "the superior
decency and decorum of their manners."
"Their singular
abstemiousness and temperance," said De Bracy, forgetting the plan
which promised him a Saxon bride.
"Together with the courage
and conduct," said Brian de Bois-Guilbert, "by which they
distinguished themselves at Hastings and elsewhere."
While, with smooth and
smiling cheek, the courtiers, each in turn, followed their Prince's
example, and aimed a shaft of ridicule at Cedric, the face of the
Saxon became inflamed with passion, and he glanced his eyes fiercely
from one to another, as if the quick succession of so many injuries
had prevented his replying to them in turn; or, like a baited bull,
who, surrounded by his tormentors, is at a loss to choose from among
them the immediate object of his revenge. At length he spoke, in a
voice half choked with passion; and, addressing himself to Prince
John as the head and front of the offence which he had received,
"Whatever," he said, "have been the follies and vices of our race, a
Saxon would have been held 'nidering',"
21
(the most emphatic term for abject worthlessness,) "who should in
his own hall, and while his own wine-cup passed, have treated, or
suffered to be treated, an unoffending guest as your highness has
this day beheld me used; and whatever was the misfortune of our
fathers on the field of Hastings, those may at least be silent,"
here he looked at Front-de-Boeuf and the Templar, "who have within
these few hours once and again lost saddle and stirrup before the
lance of a Saxon."
"By my faith, a biting
jest!" said Prince John. "How like you it, sirs?—Our Saxon subjects
rise in spirit and courage; become shrewd in wit, and bold in
bearing, in these unsettled times—What say ye, my lords?—By this
good light, I hold it best to take our galleys, and return to
Normandy in time."
"For fear of the Saxons?"
said De Bracy, laughing; "we should need no weapon but our hunting
spears to bring these boars to bay."
"A truce with your raillery,
Sir Knights," said Fitzurse;—"and it were well," he added,
addressing the Prince, "that your highness should assure the worthy
Cedric there is no insult intended him by jests, which must sound
but harshly in the ear of a stranger."
"Insult?" answered Prince
John, resuming his courtesy of demeanour; "I trust it will not be
thought that I could mean, or permit any, to be offered in my
presence. Here! I fill my cup to Cedric himself, since he refuses to
pledge his son's health."
The cup went round amid the
well-dissembled applause of the courtiers, which, however, failed to
make the impression on the mind of the Saxon that had been designed.
He was not naturally acute of perception, but those too much
undervalued his understanding who deemed that this flattering
compliment would obliterate the sense of the prior insult. He was
silent, however, when the royal pledge again passed round, "To Sir
Athelstane of Coningsburgh."
The knight made his
obeisance, and showed his sense of the honour by draining a huge
goblet in answer to it.
"And now, sirs," said Prince
John, who began to be warmed with the wine which he had drank,
"having done justice to our Saxon guests, we will pray of them some
requital to our courtesy.—Worthy Thane," he continued, addressing
Cedric, "may we pray you to name to us some Norman whose mention may
least sully your mouth, and to wash down with a goblet of wine all
bitterness which the sound may leave behind it?"
Fitzurse arose while Prince
John spoke, and gliding behind the seat of the Saxon, whispered to
him not to omit the opportunity of putting an end to unkindness
betwixt the two races, by naming Prince John. The Saxon replied not
to this politic insinuation, but, rising up, and filling his cup to
the brim, he addressed Prince John in these words: "Your highness
has required that I should name a Norman deserving to be remembered
at our banquet. This, perchance, is a hard task, since it calls on
the slave to sing the praises of the master—upon the vanquished,
while pressed by all the evils of conquest, to sing the praises of
the conqueror. Yet I will name a Norman—the first in arms and in
place—the best and the noblest of his race. And the lips that shall
refuse to pledge me to his well-earned fame, I term false and
dishonoured, and will so maintain them with my life.—I quaff this
goblet to the health of Richard the Lion-hearted!"
Prince John, who had
expected that his own name would have closed the Saxon's speech,
started when that of his injured brother was so unexpectedly
introduced. He raised mechanically the wine-cup to his lips, then
instantly set it down, to view the demeanour of the company at this
unexpected proposal, which many of them felt it as unsafe to oppose
as to comply with. Some of them, ancient and experienced courtiers,
closely imitated the example of the Prince himself, raising the
goblet to their lips, and again replacing it before them. There were
many who, with a more generous feeling, exclaimed, "Long live King
Richard! and may he be speedily restored to us!" And some few, among
whom were Front-de-Boeuf and the Templar, in sullen disdain suffered
their goblets to stand untasted before them. But no man ventured
directly to gainsay a pledge filled to the health of the reigning
monarch.
Having enjoyed his triumph
for about a minute, Cedric said to his companion, "Up, noble
Athelstane! we have remained here long enough, since we have
requited the hospitable courtesy of Prince John's banquet. Those who
wish to know further of our rude Saxon manners must henceforth seek
us in the homes of our fathers, since we have seen enough of royal
banquets, and enough of Norman courtesy."
So saying, he arose and left
the banqueting room, followed by Athelstane, and by several other
guests, who, partaking of the Saxon lineage, held themselves
insulted by the sarcasms of Prince John and his courtiers.
"By the bones of St Thomas,"
said Prince John, as they retreated, "the Saxon churls have borne
off the best of the day, and have retreated with triumph!"
"'Conclamatum est, poculatum
est'," said Prior Aymer; "we have drunk and we have shouted,—it were
time we left our wine flagons."
"The monk hath some fair
penitent to shrive to-night, that he is in such a hurry to depart,"
said De Bracy.
"Not so, Sir Knight,"
replied the Abbot; "but I must move several miles forward this
evening upon my homeward journey."
"They are breaking up," said
the Prince in a whisper to Fitzurse; "their fears anticipate the
event, and this coward Prior is the first to shrink from me."
"Fear not, my lord," said
Waldemar; "I will show him such reasons as shall induce him to join
us when we hold our meeting at York.—Sir Prior," he said, "I must
speak with you in private, before you mount your palfrey."
The other guests were now
fast dispersing, with the exception of those immediately attached to
Prince John's faction, and his retinue.
"This, then, is the result
of your advice," said the Prince, turning an angry countenance upon
Fitzurse; "that I should be bearded at my own board by a drunken
Saxon churl, and that, on the mere sound of my brother's name, men
should fall off from me as if I had the leprosy?"
"Have patience, sir,"
replied his counsellor; "I might retort your accusation, and blame
the inconsiderate levity which foiled my design, and misled your own
better judgment. But this is no time for recrimination. De Bracy and
I will instantly go among these shuffling cowards, and convince them
they have gone too far to recede."
"It will be in vain," said
Prince John, pacing the apartment with disordered steps, and
expressing himself with an agitation to which the wine he had drank
partly contributed—"It will be in vain—they have seen the
handwriting on the wall—they have marked the paw of the lion in the
sand—they have heard his approaching roar shake the wood—nothing
will reanimate their courage."
"Would to God," said
Fitzurse to De Bracy, "that aught could reanimate his own! His
brother's very name is an ague to him. Unhappy are the counsellors
of a Prince, who wants fortitude and perseverance alike in good and
in evil!"
CHAPTER XV
And yet he thinks,—ha, ha, ha, ha,—he thinks
I am the tool and servant of his will.
Well, let it be; through all the maze of trouble
His plots and base oppression must create,
I'll shape myself a way to higher things,
And who will say 'tis wrong?
—Basil, a Tragedy
No spider ever took more
pains to repair the shattered meshes of his web, than did Waldemar
Fitzurse to reunite and combine the scattered members of Prince
John's cabal. Few of these were attached to him from inclination,
and none from personal regard. It was therefore necessary, that
Fitzurse should open to them new prospects of advantage, and remind
them of those which they at present enjoyed. To the young and wild
nobles, he held out the prospect of unpunished license and
uncontrolled revelry; to the ambitious, that of power, and to the
covetous, that of increased wealth and extended domains. The leaders
of the mercenaries received a donation in gold; an argument the most
persuasive to their minds, and without which all others would have
proved in vain. Promises were still more liberally distributed than
money by this active agent; and, in fine, nothing was left undone
that could determine the wavering, or animate the disheartened. The
return of King Richard he spoke of as an event altogether beyond the
reach of probability; yet, when he observed, from the doubtful looks
and uncertain answers which he received, that this was the
apprehension by which the minds of his accomplices were most
haunted, he boldly treated that event, should it really take place,
as one which ought not to alter their political calculations.
"If Richard returns," said
Fitzurse, "he returns to enrich his needy and impoverished crusaders
at the expense of those who did not follow him to the Holy Land. He
returns to call to a fearful reckoning, those who, during his
absence, have done aught that can be construed offence or
encroachment upon either the laws of the land or the privileges of
the crown. He returns to avenge upon the Orders of the Temple and
the Hospital, the preference which they showed to Philip of France
during the wars in the Holy Land. He returns, in fine, to punish as
a rebel every adherent of his brother Prince John. Are ye afraid of
his power?" continued the artful confident of that Prince, "we
acknowledge him a strong and valiant knight; but these are not the
days of King Arthur, when a champion could encounter an army. If
Richard indeed comes back, it must be alone,—unfollowed—unfriended.
The bones of his gallant army have whitened the sands of Palestine.
The few of his followers who have returned have straggled hither
like this Wilfred of Ivanhoe, beggared and broken men.—And what talk
ye of Richard's right of birth?" he proceeded, in answer to those
who objected scruples on that head. "Is Richard's title of
primogeniture more decidedly certain than that of Duke Robert of
Normandy, the Conqueror's eldest son? And yet William the Red, and
Henry, his second and third brothers, were successively preferred to
him by the voice of the nation, Robert had every merit which can be
pleaded for Richard; he was a bold knight, a good leader, generous
to his friends and to the church, and, to crown the whole, a
crusader and a conqueror of the Holy Sepulchre; and yet he died a
blind and miserable prisoner in the Castle of Cardiff, because he
opposed himself to the will of the people, who chose that he should
not rule over them. It is our right," he said, "to choose from the
blood royal the prince who is best qualified to hold the supreme
power—that is," said he, correcting himself, "him whose election
will best promote the interests of the nobility. In personal
qualifications," he added, "it was possible that Prince John might
be inferior to his brother Richard; but when it was considered that
the latter returned with the sword of vengeance in his hand, while
the former held out rewards, immunities, privileges, wealth, and
honours, it could not be doubted which was the king whom in wisdom
the nobility were called on to support."
These, and many more
arguments, some adapted to the peculiar circumstances of those whom
he addressed, had the expected weight with the nobles of Prince
John's faction. Most of them consented to attend the proposed
meeting at York, for the purpose of making general arrangements for
placing the crown upon the head of Prince John.
It was late at night, when,
worn out and exhausted with his various exertions, however gratified
with the result, Fitzurse, returning to the Castle of Ashby, met
with De Bracy, who had exchanged his banqueting garments for a short
green kirtle, with hose of the same cloth and colour, a leathern cap
or head-piece, a short sword, a horn slung over his shoulder, a long
bow in his hand, and a bundle of arrows stuck in his belt. Had
Fitzurse met this figure in an outer apartment, he would have passed
him without notice, as one of the yeomen of the guard; but finding
him in the inner hall, he looked at him with more attention, and
recognised the Norman knight in the dress of an English yeoman.
"What mummery is this, De
Bracy?" said Fitzurse, somewhat angrily; "is this a time for
Christmas gambols and quaint maskings, when the fate of our master,
Prince John, is on the very verge of decision? Why hast thou not
been, like me, among these heartless cravens, whom the very name of
King Richard terrifies, as it is said to do the children of the
Saracens?"
"I have been attending to
mine own business," answered De Bracy calmly, "as you, Fitzurse,
have been minding yours."
"I minding mine own
business!" echoed Waldemar; "I have been engaged in that of Prince
John, our joint patron."
"As if thou hadst any other
reason for that, Waldemar," said De Bracy, "than the promotion of
thine own individual interest? Come, Fitzurse, we know each
other—ambition is thy pursuit, pleasure is mine, and they become our
different ages. Of Prince John thou thinkest as I do; that he is too
weak to be a determined monarch, too tyrannical to be an easy
monarch, too insolent and presumptuous to be a popular monarch, and
too fickle and timid to be long a monarch of any kind. But he is a
monarch by whom Fitzurse and De Bracy hope to rise and thrive; and
therefore you aid him with your policy, and I with the lances of my
Free Companions."
"A hopeful auxiliary," said
Fitzurse impatiently; "playing the fool in the very moment of utter
necessity.—What on earth dost thou purpose by this absurd disguise
at a moment so urgent?"
"To get me a wife," answered
De Bracy coolly, "after the manner of the tribe of Benjamin."
"The tribe of Benjamin?"
said Fitzurse; "I comprehend thee not."
"Wert thou not in presence
yester-even," said De Bracy, "when we heard the Prior Aymer tell us
a tale in reply to the romance which was sung by the Minstrel?—He
told how, long since in Palestine, a deadly feud arose between the
tribe of Benjamin and the rest of the Israelitish nation; and how
they cut to pieces well-nigh all the chivalry of that tribe; and how
they swore by our blessed Lady, that they would not permit those who
remained to marry in their lineage; and how they became grieved for
their vow, and sent to consult his holiness the Pope how they might
be absolved from it; and how, by the advice of the Holy Father, the
youth of the tribe of Benjamin carried off from a superb tournament
all the ladies who were there present, and thus won them wives
without the consent either of their brides or their brides'
families."
"I have heard the story,"
said Fitzurse, "though either the Prior or thou has made some
singular alterations in date and circumstances."
"I tell thee," said De
Bracy, "that I mean to purvey me a wife after the fashion of the
tribe of Benjamin; which is as much as to say, that in this same
equipment I will fall upon that herd of Saxon bullocks, who have
this night left the castle, and carry off from them the lovely
Rowena."
"Art thou mad, De Bracy?"
said Fitzurse. "Bethink thee that, though the men be Saxons, they
are rich and powerful, and regarded with the more respect by their
countrymen, that wealth and honour are but the lot of few of Saxon
descent."
"And should belong to none,"
said De Bracy; "the work of the Conquest should be completed."
"This is no time for it at
least," said Fitzurse "the approaching crisis renders the favour of
the multitude indispensable, and Prince John cannot refuse justice
to any one who injures their favourites."
"Let him grant it, if he
dare," said De Bracy; "he will soon see the difference betwixt the
support of such a lusty lot of spears as mine, and that of a
heartless mob of Saxon churls. Yet I mean no immediate discovery of
myself. Seem I not in this garb as bold a forester as ever blew
horn? The blame of the violence shall rest with the outlaws of the
Yorkshire forests. I have sure spies on the Saxon's motions—To-night
they sleep in the convent of Saint Wittol, or Withold, or whatever
they call that churl of a Saxon Saint at Burton-on-Trent. Next day's
march brings them within our reach, and, falcon-ways, we swoop on
them at once. Presently after I will appear in mine own shape, play
the courteous knight, rescue the unfortunate and afflicted fair one
from the hands of the rude ravishers, conduct her to
Front-de-Boeuf's Castle, or to Normandy, if it should be necessary,
and produce her not again to her kindred until she be the bride and
dame of Maurice de Bracy."
"A marvellously sage plan,"
said Fitzurse, "and, as I think, not entirely of thine own
device.—Come, be frank, De Bracy, who aided thee in the invention?
and who is to assist in the execution? for, as I think, thine own
band lies as far off as York."
"Marry, if thou must needs
know," said De Bracy, "it was the Templar Brian de Bois-Guilbert
that shaped out the enterprise, which the adventure of the men of
Benjamin suggested to me. He is to aid me in the onslaught, and he
and his followers will personate the outlaws, from whom my valorous
arm is, after changing my garb, to rescue the lady."
"By my halidome," said
Fitzurse, "the plan was worthy of your united wisdom! and thy
prudence, De Bracy, is most especially manifested in the project of
leaving the lady in the hands of thy worthy confederate. Thou mayst,
I think, succeed in taking her from her Saxon friends, but how thou
wilt rescue her afterwards from the clutches of Bois-Guilbert seems
considerably more doubtful—He is a falcon well accustomed to pounce
on a partridge, and to hold his prey fast."
"He is a Templar," said De
Bracy, "and cannot therefore rival me in my plan of wedding this
heiress;—and to attempt aught dishonourable against the intended
bride of De Bracy—By Heaven! were he a whole Chapter of his Order in
his single person, he dared not do me such an injury!"
"Then since nought that I
can say," said Fitzurse, "will put this folly from thy imagination,
(for well I know the obstinacy of thy disposition,) at least waste
as little time as possible—let not thy folly be lasting as well as
untimely."
"I tell thee," answered De
Bracy, "that it will be the work of a few hours, and I shall be at
York—at the head of my daring and valorous fellows, as ready to
support any bold design as thy policy can be to form one.—But I hear
my comrades assembling, and the steeds stamping and neighing in the
outer court.—Farewell.—I go, like a true knight, to win the smiles
of beauty."
"Like a true knight?"
repeated Fitzurse, looking after him; "like a fool, I should say, or
like a child, who will leave the most serious and needful
occupation, to chase the down of the thistle that drives past
him.—But it is with such tools that I must work;—and for whose
advantage?—For that of a Prince as unwise as he is profligate, and
as likely to be an ungrateful master as he has already proved a
rebellious son and an unnatural brother.—But he—he, too, is but one
of the tools with which I labour; and, proud as he is, should he
presume to separate his interest from mine, this is a secret which
he shall soon learn."
The meditations of the
statesman were here interrupted by the voice of the Prince from an
interior apartment, calling out, "Noble Waldemar Fitzurse!" and,
with bonnet doffed, the future Chancellor (for to such high
preferment did the wily Norman aspire) hastened to receive the
orders of the future sovereign.
CHAPTER XVI
Far in a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age a reverend hermit grew;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well
Remote from man, with God he pass'd his days,
Prayer all his business—all his pleasure praise.
—Parnell
The reader cannot have
forgotten that the event of the tournament was decided by the
exertions of an unknown knight, whom, on account of the passive and
indifferent conduct which he had manifested on the former part of
the day, the spectators had entitled, "Le Noir Faineant". This
knight had left the field abruptly when the victory was achieved;
and when he was called upon to receive the reward of his valour, he
was nowhere to be found. In the meantime, while summoned by heralds
and by trumpets, the knight was holding his course northward,
avoiding all frequented paths, and taking the shortest road through
the woodlands. He paused for the night at a small hostelry lying out
of the ordinary route, where, however, he obtained from a wandering
minstrel news of the event of the tourney.
On the next morning the
knight departed early, with the intention of making a long journey;
the condition of his horse, which he had carefully spared during the
preceding morning, being such as enabled him to travel far without
the necessity of much repose. Yet his purpose was baffled by the
devious paths through which he rode, so that when evening closed
upon him, he only found himself on the frontiers of the West Riding
of Yorkshire. By this time both horse and man required refreshment,
and it became necessary, moreover, to look out for some place in
which they might spend the night, which was now fast approaching.
The place where the
traveller found himself seemed unpropitious for obtaining either
shelter or refreshment, and he was likely to be reduced to the usual
expedient of knights-errant, who, on such occasions, turned their
horses to graze, and laid themselves down to meditate on their
lady-mistress, with an oak-tree for a canopy. But the Black Knight
either had no mistress to meditate upon, or, being as indifferent in
love as he seemed to be in war, was not sufficiently occupied by
passionate reflections upon her beauty and cruelty, to be able to
parry the effects of fatigue and hunger, and suffer love to act as a
substitute for the solid comforts of a bed and supper. He felt
dissatisfied, therefore, when, looking around, he found himself
deeply involved in woods, through which indeed there were many open
glades, and some paths, but such as seemed only formed by the
numerous herds of cattle which grazed in the forest, or by the
animals of chase, and the hunters who made prey of them.
The sun, by which the knight
had chiefly directed his course, had now sunk behind the Derbyshire
hills on his left, and every effort which he might make to pursue
his journey was as likely to lead him out of his road as to advance
him on his route. After having in vain endeavoured to select the
most beaten path, in hopes it might lead to the cottage of some
herdsman, or the silvan lodge of a forester, and having repeatedly
found himself totally unable to determine on a choice, the knight
resolved to trust to the sagacity of his horse; experience having,
on former occasions, made him acquainted with the wonderful talent
possessed by these animals for extricating themselves and their
riders on such emergencies.
The good steed, grievously
fatigued with so long a day's journey under a rider cased in mail,
had no sooner found, by the slackened reins, that he was abandoned
to his own guidance, than he seemed to assume new strength and
spirit; and whereas, formerly he had scarce replied to the spur,
otherwise than by a groan, he now, as if proud of the confidence
reposed in him, pricked up his ears, and assumed, of his own accord,
a more lively motion. The path which the animal adopted rather
turned off from the course pursued by the knight during the day; but
as the horse seemed confident in his choice, the rider abandoned
himself to his discretion.
He was justified by the
event; for the footpath soon after appeared a little wider and more
worn, and the tinkle of a small bell gave the knight to understand
that he was in the vicinity of some chapel or hermitage.
Accordingly, he soon reached
an open plat of turf, on the opposite side of which, a rock, rising
abruptly from a gently sloping plain, offered its grey and
weatherbeaten front to the traveller. Ivy mantled its sides in some
places, and in others oaks and holly bushes, whose roots found
nourishment in the cliffs of the crag, waved over the precipices
below, like the plumage of the warrior over his steel helmet, giving
grace to that whose chief expression was terror. At the bottom of
the rock, and leaning, as it were, against it, was constructed a
rude hut, built chiefly of the trunks of trees felled in the
neighbouring forest, and secured against the weather by having its
crevices stuffed with moss mingled with clay. The stem of a young
fir-tree lopped of its branches, with a piece of wood tied across
near the top, was planted upright by the door, as a rude emblem of
the holy cross. At a little distance on the right hand, a fountain
of the purest water trickled out of the rock, and was received in a
hollow stone, which labour had formed into a rustic basin. Escaping
from thence, the stream murmured down the descent by a channel which
its course had long worn, and so wandered through the little plain
to lose itself in the neighbouring wood.
Beside this fountain were
the ruins of a very small chapel, of which the roof had partly
fallen in. The building, when entire, had never been above sixteen
feet long by twelve feet in breadth, and the roof, low in
proportion, rested upon four concentric arches which sprung from the
four corners of the building, each supported upon a short and heavy
pillar. The ribs of two of these arches remained, though the roof
had fallen down betwixt them; over the others it remained entire.
The entrance to this ancient place of devotion was under a very low
round arch, ornamented by several courses of that zig-zag moulding,
resembling shark's teeth, which appears so often in the more ancient
Saxon architecture. A belfry rose above the porch on four small
pillars, within which hung the green and weatherbeaten bell, the
feeble sounds of which had been some time before heard by the Black
Knight.
The whole peaceful and quiet
scene lay glimmering in twilight before the eyes of the traveller,
giving him good assurance of lodging for the night; since it was a
special duty of those hermits who dwelt in the woods, to exercise
hospitality towards benighted or bewildered passengers.
Accordingly, the knight took
no time to consider minutely the particulars which we have detailed,
but thanking Saint Julian (the patron of travellers) who had sent
him good harbourage, he leaped from his horse and assailed the door
of the hermitage with the butt of his lance, in order to arouse
attention and gain admittance.
It was some time before he
obtained any answer, and the reply, when made, was unpropitious.
"Pass on, whosoever thou
art," was the answer given by a deep hoarse voice from within the
hut, "and disturb not the servant of God and St Dunstan in his
evening devotions."
"Worthy father," answered
the knight, "here is a poor wanderer bewildered in these woods, who
gives thee the opportunity of exercising thy charity and
hospitality."
"Good brother," replied the
inhabitant of the hermitage, "it has pleased Our Lady and St Dunstan
to destine me for the object of those virtues, instead of the
exercise thereof. I have no provisions here which even a dog would
share with me, and a horse of any tenderness of nurture would
despise my couch—pass therefore on thy way, and God speed thee."
"But how," replied the
knight, "is it possible for me to find my way through such a wood as
this, when darkness is coming on? I pray you, reverend father as you
are a Christian, to undo your door, and at least point out to me my
road."
"And I pray you, good
Christian brother," replied the anchorite, "to disturb me no more.
You have already interrupted one 'pater', two 'aves', and a 'credo',
which I, miserable sinner that I am, should, according to my vow,
have said before moonrise."
"The road—the road!"
vociferated the knight, "give me directions for the road, if I am to
expect no more from thee."
"The road," replied the
hermit, "is easy to hit. The path from the wood leads to a morass,
and from thence to a ford, which, as the rains have abated, may now
be passable. When thou hast crossed the ford, thou wilt take care of
thy footing up the left bank, as it is somewhat precipitous; and the
path, which hangs over the river, has lately, as I learn, (for I
seldom leave the duties of my chapel,) given way in sundry places.
Thou wilt then keep straight forward—-"
"A broken path—a precipice—a
ford, and a morass!" said the knight interrupting him,—"Sir Hermit,
if you were the holiest that ever wore beard or told bead, you shall
scarce prevail on me to hold this road to-night. I tell thee, that
thou, who livest by the charity of the country—ill deserved, as I
doubt it is—hast no right to refuse shelter to the wayfarer when in
distress. Either open the door quickly, or, by the rood, I will beat
it down and make entry for myself."
"Friend wayfarer," replied
the hermit, "be not importunate; if thou puttest me to use the
carnal weapon in mine own defence, it will be e'en the worse for
you."
At this moment a distant
noise of barking and growling, which the traveller had for some time
heard, became extremely loud and furious, and made the knight
suppose that the hermit, alarmed by his threat of making forcible
entry, had called the dogs who made this clamour to aid him in his
defence, out of some inner recess in which they had been kennelled.
Incensed at this preparation on the hermit's part for making good
his inhospitable purpose, the knight struck the door so furiously
with his foot, that posts as well as staples shook with violence.
The anchorite, not caring
again to expose his door to a similar shock, now called out aloud,
"Patience, patience—spare thy strength, good traveller, and I will
presently undo the door, though, it may be, my doing so will be
little to thy pleasure."
The door accordingly was
opened; and the hermit, a large, strong-built man, in his sackcloth
gown and hood, girt with a rope of rushes, stood before the knight.
He had in one hand a lighted torch, or link, and in the other a
baton of crab-tree, so thick and heavy, that it might well be termed
a club. Two large shaggy dogs, half greyhound half mastiff, stood
ready to rush upon the traveller as soon as the door should be
opened. But when the torch glanced upon the lofty crest and golden
spurs of the knight, who stood without, the hermit, altering
probably his original intentions, repressed the rage of his
auxiliaries, and, changing his tone to a sort of churlish courtesy,
invited the knight to enter his hut, making excuse for his
unwillingness to open his lodge after sunset, by alleging the
multitude of robbers and outlaws who were abroad, and who gave no
honour to Our Lady or St Dunstan, nor to those holy men who spent
life in their service.
"The poverty of your cell,
good father," said the knight, looking around him, and seeing
nothing but a bed of leaves, a crucifix rudely carved in oak, a
missal, with a rough-hewn table and two stools, and one or two
clumsy articles of furniture—"the poverty of your cell should seem a
sufficient defence against any risk of thieves, not to mention the
aid of two trusty dogs, large and strong enough, I think, to pull
down a stag, and of course, to match with most men."
"The good keeper of the
forest," said the hermit, "hath allowed me the use of these animals,
to protect my solitude until the times shall mend."
Having said this, he fixed
his torch in a twisted branch of iron which served for a
candlestick; and, placing the oaken trivet before the embers of the
fire, which he refreshed with some dry wood, he placed a stool upon
one side of the table, and beckoned to the knight to do the same
upon the other.
They sat down, and gazed
with great gravity at each other, each thinking in his heart that he
had seldom seen a stronger or more athletic figure than was placed
opposite to him.
"Reverend hermit," said the
knight, after looking long and fixedly at his host, "were it not to
interrupt your devout meditations, I would pray to know three things
of your holiness; first, where I am to put my horse?—secondly, what
I can have for supper?—thirdly, where I am to take up my couch for
the night?"
"I will reply to you," said
the hermit, "with my finger, it being against my rule to speak by
words where signs can answer the purpose." So saying, he pointed
successively to two corners of the hut. "Your stable," said he, "is
there—your bed there; and," reaching down a platter with two
handfuls of parched pease upon it from the neighbouring shelf, and
placing it upon the table, he added, "your supper is here."
The knight shrugged his
shoulders, and leaving the hut, brought in his horse, (which in the
interim he had fastened to a tree,) unsaddled him with much
attention, and spread upon the steed's weary back his own mantle.
The hermit was apparently
somewhat moved to compassion by the anxiety as well as address which
the stranger displayed in tending his horse; for, muttering
something about provender left for the keeper's palfrey, he dragged
out of a recess a bundle of forage, which he spread before the
knight's charger, and immediately afterwards shook down a quantity
of dried fern in the corner which he had assigned for the rider's
couch. The knight returned him thanks for his courtesy; and, this
duty done, both resumed their seats by the table, whereon stood the
trencher of pease placed between them. The hermit, after a long
grace, which had once been Latin, but of which original language few
traces remained, excepting here and there the long rolling
termination of some word or phrase, set example to his guest, by
modestly putting into a very large mouth, furnished with teeth which
might have ranked with those of a boar both in sharpness and
whiteness, some three or four dried pease, a miserable grist as it
seemed for so large and able a mill.
The knight, in order to
follow so laudable an example, laid aside his helmet, his corslet,
and the greater part of his armour, and showed to the hermit a head
thick-curled with yellow hair, high features, blue eyes, remarkably
bright and sparkling, a mouth well formed, having an upper lip
clothed with mustachoes darker than his hair, and bearing altogether
the look of a bold, daring, and enterprising man, with which his
strong form well corresponded.
The hermit, as if wishing to
answer to the confidence of his guest, threw back his cowl, and
showed a round bullet head belonging to a man in the prime of life.
His close-shaven crown, surrounded by a circle of stiff curled black
hair, had something the appearance of a parish pinfold begirt by its
high hedge. The features expressed nothing of monastic austerity, or
of ascetic privations; on the contrary, it was a bold bluff
countenance, with broad black eyebrows, a well-turned forehead, and
cheeks as round and vermilion as those of a trumpeter, from which
descended a long and curly black beard. Such a visage, joined to the
brawny form of the holy man, spoke rather of sirloins and haunches,
than of pease and pulse. This incongruity did not escape the guest.
After he had with great difficulty accomplished the mastication of a
mouthful of the dried pease, he found it absolutely necessary to
request his pious entertainer to furnish him with some liquor; who
replied to his request by placing before him a large can of the
purest water from the fountain.
"It is from the well of St
Dunstan," said he, "in which, betwixt sun and sun, he baptized five
hundred heathen Danes and Britons—blessed be his name!" And applying
his black beard to the pitcher, he took a draught much more moderate
in quantity than his encomium seemed to warrant.
"It seems to me, reverend
father," said the knight, "that the small morsels which you eat,
together with this holy, but somewhat thin beverage, have thriven
with you marvellously. You appear a man more fit to win the ram at a
wrestling match, or the ring at a bout at quarter-staff, or the
bucklers at a sword-play, than to linger out your time in this
desolate wilderness, saying masses, and living upon parched pease
and cold water."
"Sir Knight," answered the
hermit, "your thoughts, like those of the ignorant laity, are
according to the flesh. It has pleased Our Lady and my patron saint
to bless the pittance to which I restrain myself, even as the pulse
and water was blessed to the children Shadrach, Meshech, and
Abednego, who drank the same rather than defile themselves with the
wine and meats which were appointed them by the King of the
Saracens."
"Holy father," said the
knight, "upon whose countenance it hath pleased Heaven to work such
a miracle, permit a sinful layman to crave thy name?"
"Thou mayst call me,"
answered the hermit, "the Clerk of Copmanhurst, for so I am termed
in these parts—They add, it is true, the epithet holy, but I stand
not upon that, as being unworthy of such addition.—And now, valiant
knight, may I pray ye for the name of my honourable guest?"
"Truly," said the knight,
"Holy Clerk of Copmanhurst, men call me in these parts the Black
Knight,—many, sir, add to it the epithet of Sluggard, whereby I am
no way ambitious to be distinguished."
The hermit could scarcely
forbear from smiling at his guest's reply.
"I see," said he, "Sir
Sluggish Knight, that thou art a man of prudence and of counsel; and
moreover, I see that my poor monastic fare likes thee not,
accustomed, perhaps, as thou hast been, to the license of courts and
of camps, and the luxuries of cities; and now I bethink me, Sir
Sluggard, that when the charitable keeper of this forest-walk left
those dogs for my protection, and also those bundles of forage, he
left me also some food, which, being unfit for my use, the very
recollection of it had escaped me amid my more weighty meditations."
"I dare be sworn he did so,"
said the knight; "I was convinced that there was better food in the
cell, Holy Clerk, since you first doffed your cowl.—Your keeper is
ever a jovial fellow; and none who beheld thy grinders contending
with these pease, and thy throat flooded with this ungenial element,
could see thee doomed to such horse-provender and horse-beverage,"
(pointing to the provisions upon the table,) "and refrain from
mending thy cheer. Let us see the keeper's bounty, therefore,
without delay."
The hermit cast a wistful
look upon the knight, in which there was a sort of comic expression
of hesitation, as if uncertain how far he should act prudently in
trusting his guest. There was, however, as much of bold frankness in
the knight's countenance as was possible to be expressed by
features. His smile, too, had something in it irresistibly comic,
and gave an assurance of faith and loyalty, with which his host
could not refrain from sympathizing.
After exchanging a mute
glance or two, the hermit went to the further side of the hut, and
opened a hutch, which was concealed with great care and some
ingenuity. Out of the recesses of a dark closet, into which this
aperture gave admittance, he brought a large pasty, baked in a
pewter platter of unusual dimensions. This mighty dish he placed
before his guest, who, using his poniard to cut it open, lost no
time in making himself acquainted with its contents.
"How long is it since the
good keeper has been here?" said the knight to his host, after
having swallowed several hasty morsels of this reinforcement to the
hermit's good cheer.
"About two months," answered
the father hastily.
"By the true Lord," answered
the knight, "every thing in your hermitage is miraculous, Holy
Clerk! for I would have been sworn that the fat buck which furnished
this venison had been running on foot within the week."
The hermit was somewhat
discountenanced by this observation; and, moreover, he made but a
poor figure while gazing on the diminution of the pasty, on which
his guest was making desperate inroads; a warfare in which his
previous profession of abstinence left him no pretext for joining.
"I have been in Palestine,
Sir Clerk," said the knight, stopping short of a sudden, "and I
bethink me it is a custom there that every host who entertains a
guest shall assure him of the wholesomeness of his food, by
partaking of it along with him. Far be it from me to suspect so holy
a man of aught inhospitable; nevertheless I will be highly bound to
you would you comply with this Eastern custom."
"To ease your unnecessary
scruples, Sir Knight, I will for once depart from my rule," replied
the hermit. And as there were no forks in those days, his clutches
were instantly in the bowels of the pasty.
The ice of ceremony being
once broken, it seemed matter of rivalry between the guest and the
entertainer which should display the best appetite; and although the
former had probably fasted longest, yet the hermit fairly surpassed
him.
"Holy Clerk," said the
knight, when his hunger was appeased, "I would gage my good horse
yonder against a zecchin, that that same honest keeper to whom we
are obliged for the venison has left thee a stoup of wine, or a
runlet of canary, or some such trifle, by way of ally to this noble
pasty. This would be a circumstance, doubtless, totally unworthy to
dwell in the memory of so rigid an anchorite; yet, I think, were you
to search yonder crypt once more, you would find that I am right in
my conjecture."
The hermit only replied by a
grin; and returning to the hutch, he produced a leathern bottle,
which might contain about four quarts. He also brought forth two
large drinking cups, made out of the horn of the urus, and hooped
with silver. Having made this goodly provision for washing down the
supper, he seemed to think no farther ceremonious scruple necessary
on his part; but filling both cups, and saying, in the Saxon
fashion, "'Waes hael', Sir Sluggish Knight!" he emptied his own at a
draught.
"'Drink hael', Holy Clerk of
Copmanhurst!" answered the warrior, and did his host reason in a
similar brimmer.
"Holy Clerk," said the
stranger, after the first cup was thus swallowed, "I cannot but
marvel that a man possessed of such thews and sinews as thine, and
who therewithal shows the talent of so goodly a trencher-man, should
think of abiding by himself in this wilderness. In my judgment, you
are fitter to keep a castle or a fort, eating of the fat and
drinking of the strong, than to live here upon pulse and water, or
even upon the charity of the keeper. At least, were I as thou, I
should find myself both disport and plenty out of the king's deer.
There is many a goodly herd in these forests, and a buck will never
be missed that goes to the use of Saint Dunstan's chaplain."
"Sir Sluggish Knight,"
replied the Clerk, "these are dangerous words, and I pray you to
forbear them. I am true hermit to the king and law, and were I to
spoil my liege's game, I should be sure of the prison, and, an my
gown saved me not, were in some peril of hanging."
"Nevertheless, were I as
thou," said the knight, "I would take my walk by moonlight, when
foresters and keepers were warm in bed, and ever and anon,—as I
pattered my prayers,—I would let fly a shaft among the herds of dun
deer that feed in the glades—Resolve me, Holy Clerk, hast thou never
practised such a pastime?"
"Friend Sluggard," answered
the hermit, "thou hast seen all that can concern thee of my
housekeeping, and something more than he deserves who takes up his
quarters by violence. Credit me, it is better to enjoy the good
which God sends thee, than to be impertinently curious how it comes.
Fill thy cup, and welcome; and do not, I pray thee, by further
impertinent enquiries, put me to show that thou couldst hardly have
made good thy lodging had I been earnest to oppose thee."
"By my faith," said the
knight, "thou makest me more curious than ever! Thou art the most
mysterious hermit I ever met; and I will know more of thee ere we
part. As for thy threats, know, holy man, thou speakest to one whose
trade it is to find out danger wherever it is to be met with."
"Sir Sluggish Knight, I
drink to thee," said the hermit; "respecting thy valour much, but
deeming wondrous slightly of thy discretion. If thou wilt take equal
arms with me, I will give thee, in all friendship and brotherly
love, such sufficing penance and complete absolution, that thou
shalt not for the next twelve months sin the sin of excess of
curiosity."
The knight pledged him, and
desired him to name his weapons.
"There is none," replied the
hermit, "from the scissors of Delilah, and the tenpenny nail of
Jael, to the scimitar of Goliath, at which I am not a match for
thee—But, if I am to make the election, what sayst thou, good
friend, to these trinkets?"
Thus speaking, he opened
another hutch, and took out from it a couple of broadswords and
bucklers, such as were used by the yeomanry of the period. The
knight, who watched his motions, observed that this second place of
concealment was furnished with two or three good long-bows, a
cross-bow, a bundle of bolts for the latter, and half-a-dozen
sheaves of arrows for the former. A harp, and other matters of a
very uncanonical appearance, were also visible when this dark recess
was opened.
"I promise thee, brother
Clerk," said he, "I will ask thee no more offensive questions. The
contents of that cupboard are an answer to all my enquiries; and I
see a weapon there" (here he stooped and took out the harp) "on
which I would more gladly prove my skill with thee, than at the
sword and buckler."
"I hope, Sir Knight,"
said the hermit, "thou hast given no good reason for thy surname of
the Sluggard. I do promise thee I suspect thee grievously.
Nevertheless, thou art my guest, and I will not put thy manhood to
the proof without thine own free will. Sit thee down, then, and fill
thy cup; let us drink, sing, and be merry. If thou knowest ever a
good lay, thou shalt be welcome to a nook of pasty at Copmanhurst so
long as I serve the chapel of St Dunstan, which, please God, shall
be till I change my grey covering for one of green turf. But come,
fill a flagon, for it will crave some time to tune the harp; and
nought pitches the voice and sharpens the ear like a cup of wine.
For my part, I love to feel the grape at my very finger-ends before
they make the harp-strings tinkle."
22
CHAPTER XVII
At eve, within yon studious nook,
I ope my brass-embossed book,
Portray'd with many a holy deed
Of martyrs crown'd with heavenly meed;
Then, as my taper waxes dim,
Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn.
Who but would cast his pomp away,
To take my staff and amice grey,
And to the world's tumultuous stage,
Prefer the peaceful Hermitage?
—Warton
Notwithstanding the
prescription of the genial hermit, with which his guest willingly
complied, he found it no easy matter to bring the harp to harmony.
"Methinks, holy father,"
said he, "the instrument wants one string, and the rest have been
somewhat misused."
"Ay, mark'st thou that?"
replied the hermit; "that shows thee a master of the craft. Wine and
wassail," he added, gravely casting up his eyes—"all the fault of
wine and wassail!—I told Allan-a-Dale, the northern minstrel, that
he would damage the harp if he touched it after the seventh cup, but
he would not be controlled—Friend, I drink to thy successful
performance."
So saying, he took off his
cup with much gravity, at the same time shaking his head at the
intemperance of the Scottish harper.
The knight in the
meantime, had brought the strings into some order, and after a short
prelude, asked his host whether he would choose a "sirvente" in the
language of "oc", or a "lai" in the language of "oui", or a
"virelai", or a ballad in the vulgar English.
23
"A ballad, a ballad," said
the hermit, "against all the 'ocs' and 'ouis' of France. Downright
English am I, Sir Knight, and downright English was my patron St
Dunstan, and scorned 'oc' and 'oui', as he would have scorned the
parings of the devil's hoof—downright English alone shall be sung in
this cell."
"I will assay, then," said
the knight, "a ballad composed by a Saxon glee-man, whom I knew in
Holy Land."
It speedily appeared, that
if the knight was not a complete master of the minstrel art, his
taste for it had at least been cultivated under the best
instructors. Art had taught him to soften the faults of a voice
which had little compass, and was naturally rough rather than
mellow, and, in short, had done all that culture can do in supplying
natural deficiencies. His performance, therefore, might have been
termed very respectable by abler judges than the hermit, especially
as the knight threw into the notes now a degree of spirit, and now
of plaintive enthusiasm, which gave force and energy to the verses
which he sung.
THE CRUSADER'S RETURN.
1.
High deeds achieved of knightly fame,
From Palestine the champion came;
The cross upon his shoulders borne,
Battle and blast had dimm'd and torn.
Each dint upon his batter'd shield
Was token of a foughten field;
And thus, beneath his lady's bower,
He sung as fell the twilight hour:—
2.
"Joy to the fair!—thy knight behold,
Return'd from yonder land of gold;
No wealth he brings, nor wealth can need,
Save his good arms and battle-steed
His spurs, to dash against a foe,
His lance and sword to lay him low;
Such all the trophies of his toil,
Such—and the hope of Tekla's smile!
3.
"Joy to the fair! whose constant knight
Her favour fired to feats of might;
Unnoted shall she not remain,
Where meet the bright and noble train;
Minstrel shall sing and herald tell—
'Mark yonder maid of beauty well,
'Tis she for whose bright eyes were won
The listed field at Askalon!
4.
"'Note well her smile!—it edged the blade
Which fifty wives to widows made,
When, vain his strength and Mahound's spell,
Iconium's turban'd Soldan fell.
Seest thou her locks, whose sunny glow
Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow?
Twines not of them one golden thread,
But for its sake a Paynim bled.'
5.
"Joy to the fair!—my name unknown,
Each deed, and all its praise thine own
Then, oh! unbar this churlish gate,
The night dew falls, the hour is late.
Inured to Syria's glowing breath,
I feel the north breeze chill as death;
Let grateful love quell maiden shame,
And grant him bliss who brings thee fame."
During this performance, the
hermit demeaned himself much like a first-rate critic of the present
day at a new opera. He reclined back upon his seat, with his eyes
half shut; now, folding his hands and twisting his thumbs, he seemed
absorbed in attention, and anon, balancing his expanded palms, he
gently flourished them in time to the music. At one or two favourite
cadences, he threw in a little assistance of his own, where the
knight's voice seemed unable to carry the air so high as his
worshipful taste approved. When the song was ended, the anchorite
emphatically declared it a good one, and well sung.
"And yet," said he, "I think
my Saxon countrymen had herded long enough with the Normans, to fall
into the tone of their melancholy ditties. What took the honest
knight from home? or what could he expect but to find his mistress
agreeably engaged with a rival on his return, and his serenade, as
they call it, as little regarded as the caterwauling of a cat in the
gutter? Nevertheless, Sir Knight, I drink this cup to thee, to the
success of all true lovers—I fear you are none," he added, on
observing that the knight (whose brain began to be heated with these
repeated draughts) qualified his flagon from the water pitcher.
"Why," said the knight, "did
you not tell me that this water was from the well of your blessed
patron, St Dunstan?"
"Ay, truly," said the
hermit, "and many a hundred of pagans did he baptize there, but I
never heard that he drank any of it. Every thing should be put to
its proper use in this world. St Dunstan knew, as well as any one,
the prerogatives of a jovial friar."
And so saying, he
reached the harp, and entertained his guest with the following
characteristic song, to a sort of derry-down chorus, appropriate to
an old English ditty.
24
THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR.
1.
I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain,
To search Europe through, from Byzantium to Spain;
But ne'er shall you find, should you search till you tire,
So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar.
2.
Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career,
And is brought home at even-song prick'd through with a spear;
I confess him in haste—for his lady desires
No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar's.
3.
Your monarch?—Pshaw! many a prince has been known
To barter his robes for our cowl and our gown,
But which of us e'er felt the idle desire
To exchange for a crown the grey hood of a Friar!
4.
The Friar has walk'd out, and where'er he has gone,
The land and its fatness is mark'd for his own;
He can roam where he lists, he can stop when he tires,
For every man's house is the Barefooted Friar's.
5.
He's expected at noon, and no wight till he comes
May profane the great chair, or the porridge of plums
For the best of the cheer, and the seat by the fire,
Is the undenied right of the Barefooted Friar.
6.
He's expected at night, and the pasty's made hot,
They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black pot,
And the goodwife would wish the goodman in the mire,
Ere he lack'd a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar.
7.
Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the cope,
The dread of the devil and trust of the Pope;
For to gather life's roses, unscathed by the briar,
Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.
"By my troth," said the
knight, "thou hast sung well and lustily, and in high praise of
thine order. And, talking of the devil, Holy Clerk, are you not
afraid that he may pay you a visit during some of your uncanonical
pastimes?"
"I uncanonical!" answered
the hermit; "I scorn the charge—I scorn it with my heels!—I serve
the duty of my chapel duly and truly—Two masses daily, morning and
evening, primes, noons, and vespers, 'aves, credos, paters'—-"
"Excepting moonlight nights,
when the venison is in season," said his guest.
"'Exceptis excipiendis'"
replied the hermit, "as our old abbot taught me to say, when
impertinent laymen should ask me if I kept every punctilio of mine
order."
"True, holy father," said
the knight; "but the devil is apt to keep an eye on such exceptions;
he goes about, thou knowest, like a roaring lion."
"Let him roar here if he
dares," said the friar; "a touch of my cord will make him roar as
loud as the tongs of St Dunstan himself did. I never feared man, and
I as little fear the devil and his imps. Saint Dunstan, Saint
Dubric, Saint Winibald, Saint Winifred, Saint Swibert, Saint
Willick, not forgetting Saint Thomas a Kent, and my own poor merits
to speed, I defy every devil of them, come cut and long tail.—But to
let you into a secret, I never speak upon such subjects, my friend,
until after morning vespers."
He changed the conversation;
fast and furious grew the mirth of the parties, and many a song was
exchanged betwixt them, when their revels were interrupted by a loud
knocking at the door of the hermitage.
The occasion of this
interruption we can only explain by resuming the adventures of
another set of our characters; for, like old Ariosto, we do not
pique ourselves upon continuing uniformly to keep company with any
one personage of our drama.
CHAPTER XVIII
Away! our journey lies through dell and dingle,
Where the blithe fawn trips by its timid mother,
Where the broad oak, with intercepting boughs,
Chequers the sunbeam in the green-sward alley—
Up and away!—for lovely paths are these
To tread, when the glad Sun is on his throne
Less pleasant, and less safe, when Cynthia's lamp
With doubtful glimmer lights the dreary forest.
—Ettrick Forest
When Cedric the Saxon saw
his son drop down senseless in the lists at Ashby, his first impulse
was to order him into the custody and care of his own attendants,
but the words choked in his throat. He could not bring himself to
acknowledge, in presence of such an assembly, the son whom he had
renounced and disinherited. He ordered, however, Oswald to keep an
eye upon him; and directed that officer, with two of his serfs, to
convey Ivanhoe to Ashby as soon as the crowd had dispersed. Oswald,
however, was anticipated in this good office. The crowd dispersed,
indeed, but the knight was nowhere to be seen.
It was in vain that Cedric's
cupbearer looked around for his young master—he saw the bloody spot
on which he had lately sunk down, but himself he saw no longer; it
seemed as if the fairies had conveyed him from the spot. Perhaps
Oswald (for the Saxons were very superstitious) might have adopted
some such hypothesis, to account for Ivanhoe's disappearance, had he
not suddenly cast his eye upon a person attired like a squire, in
whom he recognised the features of his fellow-servant Gurth. Anxious
concerning his master's fate, and in despair at his sudden
disappearance, the translated swineherd was searching for him
everywhere, and had neglected, in doing so, the concealment on which
his own safety depended. Oswald deemed it his duty to secure Gurth,
as a fugitive of whose fate his master was to judge.
Renewing his enquiries
concerning the fate of Ivanhoe, the only information which the
cupbearer could collect from the bystanders was, that the knight had
been raised with care by certain well-attired grooms, and placed in
a litter belonging to a lady among the spectators, which had
immediately transported him out of the press. Oswald, on receiving
this intelligence, resolved to return to his master for farther
instructions, carrying along with him Gurth, whom he considered in
some sort as a deserter from the service of Cedric.
The Saxon had been under
very intense and agonizing apprehensions concerning his son; for
Nature had asserted her rights, in spite of the patriotic stoicism
which laboured to disown her. But no sooner was he informed that
Ivanhoe was in careful, and probably in friendly hands, than the
paternal anxiety which had been excited by the dubiety of his fate,
gave way anew to the feeling of injured pride and resentment, at
what he termed Wilfred's filial disobedience.
"Let him wander his way,"
said he—"let those leech his wounds for whose sake he encountered
them. He is fitter to do the juggling tricks of the Norman chivalry
than to maintain the fame and honour of his English ancestry with
the glaive and brown-bill, the good old weapons of his country."
"If to maintain the honour
of ancestry," said Rowena, who was present, "it is sufficient to be
wise in council and brave in execution—to be boldest among the bold,
and gentlest among the gentle, I know no voice, save his father's—-"
"Be silent, Lady Rowena!—on
this subject only I hear you not. Prepare yourself for the Prince's
festival: we have been summoned thither with unwonted circumstance
of honour and of courtesy, such as the haughty Normans have rarely
used to our race since the fatal day of Hastings. Thither will I go,
were it only to show these proud Normans how little the fate of a
son, who could defeat their bravest, can affect a Saxon."
"Thither," said Rowena, "do
I NOT go; and I pray you to beware, lest what you mean for courage
and constancy, shall be accounted hardness of heart."
"Remain at home, then,
ungrateful lady," answered Cedric; "thine is the hard heart, which
can sacrifice the weal of an oppressed people to an idle and
unauthorized attachment. I seek the noble Athelstane, and with him
attend the banquet of John of Anjou."
He went accordingly to the
banquet, of which we have already mentioned the principal events.
Immediately upon retiring from the castle, the Saxon thanes, with
their attendants, took horse; and it was during the bustle which
attended their doing so, that Cedric, for the first time, cast his
eyes upon the deserter Gurth. The noble Saxon had returned from the
banquet, as we have seen, in no very placid humour, and wanted but a
pretext for wreaking his anger upon some one.
"The gyves!" he said, "the
gyves!—Oswald—Hundibert!—Dogs and villains!—why leave ye the knave
unfettered?"
Without daring to
remonstrate, the companions of Gurth bound him with a halter, as the
readiest cord which occurred. He submitted to the operation without
remonstrance, except that, darting a reproachful look at his master,
he said, "This comes of loving your flesh and blood better than mine
own."
"To horse, and forward!"
said Cedric.
"It is indeed full
time," said the noble Athelstane; "for, if we ride not the faster,
the worthy Abbot Waltheoff's preparations for a rere-supper
25
will be altogether spoiled."
The travellers, however,
used such speed as to reach the convent of St Withold's before the
apprehended evil took place. The Abbot, himself of ancient Saxon
descent, received the noble Saxons with the profuse and exuberant
hospitality of their nation, wherein they indulged to a late, or
rather an early hour; nor did they take leave of their reverend host
the next morning until they had shared with him a sumptuous
refection.
As the cavalcade left the
court of the monastery, an incident happened somewhat alarming to
the Saxons, who, of all people of Europe, were most addicted to a
superstitious observance of omens, and to whose opinions can be
traced most of those notions upon such subjects, still to be found
among our popular antiquities. For the Normans being a mixed race,
and better informed according to the information of the times, had
lost most of the superstitious prejudices which their ancestors had
brought from Scandinavia, and piqued themselves upon thinking freely
on such topics.
In the present instance, the
apprehension of impending evil was inspired by no less respectable a
prophet than a large lean black dog, which, sitting upright, howled
most piteously as the foremost riders left the gate, and presently
afterwards, barking wildly, and jumping to and fro, seemed bent upon
attaching itself to the party.
"I like not that music,
father Cedric," said Athelstane; for by this title of respect he was
accustomed to address him.
"Nor I either, uncle," said
Wamba; "I greatly fear we shall have to pay the piper."
"In my mind," said
Athelstane, upon whose memory the Abbot's good ale (for Burton was
already famous for that genial liquor) had made a favourable
impression,—"in my mind we had better turn back, and abide with the
Abbot until the afternoon. It is unlucky to travel where your path
is crossed by a monk, a hare, or a howling dog, until you have eaten
your next meal."
"Away!" said Cedric,
impatiently; "the day is already too short for our journey. For the
dog, I know it to be the cur of the runaway slave Gurth, a useless
fugitive like its master."
So saying, and rising at the
same time in his stirrups, impatient at the interruption of his
journey, he launched his javelin at poor Fangs—for Fangs it was,
who, having traced his master thus far upon his stolen expedition,
had here lost him, and was now, in his uncouth way, rejoicing at his
reappearance. The javelin inflicted a wound upon the animal's
shoulder, and narrowly missed pinning him to the earth; and Fangs
fled howling from the presence of the enraged thane. Gurth's heart
swelled within him; for he felt this meditated slaughter of his
faithful adherent in a degree much deeper than the harsh treatment
he had himself received. Having in vain attempted to raise his hand
to his eyes, he said to Wamba, who, seeing his master's ill humour
had prudently retreated to the rear, "I pray thee, do me the
kindness to wipe my eyes with the skirt of thy mantle; the dust
offends me, and these bonds will not let me help myself one way or
another."
Wamba did him the service he
required, and they rode side by side for some time, during which
Gurth maintained a moody silence. At length he could repress his
feelings no longer.
"Friend Wamba," said he, "of
all those who are fools enough to serve Cedric, thou alone hast
dexterity enough to make thy folly acceptable to him. Go to him,
therefore, and tell him that neither for love nor fear will Gurth
serve him longer. He may strike the head from me—he may scourge
me—he may load me with irons—but henceforth he shall never compel me
either to love or to obey him. Go to him, then, and tell him that
Gurth the son of Beowulph renounces his service."
"Assuredly," said Wamba,
"fool as I am, I shall not do your fool's errand. Cedric hath
another javelin stuck into his girdle, and thou knowest he does not
always miss his mark."
"I care not," replied Gurth,
"how soon he makes a mark of me. Yesterday he left Wilfred, my young
master, in his blood. To-day he has striven to kill before my face
the only other living creature that ever showed me kindness. By St
Edmund, St Dunstan, St Withold, St Edward the Confessor, and every
other Saxon saint in the calendar," (for Cedric never swore by any
that was not of Saxon lineage, and all his household had the same
limited devotion,) "I will never forgive him!"
"To my thinking now," said
the Jester, who was frequently wont to act as peace-maker in the
family, "our master did not propose to hurt Fangs, but only to
affright him. For, if you observed, he rose in his stirrups, as
thereby meaning to overcast the mark; and so he would have done, but
Fangs happening to bound up at the very moment, received a scratch,
which I will be bound to heal with a penny's breadth of tar."
"If I thought so," said
Gurth—"if I could but think so—but no—I saw the javelin was well
aimed—I heard it whizz through the air with all the wrathful
malevolence of him who cast it, and it quivered after it had pitched
in the ground, as if with regret for having missed its mark. By the
hog dear to St Anthony, I renounce him!"
And the indignant swineherd
resumed his sullen silence, which no efforts of the Jester could
again induce him to break.
Meanwhile Cedric and
Athelstane, the leaders of the troop, conversed together on the
state of the land, on the dissensions of the royal family, on the
feuds and quarrels among the Norman nobles, and on the chance which
there was that the oppressed Saxons might be able to free themselves
from the yoke of the Normans, or at least to elevate themselves into
national consequence and independence, during the civil convulsions
which were likely to ensue. On this subject Cedric was all
animation. The restoration of the independence of his race was the
idol of his heart, to which he had willingly sacrificed domestic
happiness and the interests of his own son. But, in order to achieve
this great revolution in favour of the native English, it was
necessary that they should be united among themselves, and act under
an acknowledged head. The necessity of choosing their chief from the
Saxon blood-royal was not only evident in itself, but had been made
a solemn condition by those whom Cedric had intrusted with his
secret plans and hopes. Athelstane had this quality at least; and
though he had few mental accomplishments or talents to recommend him
as a leader, he had still a goodly person, was no coward, had been
accustomed to martial exercises, and seemed willing to defer to the
advice of counsellors more wise than himself. Above all, he was
known to be liberal and hospitable, and believed to be good-natured.
But whatever pretensions Athelstane had to be considered as head of
the Saxon confederacy, many of that nation were disposed to prefer
to the title of the Lady Rowena, who drew her descent from Alfred,
and whose father having been a chief renowned for wisdom, courage,
and generosity, his memory was highly honoured by his oppressed
countrymen.
It would have been no
difficult thing for Cedric, had he been so disposed, to have placed
himself at the head of a third party, as formidable at least as any
of the others. To counterbalance their royal descent, he had
courage, activity, energy, and, above all, that devoted attachment
to the cause which had procured him the epithet of The Saxon, and
his birth was inferior to none, excepting only that of Athelstane
and his ward. These qualities, however, were unalloyed by the
slightest shade of selfishness; and, instead of dividing yet farther
his weakened nation by forming a faction of his own, it was a
leading part of Cedric's plan to extinguish that which already
existed, by promoting a marriage betwixt Rowena and Athelstane. An
obstacle occurred to this his favourite project, in the mutual
attachment of his ward and his son and hence the original cause of
the banishment of Wilfred from the house of his father.
This stern measure Cedric
had adopted, in hopes that, during Wilfred's absence, Rowena might
relinquish her preference, but in this hope he was disappointed; a
disappointment which might be attributed in part to the mode in
which his ward had been educated. Cedric, to whom the name of Alfred
was as that of a deity, had treated the sole remaining scion of that
great monarch with a degree of observance, such as, perhaps, was in
those days scarce paid to an acknowledged princess. Rowena's will
had been in almost all cases a law to his household; and Cedric
himself, as if determined that her sovereignty should be fully
acknowledged within that little circle at least, seemed to take a
pride in acting as the first of her subjects. Thus trained in the
exercise not only of free will, but despotic authority, Rowena was,
by her previous education, disposed both to resist and to resent any
attempt to control her affections, or dispose of her hand contrary
to her inclinations, and to assert her independence in a case in
which even those females who have been trained up to obedience and
subjection, are not infrequently apt to dispute the authority of
guardians and parents. The opinions which she felt strongly, she
avowed boldly; and Cedric, who could not free himself from his
habitual deference to her opinions, felt totally at a loss how to
enforce his authority of guardian.
It was in vain that he
attempted to dazzle her with the prospect of a visionary throne.
Rowena, who possessed strong sense, neither considered his plan as
practicable, nor as desirable, so far as she was concerned, could it
have been achieved. Without attempting to conceal her avowed
preference of Wilfred of Ivanhoe, she declared that, were that
favoured knight out of question, she would rather take refuge in a
convent, than share a throne with Athelstane, whom, having always
despised, she now began, on account of the trouble she received on
his account, thoroughly to detest.
Nevertheless, Cedric, whose
opinions of women's constancy was far from strong, persisted in
using every means in his power to bring about the proposed match, in
which he conceived he was rendering an important service to the
Saxon cause. The sudden and romantic appearance of his son in the
lists at Ashby, he had justly regarded as almost a death's blow to
his hopes. His paternal affection, it is true, had for an instant
gained the victory over pride and patriotism; but both had returned
in full force, and under their joint operation, he was now bent upon
making a determined effort for the union of Athelstane and Rowena,
together with expediting those other measures which seemed necessary
to forward the restoration of Saxon independence.
On this last subject, he was
now labouring with Athelstane, not without having reason, every now
and then, to lament, like Hotspur, that he should have moved such a
dish of skimmed milk to so honourable an action. Athelstane, it is
true, was vain enough, and loved to have his ears tickled with tales
of his high descent, and of his right by inheritance to homage and
sovereignty. But his petty vanity was sufficiently gratified by
receiving this homage at the hands of his immediate attendants, and
of the Saxons who approached him. If he had the courage to encounter
danger, he at least hated the trouble of going to seek it; and while
he agreed in the general principles laid down by Cedric concerning
the claim of the Saxons to independence, and was still more easily
convinced of his own title to reign over them when that independence
should be attained, yet when the means of asserting these rights
came to be discussed, he was still "Athelstane the Unready," slow,
irresolute, procrastinating, and unenterprising. The warm and
impassioned exhortations of Cedric had as little effect upon his
impassive temper, as red-hot balls alighting in the water, which
produce a little sound and smoke, and are instantly extinguished.
If, leaving this task, which
might be compared to spurring a tired jade, or to hammering upon
cold iron, Cedric fell back to his ward Rowena, he received little
more satisfaction from conferring with her. For, as his presence
interrupted the discourse between the lady and her favourite
attendant upon the gallantry and fate of Wilfred, Elgitha failed not
to revenge both her mistress and herself, by recurring to the
overthrow of Athelstane in the lists, the most disagreeable subject
which could greet the ears of Cedric. To this sturdy Saxon,
therefore, the day's journey was fraught with all manner of
displeasure and discomfort; so that he more than once internally
cursed the tournament, and him who had proclaimed it, together with
his own folly in ever thinking of going thither.
At noon, upon the motion of
Athelstane, the travellers paused in a woodland shade by a fountain,
to repose their horses and partake of some provisions, with which
the hospitable Abbot had loaded a sumpter mule. Their repast was a
pretty long one; and these several interruptions rendered it
impossible for them to hope to reach Rotherwood without travelling
all night, a conviction which induced them to proceed on their way
at a more hasty pace than they had hitherto used.
CHAPTER XIX
A train of armed men, some noble dame
Escorting, (so their scatter'd words discover'd,
As unperceived I hung upon their rear,)
Are close at hand, and mean to pass the night
Within the castle.
—Orra, a Tragedy
The travellers had now
reached the verge of the wooded country, and were about to plunge
into its recesses, held dangerous at that time from the number of
outlaws whom oppression and poverty had driven to despair, and who
occupied the forests in such large bands as could easily bid
defiance to the feeble police of the period. From these rovers,
however, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour Cedric and
Athelstane accounted themselves secure, as they had in attendance
ten servants, besides Wamba and Gurth, whose aid could not be
counted upon, the one being a jester and the other a captive. It may
be added, that in travelling thus late through the forest, Cedric
and Athelstane relied on their descent and character, as well as
their courage. The outlaws, whom the severity of the forest laws had
reduced to this roving and desperate mode of life, were chiefly
peasants and yeomen of Saxon descent, and were generally supposed to
respect the persons and property of their countrymen.
As the travellers journeyed
on their way, they were alarmed by repeated cries for assistance;
and when they rode up to the place from whence they came, they were
surprised to find a horse-litter placed upon the ground, beside
which sat a young woman, richly dressed in the Jewish fashion, while
an old man, whose yellow cap proclaimed him to belong to the same
nation, walked up and down with gestures expressive of the deepest
despair, and wrung his hands, as if affected by some strange
disaster.
To the enquiries of
Athelstane and Cedric, the old Jew could for some time only answer
by invoking the protection of all the patriarchs of the Old
Testament successively against the sons of Ishmael, who were coming
to smite them, hip and thigh, with the edge of the sword. When he
began to come to himself out of this agony of terror, Isaac of York
(for it was our old friend) was at length able to explain, that he
had hired a body-guard of six men at Ashby, together with mules for
carrying the litter of a sick friend. This party had undertaken to
escort him as far as Doncaster. They had come thus far in safety;
but having received information from a wood-cutter that there was a
strong band of outlaws lying in wait in the woods before them,
Isaac's mercenaries had not only taken flight, but had carried off
with them the horses which bore the litter and left the Jew and his
daughter without the means either of defence or of retreat, to be
plundered, and probably murdered, by the banditti, who they expected
every moment would bring down upon them. "Would it but please your
valours," added Isaac, in a tone of deep humiliation, "to permit the
poor Jews to travel under your safeguard, I swear by the tables of
our law, that never has favour been conferred upon a child of Israel
since the days of our captivity, which shall be more gratefully
acknowledged."
"Dog of a Jew!" said
Athelstane, whose memory was of that petty kind which stores up
trifles of all kinds, but particularly trifling offences, "dost not
remember how thou didst beard us in the gallery at the tilt-yard?
Fight or flee, or compound with the outlaws as thou dost list, ask
neither aid nor company from us; and if they rob only such as thee,
who rob all the world, I, for mine own share, shall hold them right
honest folk."
Cedric did not assent to the
severe proposal of his companion. "We shall do better," said he, "to
leave them two of our attendants and two horses to convey them back
to the next village. It will diminish our strength but little; and
with your good sword, noble Athelstane, and the aid of those who
remain, it will be light work for us to face twenty of those
runagates."
Rowena, somewhat alarmed by
the mention of outlaws in force, and so near them, strongly seconded
the proposal of her guardian. But Rebecca suddenly quitting her
dejected posture, and making her way through the attendants to the
palfrey of the Saxon lady, knelt down, and, after the Oriental
fashion in addressing superiors, kissed the hem of Rowena's garment.
Then rising, and throwing back her veil, she implored her in the
great name of the God whom they both worshipped, and by that
revelation of the Law upon Mount Sinai, in which they both believed,
that she would have compassion upon them, and suffer them to go
forward under their safeguard. "It is not for myself that I pray
this favour," said Rebecca; "nor is it even for that poor old man. I
know that to wrong and to spoil our nation is a light fault, if not
a merit, with the Christians; and what is it to us whether it be
done in the city, in the desert, or in the field? But it is in the
name of one dear to many, and dear even to you, that I beseech you
to let this sick person be transported with care and tenderness
under your protection. For, if evil chance him, the last moment of
your life would be embittered with regret for denying that which I
ask of you."
The noble and solemn air
with which Rebecca made this appeal, gave it double weight with the
fair Saxon.
"The man is old and feeble,"
she said to her guardian, "the maiden young and beautiful, their
friend sick and in peril of his life—Jews though they be, we cannot
as Christians leave them in this extremity. Let them unload two of
the sumpter-mules, and put the baggage behind two of the serfs. The
mules may transport the litter, and we have led horses for the old
man and his daughter."
Cedric readily assented to
what she proposed, and Athelstane only added the condition, "that
they should travel in the rear of the whole party, where Wamba," he
said, "might attend them with his shield of boar's brawn."
"I have left my shield in
the tilt-yard," answered the Jester, "as has been the fate of many a
better knight than myself."
Athelstane coloured deeply,
for such had been his own fate on the last day of the tournament;
while Rowena, who was pleased in the same proportion, as if to make
amends for the brutal jest of her unfeeling suitor, requested
Rebecca to ride by her side.
"It were not fit I should do
so," answered Rebecca, with proud humility, "where my society might
be held a disgrace to my protectress."
By this time the change of
baggage was hastily achieved; for the single word "outlaws" rendered
every one sufficiently alert, and the approach of twilight made the
sound yet more impressive. Amid the bustle, Gurth was taken from
horseback, in the course of which removal he prevailed upon the
Jester to slack the cord with which his arms were bound. It was so
negligently refastened, perhaps intentionally, on the part of Wamba,
that Gurth found no difficulty in freeing his arms altogether from
bondage, and then, gliding into the thicket, he made his escape from
the party.
The bustle had been
considerable, and it was some time before Gurth was missed; for, as
he was to be placed for the rest of the journey behind a servant,
every one supposed that some other of his companions had him under
his custody, and when it began to be whispered among them that Gurth
had actually disappeared, they were under such immediate expectation
of an attack from the outlaws, that it was not held convenient to
pay much attention to the circumstance.
The path upon which the
party travelled was now so narrow, as not to admit, with any sort of
convenience, above two riders abreast, and began to descend into a
dingle, traversed by a brook whose banks were broken, swampy, and
overgrown with dwarf willows. Cedric and Athelstane, who were at the
head of their retinue, saw the risk of being attacked at this pass;
but neither of them having had much practice in war, no better mode
of preventing the danger occurred to them than that they should
hasten through the defile as fast as possible. Advancing, therefore,
without much order, they had just crossed the brook with a part of
their followers, when they were assailed in front, flank, and rear
at once, with an impetuosity to which, in their confused and
ill-prepared condition, it was impossible to offer effectual
resistance. The shout of "A white dragon!—a white dragon!—Saint
George for merry England!" war-cries adopted by the assailants, as
belonging to their assumed character of Saxon outlaws, was heard on
every side, and on every side enemies appeared with a rapidity of
advance and attack which seemed to multiply their numbers.
Both the Saxon chiefs were
made prisoners at the same moment, and each under circumstances
expressive of his character. Cedric, the instant that an enemy
appeared, launched at him his remaining javelin, which, taking
better effect than that which he had hurled at Fangs, nailed the man
against an oak-tree that happened to be close behind him. Thus far
successful, Cedric spurred his horse against a second, drawing his
sword at the same time, and striking with such inconsiderate fury,
that his weapon encountered a thick branch which hung over him, and
he was disarmed by the violence of his own blow. He was instantly
made prisoner, and pulled from his horse by two or three of the
banditti who crowded around him. Athelstane shared his captivity,
his bridle having been seized, and he himself forcibly dismounted,
long before he could draw his weapon, or assume any posture of
effectual defence.
The attendants, embarrassed
with baggage, surprised and terrified at the fate of their masters,
fell an easy prey to the assailants; while the Lady Rowena, in the
centre of the cavalcade, and the Jew and his daughter in the rear,
experienced the same misfortune.
Of all the train none
escaped except Wamba, who showed upon the occasion much more courage
than those who pretended to greater sense. He possessed himself of a
sword belonging to one of the domestics, who was just drawing it
with a tardy and irresolute hand, laid it about him like a lion,
drove back several who approached him, and made a brave though
ineffectual attempt to succour his master. Finding himself
overpowered, the Jester at length threw himself from his horse,
plunged into the thicket, and, favoured by the general confusion,
escaped from the scene of action. Yet the valiant Jester, as soon as
he found himself safe, hesitated more than once whether he should
not turn back and share the captivity of a master to whom he was
sincerely attached.
"I have heard men talk of
the blessings of freedom," he said to himself, "but I wish any wise
man would teach me what use to make of it now that I have it."
As he pronounced these words
aloud, a voice very near him called out in a low and cautious tone,
"Wamba!" and, at the same time, a dog, which he recognised to be
Fangs, jumped up and fawned upon him. "Gurth!" answered Wamba, with
the same caution, and the swineherd immediately stood before him.
"What is the matter?" said
he eagerly; "what mean these cries, and that clashing of swords?"
"Only a trick of the times,"
said Wamba; "they are all prisoners."
"Who are prisoners?"
exclaimed Gurth, impatiently.
"My lord, and my lady, and
Athelstane, and Hundibert, and Oswald."
"In the name of God!" said
Gurth, "how came they prisoners?—and to whom?"
"Our master was too ready to
fight," said the Jester; "and Athelstane was not ready enough, and
no other person was ready at all. And they are prisoners to green
cassocks, and black visors. And they lie all tumbled about on the
green, like the crab-apples that you shake down to your swine. And I
would laugh at it," said the honest Jester, "if I could for
weeping." And he shed tears of unfeigned sorrow.
Gurth's countenance
kindled—"Wamba," he said, "thou hast a weapon, and thy heart was
ever stronger than thy brain,—we are only two—but a sudden attack
from men of resolution will do much—follow me!"
"Whither?—and for what
purpose?" said the Jester.
"To rescue Cedric."
"But you have renounced his
service but now," said Wamba.
"That," said Gurth, "was but
while he was fortunate—follow me!"
As the Jester was about to
obey, a third person suddenly made his appearance, and commanded
them both to halt. From his dress and arms, Wamba would have
conjectured him to be one of those outlaws who had just assailed his
master; but, besides that he wore no mask, the glittering baldric
across his shoulder, with the rich bugle-horn which it supported, as
well as the calm and commanding expression of his voice and manner,
made him, notwithstanding the twilight, recognise Locksley the
yeoman, who had been victorious, under such disadvantageous
circumstances, in the contest for the prize of archery.
"What is the meaning of all
this," said he, "or who is it that rifle, and ransom, and make
prisoners, in these forests?"
"You may look at their
cassocks close by," said Wamba, "and see whether they be thy
children's coats or no—for they are as like thine own, as one green
pea-cod is to another."
"I will learn that
presently," answered Locksley; "and I charge ye, on peril of your
lives, not to stir from the place where ye stand, until I have
returned. Obey me, and it shall be the better for you and your
masters.—Yet stay, I must render myself as like these men as
possible."
So saying he unbuckled his
baldric with the bugle, took a feather from his cap, and gave them
to Wamba; then drew a vizard from his pouch, and, repeating his
charges to them to stand fast, went to execute his purposes of
reconnoitring.
"Shall we stand fast,
Gurth?" said Wamba; "or shall we e'en give him leg-bail? In my
foolish mind, he had all the equipage of a thief too much in
readiness, to be himself a true man."
"Let him be the devil," said
Gurth, "an he will. We can be no worse of waiting his return. If he
belong to that party, he must already have given them the alarm, and
it will avail nothing either to fight or fly. Besides, I have late
experience, that errant thieves are not the worst men in the world
to have to deal with."
The yeoman returned in the
course of a few minutes.
"Friend Gurth," he said, "I
have mingled among yon men, and have learnt to whom they belong, and
whither they are bound. There is, I think, no chance that they will
proceed to any actual violence against their prisoners. For three
men to attempt them at this moment, were little else than madness;
for they are good men of war, and have, as such, placed sentinels to
give the alarm when any one approaches. But I trust soon to gather
such a force, as may act in defiance of all their precautions; you
are both servants, and, as I think, faithful servants, of Cedric the
Saxon, the friend of the rights of Englishmen. He shall not want
English hands to help him in this extremity. Come then with me,
until I gather more aid."
So saying, he walked through
the wood at a great pace, followed by the jester and the swineherd.
It was not consistent with Wamba's humour to travel long in silence.
"I think," said he, looking
at the baldric and bugle which he still carried, "that I saw the
arrow shot which won this gay prize, and that not so long since as
Christmas."
"And I," said Gurth, "could
take it on my halidome, that I have heard the voice of the good
yeoman who won it, by night as well as by day, and that the moon is
not three days older since I did so."
"Mine honest friends,"
replied the yeoman, "who, or what I am, is little to the present
purpose; should I free your master, you will have reason to think me
the best friend you have ever had in your lives. And whether I am
known by one name or another—or whether I can draw a bow as well or
better than a cow-keeper, or whether it is my pleasure to walk in
sunshine or by moonlight, are matters, which, as they do not concern
you, so neither need ye busy yourselves respecting them."
"Our heads are in the lion's
mouth," said Wamba, in a whisper to Gurth, "get them out how we
can."
"Hush—be silent," said
Gurth. "Offend him not by thy folly, and I trust sincerely that all
will go well."
CHAPTER XX
When autumn nights were long and drear,
And forest walks were dark and dim,
How sweetly on the pilgrim's ear
Was wont to steal the hermit's hymn
Devotion borrows Music's tone,
And Music took Devotion's wing;
And, like the bird that hails the sun,
They soar to heaven, and soaring sing.
The Hermit of St Clement's Well
It was after three hours'
good walking that the servants of Cedric, with their mysterious
guide, arrived at a small opening in the forest, in the centre of
which grew an oak-tree of enormous magnitude, throwing its twisted
branches in every direction. Beneath this tree four or five yeomen
lay stretched on the ground, while another, as sentinel, walked to
and fro in the moonlight shade.
Upon hearing the sound of
feet approaching, the watch instantly gave the alarm, and the
sleepers as suddenly started up and bent their bows. Six arrows
placed on the string were pointed towards the quarter from which the
travellers approached, when their guide, being recognised, was
welcomed with every token of respect and attachment, and all signs
and fears of a rough reception at once subsided.
"Where is the Miller?" was
his first question.
"On the road towards
Rotherham."
"With how many?" demanded
the leader, for such he seemed to be.
"With six men, and good hope
of booty, if it please St Nicholas."
"Devoutly spoken," said
Locksley; "and where is Allan-a-Dale?"
"Walked up towards the
Watling-street, to watch for the Prior of Jorvaulx."
"That is well thought on
also," replied the Captain;—"and where is the Friar?"
"In his cell."
"Thither will I go," said
Locksley. "Disperse and seek your companions. Collect what force you
can, for there's game afoot that must be hunted hard, and will turn
to bay. Meet me here by daybreak.—And stay," he added, "I have
forgotten what is most necessary of the whole—Two of you take the
road quickly towards Torquilstone, the Castle of Front-de-Boeuf. A
set of gallants, who have been masquerading in such guise as our
own, are carrying a band of prisoners thither—Watch them closely,
for even if they reach the castle before we collect our force, our
honour is concerned to punish them, and we will find means to do so.
Keep a close watch on them therefore; and dispatch one of your
comrades, the lightest of foot, to bring the news of the yeomen
thereabout."
They promised implicit
obedience, and departed with alacrity on their different errands. In
the meanwhile, their leader and his two companions, who now looked
upon him with great respect, as well as some fear, pursued their way
to the Chapel of Copmanhurst.
When they had reached the
little moonlight glade, having in front the reverend, though ruinous
chapel, and the rude hermitage, so well suited to ascetic devotion,
Wamba whispered to Gurth, "If this be the habitation of a thief, it
makes good the old proverb, The nearer the church the farther from
God.—And by my coxcomb," he added, "I think it be even so—Hearken
but to the black sanctus which they are singing in the hermitage!"
In fact the anchorite and
his guest were performing, at the full extent of their very powerful
lungs, an old drinking song, of which this was the burden:—
"Come, trowl the brown bowl to me,
Bully boy, bully boy,
Come, trowl the brown bowl to me:
Ho! jolly Jenkin, I spy a knave in drinking,
Come, trowl the brown bowl to me."
"Now, that is not ill sung,"
said Wamba, who had thrown in a few of his own flourishes to help
out the chorus. "But who, in the saint's name, ever expected to have
heard such a jolly chant come from out a hermit's cell at midnight!"
"Marry, that should I," said
Gurth, "for the jolly Clerk of Copmanhurst is a known man, and kills
half the deer that are stolen in this walk. Men say that the keeper
has complained to his official, and that he will be stripped of his
cowl and cope altogether, if he keeps not better order."
While they were thus
speaking, Locksley's loud and repeated knocks had at length
disturbed the anchorite and his guest. "By my beads," said the
hermit, stopping short in a grand flourish, "here come more
benighted guests. I would not for my cowl that they found us in this
goodly exercise. All men have their enemies, good Sir Sluggard; and
there be those malignant enough to construe the hospitable
refreshment which I have been offering to you, a weary traveller,
for the matter of three short hours, into sheer drunkenness and
debauchery, vices alike alien to my profession and my disposition."
"Base calumniators!" replied
the knight; "I would I had the chastising of them. Nevertheless,
Holy Clerk, it is true that all have their enemies; and there be
those in this very land whom I would rather speak to through the
bars of my helmet than barefaced."
"Get thine iron pot on thy
head then, friend Sluggard, as quickly as thy nature will permit,"
said the hermit, "while I remove these pewter flagons, whose late
contents run strangely in mine own pate; and to drown the
clatter—for, in faith, I feel somewhat unsteady—strike into the tune
which thou hearest me sing; it is no matter for the words—I scarce
know them myself."
So saying, he struck up a
thundering "De profundis clamavi", under cover of which he removed
the apparatus of their banquet: while the knight, laughing heartily,
and arming himself all the while, assisted his host with his voice
from time to time as his mirth permitted.
"What devil's matins are you
after at this hour?" said a voice from without.
"Heaven forgive you, Sir
Traveller!" said the hermit, whose own noise, and perhaps his
nocturnal potations, prevented from recognising accents which were
tolerably familiar to him—"Wend on your way, in the name of God and
Saint Dunstan, and disturb not the devotions of me and my holy
brother."
"Mad priest," answered the
voice from without, "open to Locksley!"
"All's safe—all's right,"
said the hermit to his companion.
"But who is he?" said the
Black Knight; "it imports me much to know."
"Who is he?" answered the
hermit; "I tell thee he is a friend."
"But what friend?" answered
the knight; "for he may be friend to thee and none of mine?"
"What friend?" replied the
hermit; "that, now, is one of the questions that is more easily
asked than answered. What friend?—why, he is, now that I bethink me
a little, the very same honest keeper I told thee of a while since."
"Ay, as honest a keeper as
thou art a pious hermit," replied the knight, "I doubt it not. But
undo the door to him before he beat it from its hinges."
The dogs, in the meantime,
which had made a dreadful baying at the commencement of the
disturbance, seemed now to recognise the voice of him who stood
without; for, totally changing their manner, they scratched and
whined at the door, as if interceding for his admission. The hermit
speedily unbolted his portal, and admitted Locksley, with his two
companions.
"Why, hermit," was the
yeoman's first question as soon as he beheld the knight, "what boon
companion hast thou here?"
"A brother of our order,"
replied the friar, shaking his head; "we have been at our orisons
all night."
"He is a monk of the church
militant, I think," answered Locksley; "and there be more of them
abroad. I tell thee, friar, thou must lay down the rosary and take
up the quarter-staff; we shall need every one of our merry men,
whether clerk or layman.—But," he added, taking him a step aside,
"art thou mad? to give admittance to a knight thou dost not know?
Hast thou forgot our articles?"
"Not know him!" replied the
friar, boldly, "I know him as well as the beggar knows his dish."
"And what is his name,
then?" demanded Locksley.
"His name," said the
hermit—"his name is Sir Anthony of Scrabelstone—as if I would drink
with a man, and did not know his name!"
"Thou hast been drinking
more than enough, friar," said the woodsman, "and, I fear, prating
more than enough too."
"Good yeoman," said the
knight, coming forward, "be not wroth with my merry host. He did but
afford me the hospitality which I would have compelled from him if
he had refused it."
"Thou compel!" said the
friar; "wait but till have changed this grey gown for a green
cassock, and if I make not a quarter-staff ring twelve upon thy
pate, I am neither true clerk nor good woodsman."
While he spoke thus, he
stript off his gown, and appeared in a close black buckram doublet
and drawers, over which he speedily did on a cassock of green, and
hose of the same colour. "I pray thee truss my points," said he to
Wamba, "and thou shalt have a cup of sack for thy labour."
"Gramercy for thy sack,"
said Wamba; "but think'st thou it is lawful for me to aid you to
transmew thyself from a holy hermit into a sinful forester?"
"Never fear," said the
hermit; "I will but confess the sins of my green cloak to my
greyfriar's frock, and all shall be well again."
"Amen!" answered the Jester;
"a broadcloth penitent should have a sackcloth confessor, and your
frock may absolve my motley doublet into the bargain."
So saying, he accommodated
the friar with his assistance in tying the endless number of points,
as the laces which attached the hose to the doublet were then
termed.
While they were thus
employed, Locksley led the knight a little apart, and addressed him
thus:—"Deny it not, Sir Knight—you are he who decided the victory to
the advantage of the English against the strangers on the second day
of the tournament at Ashby."
"And what follows if you
guess truly, good yeoman?" replied the knight.
"I should in that case hold
you," replied the yeoman, "a friend to the weaker party."
"Such is the duty of a true
knight at least," replied the Black Champion; "and I would not
willingly that there were reason to think otherwise of me."
"But for my purpose," said
the yeoman, "thou shouldst be as well a good Englishman as a good
knight; for that, which I have to speak of, concerns, indeed, the
duty of every honest man, but is more especially that of a true-born
native of England."
"You can speak to no one,"
replied the knight, "to whom England, and the life of every
Englishman, can be dearer than to me."
"I would willingly believe
so," said the woodsman, "for never had this country such need to be
supported by those who love her. Hear me, and I will tell thee of an
enterprise, in which, if thou be'st really that which thou seemest,
thou mayst take an honourable part. A band of villains, in the
disguise of better men than themselves, have made themselves master
of the person of a noble Englishman, called Cedric the Saxon,
together with his ward, and his friend Athelstane of Coningsburgh,
and have transported them to a castle in this forest, called
Torquilstone. I ask of thee, as a good knight and a good Englishman,
wilt thou aid in their rescue?"
"I am bound by my vow to do
so," replied the knight; "but I would willingly know who you are,
who request my assistance in their behalf?"
"I am," said the forester,
"a nameless man; but I am the friend of my country, and of my
country's friends—With this account of me you must for the present
remain satisfied, the more especially since you yourself desire to
continue unknown. Believe, however, that my word, when pledged, is
as inviolate as if I wore golden spurs."
"I willingly believe it,"
said the knight; "I have been accustomed to study men's
countenances, and I can read in thine honesty and resolution. I
will, therefore, ask thee no further questions, but aid thee in
setting at freedom these oppressed captives; which done, I trust we
shall part better acquainted, and well satisfied with each other."
"So," said Wamba to
Gurth,—for the friar being now fully equipped, the Jester, having
approached to the other side of the hut, had heard the conclusion of
the conversation,—"So we have got a new ally?—l trust the valour of
the knight will be truer metal than the religion of the hermit, or
the honesty of the yeoman; for this Locksley looks like a born
deer-stealer, and the priest like a lusty hypocrite."
"Hold thy peace, Wamba,"
said Gurth; "it may all be as thou dost guess; but were the horned
devil to rise and proffer me his assistance to set at liberty Cedric
and the Lady Rowena, I fear I should hardly have religion enough to
refuse the foul fiend's offer, and bid him get behind me."
The friar was now completely
accoutred as a yeoman, with sword and buckler, bow, and quiver, and
a strong partisan over his shoulder. He left his cell at the head of
the party, and, having carefully locked the door, deposited the key
under the threshold.
"Art thou in condition to do
good service, friar," said Locksley, "or does the brown bowl still
run in thy head?"
"Not more than a drought of
St Dunstan's fountain will allay," answered the priest; "something
there is of a whizzing in my brain, and of instability in my legs,
but you shall presently see both pass away."
So saying, he stepped to the
stone basin, in which the waters of the fountain as they fell formed
bubbles which danced in the white moonlight, and took so long a
drought as if he had meant to exhaust the spring.
"When didst thou drink as
deep a drought of water before, Holy Clerk of Copmanhurst?" said the
Black Knight.
"Never since my wine-butt
leaked, and let out its liquor by an illegal vent," replied the
friar, "and so left me nothing to drink but my patron's bounty
here."
Then plunging his hands and
head into the fountain, he washed from them all marks of the
midnight revel.
Thus refreshed and sobered,
the jolly priest twirled his heavy partisan round his head with
three fingers, as if he had been balancing a reed, exclaiming at the
same time, "Where be those false ravishers, who carry off wenches
against their will? May the foul fiend fly off with me, if I am not
man enough for a dozen of them."
"Swearest thou, Holy Clerk?"
said the Black Knight.
"Clerk me no Clerks,"
replied the transformed priest; "by Saint George and the Dragon, I
am no longer a shaveling than while my frock is on my back—When I am
cased in my green cassock, I will drink, swear, and woo a lass, with
any blithe forester in the West Riding."
"Come on, Jack Priest," said
Locksley, "and be silent; thou art as noisy as a whole convent on a
holy eve, when the Father Abbot has gone to bed.—Come on you, too,
my masters, tarry not to talk of it—I say, come on, we must collect
all our forces, and few enough we shall have, if we are to storm the
Castle of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf."
"What! is it
Front-de-Boeuf," said the Black Knight, "who has stopt on the king's
highway the king's liege subjects?—Is he turned thief and
oppressor?"
"Oppressor he ever was,"
said Locksley.
"And for thief," said the
priest, "I doubt if ever he were even half so honest a man as many a
thief of my acquaintance."
"Move on, priest, and be
silent," said the yeoman; "it were better you led the way to the
place of rendezvous, than say what should be left unsaid, both in
decency and prudence."
CHAPTER XXI
Alas, how many hours and years have past,
Since human forms have round this table sate,
Or lamp, or taper, on its surface gleam'd!
Methinks, I hear the sound of time long pass'd
Still murmuring o'er us, in the lofty void
Of these dark arches, like the ling'ring voices
Of those who long within their graves have slept.
Orra, a Tragedy
While these measures were
taking in behalf of Cedric and his companions, the armed men by whom
the latter had been seized, hurried their captives along towards the
place of security, where they intended to imprison them. But
darkness came on fast, and the paths of the wood seemed but
imperfectly known to the marauders. They were compelled to make
several long halts, and once or twice to return on their road to
resume the direction which they wished to pursue. The summer morn
had dawned upon them ere they could travel in full assurance that
they held the right path. But confidence returned with light, and
the cavalcade now moved rapidly forward. Meanwhile, the following
dialogue took place between the two leaders of the banditti.
"It is time thou shouldst
leave us, Sir Maurice," said the Templar to De Bracy, "in order to
prepare the second part of thy mystery. Thou art next, thou knowest,
to act the Knight Deliverer."
"I have thought better of
it," said De Bracy; "I will not leave thee till the prize is fairly
deposited in Front-de-Boeuf's castle. There will I appear before the
Lady Rowena in mine own shape, and trust that she will set down to
the vehemence of my passion the violence of which I have been
guilty."
"And what has made thee
change thy plan, De Bracy?" replied the Knight Templar.
"That concerns thee
nothing," answered his companion.
"I would hope, however, Sir
Knight," said the Templar, "that this alteration of measures arises
from no suspicion of my honourable meaning, such as Fitzurse
endeavoured to instil into thee?"
"My thoughts are my own,"
answered De Bracy; "the fiend laughs, they say, when one thief robs
another; and we know, that were he to spit fire and brimstone
instead, it would never prevent a Templar from following his bent."
"Or the leader of a Free
Company," answered the Templar, "from dreading at the hands of a
comrade and friend, the injustice he does to all mankind."
"This is unprofitable and
perilous recrimination," answered De Bracy; "suffice it to say, I
know the morals of the Temple-Order, and I will not give thee the
power of cheating me out of the fair prey for which I have run such
risks."
"Psha," replied the Templar,
"what hast thou to fear?—Thou knowest the vows of our order."
"Right well," said De Bracy,
"and also how they are kept. Come, Sir Templar, the laws of
gallantry have a liberal interpretation in Palestine, and this is a
case in which I will trust nothing to your conscience."
"Hear the truth, then," said
the Templar; "I care not for your blue-eyed beauty. There is in that
train one who will make me a better mate."
"What! wouldst thou stoop to
the waiting damsel?" said De Bracy.
"No, Sir Knight," said the
Templar, haughtily. "To the waiting-woman will I not stoop. I have a
prize among the captives as lovely as thine own."
"By the mass, thou meanest
the fair Jewess!" said De Bracy.
"And if I do," said
Bois-Guilbert, "who shall gainsay me?"
"No one that I know," said
De Bracy, "unless it be your vow of celibacy, or a cheek of
conscience for an intrigue with a Jewess."
"For my vow," said the
Templar, "our Grand Master hath granted me a dispensation. And for
my conscience, a man that has slain three hundred Saracens, need not
reckon up every little failing, like a village girl at her first
confession upon Good Friday eve."
"Thou knowest best thine own
privileges," said De Bracy. "Yet, I would have sworn thy thought had
been more on the old usurer's money bags, than on the black eyes of
the daughter."
"I can admire both,"
answered the Templar; "besides, the old Jew is but half-prize. I
must share his spoils with Front-de-Boeuf, who will not lend us the
use of his castle for nothing. I must have something that I can term
exclusively my own by this foray of ours, and I have fixed on the
lovely Jewess as my peculiar prize. But, now thou knowest my drift,
thou wilt resume thine own original plan, wilt thou not?—Thou hast
nothing, thou seest, to fear from my interference."
"No," replied De Bracy, "I
will remain beside my prize. What thou sayst is passing true, but I
like not the privileges acquired by the dispensation of the Grand
Master, and the merit acquired by the slaughter of three hundred
Saracens. You have too good a right to a free pardon, to render you
very scrupulous about peccadilloes."
While this dialogue was
proceeding, Cedric was endeavouring to wring out of those who
guarded him an avowal of their character and purpose. "You should be
Englishmen," said he; "and yet, sacred Heaven! you prey upon your
countrymen as if you were very Normans. You should be my neighbours,
and, if so, my friends; for which of my English neighbours have
reason to be otherwise? I tell ye, yeomen, that even those among ye
who have been branded with outlawry have had from me protection; for
I have pitied their miseries, and curst the oppression of their
tyrannic nobles. What, then, would you have of me? or in what can
this violence serve ye?—Ye are worse than brute beasts in your
actions, and will you imitate them in their very dumbness?"
It was in vain that Cedric
expostulated with his guards, who had too many good reasons for
their silence to be induced to break it either by his wrath or his
expostulations. They continued to hurry him along, travelling at a
very rapid rate, until, at the end of an avenue of huge trees, arose
Torquilstone, now the hoary and ancient castle of Reginald
Front-de-Boeuf. It was a fortress of no great size, consisting of a
donjon, or large and high square tower, surrounded by buildings of
inferior height, which were encircled by an inner court-yard. Around
the exterior wall was a deep moat, supplied with water from a
neighbouring rivulet. Front-de-Boeuf, whose character placed him
often at feud with his enemies, had made considerable additions to
the strength of his castle, by building towers upon the outward
wall, so as to flank it at every angle. The access, as usual in
castles of the period, lay through an arched barbican, or outwork,
which was terminated and defended by a small turret at each corner.
Cedric no sooner saw the
turrets of Front-de-Boeuf's castle raise their grey and moss-grown
battlements, glimmering in the morning sun above the wood by which
they were surrounded, than he instantly augured more truly
concerning the cause of his misfortune.
"I did injustice," he said,
"to the thieves and outlaws of these woods, when I supposed such
banditti to belong to their bands; I might as justly have confounded
the foxes of these brakes with the ravening wolves of France. Tell
me, dogs—is it my life or my wealth that your master aims at? Is it
too much that two Saxons, myself and the noble Athelstane, should
hold land in the country which was once the patrimony of our
race?—Put us then to death, and complete your tyranny by taking our
lives, as you began with our liberties. If the Saxon Cedric cannot
rescue England, he is willing to die for her. Tell your tyrannical
master, I do only beseech him to dismiss the Lady Rowena in honour
and safety. She is a woman, and he need not dread her; and with us
will die all who dare fight in her cause."
The attendants remained as
mute to this address as to the former, and they now stood before the
gate of the castle. De Bracy winded his horn three times, and the
archers and cross-bow men, who had manned the wall upon seeing their
approach, hastened to lower the drawbridge, and admit them. The
prisoners were compelled by their guards to alight, and were
conducted to an apartment where a hasty repast was offered them, of
which none but Athelstane felt any inclination to partake. Neither
had the descendant of the Confessor much time to do justice to the
good cheer placed before them, for their guards gave him and Cedric
to understand that they were to be imprisoned in a chamber apart
from Rowena. Resistance was vain; and they were compelled to follow
to a large room, which, rising on clumsy Saxon pillars, resembled
those refectories and chapter-houses which may be still seen in the
most ancient parts of our most ancient monasteries.
The Lady Rowena was next
separated from her train, and conducted, with courtesy, indeed, but
still without consulting her inclination, to a distant apartment.
The same alarming distinction was conferred on Rebecca, in spite of
her father's entreaties, who offered even money, in this extremity
of distress, that she might be permitted to abide with him. "Base
unbeliever," answered one of his guards, "when thou hast seen thy
lair, thou wilt not wish thy daughter to partake it." And, without
farther discussion, the old Jew was forcibly dragged off in a
different direction from the other prisoners. The domestics, after
being carefully searched and disarmed, were confined in another part
of the castle; and Rowena was refused even the comfort she might
have derived from the attendance of her handmaiden Elgitha.
The apartment in which the
Saxon chiefs were confined, for to them we turn our first attention,
although at present used as a sort of guard-room, had formerly been
the great hall of the castle. It was now abandoned to meaner
purposes, because the present lord, among other additions to the
convenience, security, and beauty of his baronial residence, had
erected a new and noble hall, whose vaulted roof was supported by
lighter and more elegant pillars, and fitted up with that higher
degree of ornament, which the Normans had already introduced into
architecture.
Cedric paced the apartment,
filled with indignant reflections on the past and on the present,
while the apathy of his companion served, instead of patience and
philosophy, to defend him against every thing save the inconvenience
of the present moment; and so little did he feel even this last,
that he was only from time to time roused to a reply by Cedric's
animated and impassioned appeal to him.
"Yes," said Cedric, half
speaking to himself, and half addressing himself to Athelstane, "it
was in this very hall that my father feasted with Torquil
Wolfganger, when he entertained the valiant and unfortunate Harold,
then advancing against the Norwegians, who had united themselves to
the rebel Tosti. It was in this hall that Harold returned the
magnanimous answer to the ambassador of his rebel brother. Oft have
I heard my father kindle as he told the tale. The envoy of Tosti was
admitted, when this ample room could scarce contain the crowd of
noble Saxon leaders, who were quaffing the blood-red wine around
their monarch."
"I hope," said Athelstane,
somewhat moved by this part of his friend's discourse, "they will
not forget to send us some wine and refactions at noon—we had scarce
a breathing-space allowed to break our fast, and I never have the
benefit of my food when I eat immediately after dismounting from
horseback, though the leeches recommend that practice."
Cedric went on with his
story without noticing this interjectional observation of his
friend.
"The envoy of Tosti," he
said, "moved up the hall, undismayed by the frowning countenances of
all around him, until he made his obeisance before the throne of
King Harold.
"'What terms,' he said,
'Lord King, hath thy brother Tosti to hope, if he should lay down
his arms, and crave peace at thy hands?'
"'A brother's love,' cried
the generous Harold, 'and the fair earldom of Northumberland.'
"'But should Tosti accept
these terms,' continued the envoy, 'what lands shall be assigned to
his faithful ally, Hardrada, King of Norway?'
"'Seven feet of English
ground,' answered Harold, fiercely, 'or, as Hardrada is said to be a
giant, perhaps we may allow him twelve inches more.'
"The hall rung with
acclamations, and cup and horn was filled to the Norwegian, who
should be speedily in possession of his English territory."
"I could have pledged him
with all my soul," said Athelstane, "for my tongue cleaves to my
palate."
"The baffled envoy,"
continued Cedric, pursuing with animation his tale, though it
interested not the listener, "retreated, to carry to Tosti and his
ally the ominous answer of his injured brother. It was then that the
distant towers of York, and the bloody streams of the Derwent,
26
beheld that direful conflict, in which, after displaying the most
undaunted valour, the King of Norway, and Tosti, both fell, with ten
thousand of their bravest followers. Who would have thought that
upon the proud day when this battle was won, the very gale which
waved the Saxon banners in triumph, was filling the Norman sails,
and impelling them to the fatal shores of Sussex?—Who would have
thought that Harold, within a few brief days, would himself possess
no more of his kingdom, than the share which he allotted in his
wrath to the Norwegian invader?—Who would have thought that you,
noble Athelstane—that you, descended of Harold's blood, and that I,
whose father was not the worst defender of the Saxon crown, should
be prisoners to a vile Norman, in the very hall in which our
ancestors held such high festival?"
"It is sad enough," replied
Athelstane; "but I trust they will hold us to a moderate ransom—At
any rate it cannot be their purpose to starve us outright; and yet,
although it is high noon, I see no preparations for serving dinner.
Look up at the window, noble Cedric, and judge by the sunbeams if it
is not on the verge of noon."
"It may be so," answered
Cedric; "but I cannot look on that stained lattice without its
awakening other reflections than those which concern the passing
moment, or its privations. When that window was wrought, my noble
friend, our hardy fathers knew not the art of making glass, or of
staining it—The pride of Wolfganger's father brought an artist from
Normandy to adorn his hall with this new species of emblazonment,
that breaks the golden light of God's blessed day into so many
fantastic hues. The foreigner came here poor, beggarly, cringing,
and subservient, ready to doff his cap to the meanest native of the
household. He returned pampered and proud, to tell his rapacious
countrymen of the wealth and the simplicity of the Saxon nobles—a
folly, oh, Athelstane, foreboded of old, as well as foreseen, by
those descendants of Hengist and his hardy tribes, who retained the
simplicity of their manners. We made these strangers our bosom
friends, our confidential servants; we borrowed their artists and
their arts, and despised the honest simplicity and hardihood with
which our brave ancestors supported themselves, and we became
enervated by Norman arts long ere we fell under Norman arms. Far
better was our homely diet, eaten in peace and liberty, than the
luxurious dainties, the love of which hath delivered us as bondsmen
to the foreign conqueror!"
"I should," replied
Athelstane, "hold very humble diet a luxury at present; and it
astonishes me, noble Cedric, that you can bear so truly in mind the
memory of past deeds, when it appeareth you forget the very hour of
dinner."
"It is time lost," muttered
Cedric apart and impatiently, "to speak to him of aught else but
that which concerns his appetite! The soul of Hardicanute hath taken
possession of him, and he hath no pleasure save to fill, to swill,
and to call for more.—Alas!" said he, looking at Athelstane with
compassion, "that so dull a spirit should be lodged in so goodly a
form! Alas! that such an enterprise as the regeneration of England
should turn on a hinge so imperfect! Wedded to Rowena, indeed, her
nobler and more generous soul may yet awake the better nature which
is torpid within him. Yet how should this be, while Rowena,
Athelstane, and I myself, remain the prisoners of this brutal
marauder and have been made so perhaps from a sense of the dangers
which our liberty might bring to the usurped power of his nation?"
While the Saxon was plunged
in these painful reflections, the door of their prison opened, and
gave entrance to a sewer, holding his white rod of office. This
important person advanced into the chamber with a grave pace,
followed by four attendants, bearing in a table covered with dishes,
the sight and smell of which seemed to be an instant compensation to
Athelstane for all the inconvenience he had undergone. The persons
who attended on the feast were masked and cloaked.
"What mummery is this?" said
Cedric; "think you that we are ignorant whose prisoners we are, when
we are in the castle of your master? Tell him," he continued,
willing to use this opportunity to open a negotiation for his
freedom,—"Tell your master, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, that we know no
reason he can have for withholding our liberty, excepting his
unlawful desire to enrich himself at our expense. Tell him that we
yield to his rapacity, as in similar circumstances we should do to
that of a literal robber. Let him name the ransom at which he rates
our liberty, and it shall be paid, providing the exaction is suited
to our means." The sewer made no answer, but bowed his head.
"And tell Sir Reginald
Front-de-Boeuf," said Athelstane, "that I send him my mortal
defiance, and challenge him to combat with me, on foot or horseback,
at any secure place, within eight days after our liberation; which,
if he be a true knight, he will not, under these circumstances,
venture to refuse or to delay."
"I shall deliver to the
knight your defiance," answered the sewer; "meanwhile I leave you to
your food."
The challenge of Athelstane
was delivered with no good grace; for a large mouthful, which
required the exercise of both jaws at once, added to a natural
hesitation, considerably damped the effect of the bold defiance it
contained. Still, however, his speech was hailed by Cedric as an
incontestible token of reviving spirit in his companion, whose
previous indifference had begun, notwithstanding his respect for
Athelstane's descent, to wear out his patience. But he now cordially
shook hands with him in token of his approbation, and was somewhat
grieved when Athelstane observed, "that he would fight a dozen such
men as Front-de-Boeuf, if, by so doing, he could hasten his
departure from a dungeon where they put so much garlic into their
pottage." Notwithstanding this intimation of a relapse into the
apathy of sensuality, Cedric placed himself opposite to Athelstane,
and soon showed, that if the distresses of his country could banish
the recollection of food while the table was uncovered, yet no
sooner were the victuals put there, than he proved that the appetite
of his Saxon ancestors had descended to him along with their other
qualities.
The captives had not long
enjoyed their refreshment, however, ere their attention was
disturbed even from this most serious occupation by the blast of a
horn winded before the gate. It was repeated three times, with as
much violence as if it had been blown before an enchanted castle by
the destined knight, at whose summons halls and towers, barbican and
battlement, were to roll off like a morning vapour. The Saxons
started from the table, and hastened to the window. But their
curiosity was disappointed; for these outlets only looked upon the
court of the castle, and the sound came from beyond its precincts.
The summons, however, seemed of importance, for a considerable
degree of bustle instantly took place in the castle.
CHAPTER XXII
My daughter—O my ducats—O my daughter!
———O my Christian ducats!
Justice—the Law—my ducats, and my daughter!
—Merchant of Venice
Leaving the Saxon chiefs to
return to their banquet as soon as their ungratified curiosity
should permit them to attend to the calls of their half-satiated
appetite, we have to look in upon the yet more severe imprisonment
of Isaac of York. The poor Jew had been hastily thrust into a
dungeon-vault of the castle, the floor of which was deep beneath the
level of the ground, and very damp, being lower than even the moat
itself. The only light was received through one or two loop-holes
far above the reach of the captive's hand. These apertures admitted,
even at mid-day, only a dim and uncertain light, which was changed
for utter darkness long before the rest of the castle had lost the
blessing of day. Chains and shackles, which had been the portion of
former captives, from whom active exertions to escape had been
apprehended, hung rusted and empty on the walls of the prison, and
in the rings of one of those sets of fetters there remained two
mouldering bones, which seemed to have been once those of the human
leg, as if some prisoner had been left not only to perish there, but
to be consumed to a skeleton.
At one end of this ghastly
apartment was a large fire-grate, over the top of which were
stretched some transverse iron bars, half devoured with rust.
The whole appearance
of the dungeon might have appalled a stouter heart than that of
Isaac, who, nevertheless, was more composed under the imminent
pressure of danger, than he had seemed to be while affected by
terrors, of which the cause was as yet remote and contingent. The
lovers of the chase say that the hare feels more agony during the
pursuit of the greyhounds, than when she is struggling in their
fangs.
27
And thus it is probable,
that the Jews, by the very frequency of their fear on all occasions,
had their minds in some degree prepared for every effort of tyranny
which could be practised upon them; so that no aggression, when it
had taken place, could bring with it that surprise which is the most
disabling quality of terror. Neither was it the first time that
Isaac had been placed in circumstances so dangerous. He had
therefore experience to guide him, as well as hope, that he might
again, as formerly, be delivered as a prey from the fowler. Above
all, he had upon his side the unyielding obstinacy of his nation,
and that unbending resolution, with which Israelites have been
frequently known to submit to the uttermost evils which power and
violence can inflict upon them, rather than gratify their oppressors
by granting their demands.
In this humour of passive
resistance, and with his garment collected beneath him to keep his
limbs from the wet pavement, Isaac sat in a corner of his dungeon,
where his folded hands, his dishevelled hair and beard, his furred
cloak and high cap, seen by the wiry and broken light, would have
afforded a study for Rembrandt, had that celebrated painter existed
at the period. The Jew remained, without altering his position, for
nearly three hours, at the expiry of which steps were heard on the
dungeon stair. The bolts screamed as they were withdrawn—the hinges
creaked as the wicket opened, and Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, followed
by the two Saracen slaves of the Templar, entered the prison.
Front-de-Boeuf, a tall and
strong man, whose life had been spent in public war or in private
feuds and broils, and who had hesitated at no means of extending his
feudal power, had features corresponding to his character, and which
strongly expressed the fiercer and more malignant passions of the
mind. The scars with which his visage was seamed, would, on features
of a different cast, have excited the sympathy and veneration due to
the marks of honourable valour; but, in the peculiar case of
Front-de-Boeuf, they only added to the ferocity of his countenance,
and to the dread which his presence inspired. This formidable baron
was clad in a leathern doublet, fitted close to his body, which was
frayed and soiled with the stains of his armour. He had no weapon,
excepting a poniard at his belt, which served to counterbalance the
weight of the bunch of rusty keys that hung at his right side.
The black slaves who
attended Front-de-Boeuf were stripped of their gorgeous apparel, and
attired in jerkins and trowsers of coarse linen, their sleeves being
tucked up above the elbow, like those of butchers when about to
exercise their function in the slaughter-house. Each had in his hand
a small pannier; and, when they entered the dungeon, they stopt at
the door until Front-de-Boeuf himself carefully locked and
double-locked it. Having taken this precaution, he advanced slowly
up the apartment towards the Jew, upon whom he kept his eye fixed,
as if he wished to paralyze him with his glance, as some animals are
said to fascinate their prey. It seemed indeed as if the sullen and
malignant eye of Front-de-Boeuf possessed some portion of that
supposed power over his unfortunate prisoner. The Jew sat with his
mouth agape, and his eyes fixed on the savage baron with such
earnestness of terror, that his frame seemed literally to shrink
together, and to diminish in size while encountering the fierce
Norman's fixed and baleful gaze. The unhappy Isaac was deprived not
only of the power of rising to make the obeisance which his terror
dictated, but he could not even doff his cap, or utter any word of
supplication; so strongly was he agitated by the conviction that
tortures and death were impending over him.
On the other hand, the
stately form of the Norman appeared to dilate in magnitude, like
that of the eagle, which ruffles up its plumage when about to pounce
on its defenceless prey. He paused within three steps of the corner
in which the unfortunate Jew had now, as it were, coiled himself up
into the smallest possible space, and made a sign for one of the
slaves to approach. The black satellite came forward accordingly,
and, producing from his basket a large pair of scales and several
weights, he laid them at the feet of Front-de-Boeuf, and again
retired to the respectful distance, at which his companion had
already taken his station.
The motions of these men
were slow and solemn, as if there impended over their souls some
preconception of horror and of cruelty. Front-de-Boeuf himself
opened the scene by thus addressing his ill-fated captive.
"Most accursed dog of an
accursed race," he said, awaking with his deep and sullen voice the
sullen echoes of his dungeon vault, "seest thou these scales?"
The unhappy Jew returned a
feeble affirmative.
"In these very scales shalt
thou weigh me out," said the relentless Baron, "a thousand silver
pounds, after the just measure and weight of the Tower of London."
"Holy Abraham!" returned the
Jew, finding voice through the very extremity of his danger, "heard
man ever such a demand?—Who ever heard, even in a minstrel's tale,
of such a sum as a thousand pounds of silver?—What human sight was
ever blessed with the vision of such a mass of treasure?—Not within
the walls of York, ransack my house and that of all my tribe, wilt
thou find the tithe of that huge sum of silver that thou speakest
of."
"I am reasonable," answered
Front-de-Boeuf, "and if silver be scant, I refuse not gold. At the
rate of a mark of gold for each six pounds of silver, thou shalt
free thy unbelieving carcass from such punishment as thy heart has
never even conceived."
"Have mercy on me, noble
knight!" exclaimed Isaac; "I am old, and poor, and helpless. It were
unworthy to triumph over me—It is a poor deed to crush a worm."
"Old thou mayst be," replied
the knight; "more shame to their folly who have suffered thee to
grow grey in usury and knavery—Feeble thou mayst be, for when had a
Jew either heart or hand—But rich it is well known thou art."
"I swear to you, noble
knight," said the Jew "by all which I believe, and by all which we
believe in common—-"
"Perjure not thyself," said
the Norman, interrupting him, "and let not thine obstinacy seal thy
doom, until thou hast seen and well considered the fate that awaits
thee. Think not I speak to thee only to excite thy terror, and
practise on the base cowardice thou hast derived from thy tribe. I
swear to thee by that which thou dost NOT believe, by the gospel
which our church teaches, and by the keys which are given her to
bind and to loose, that my purpose is deep and peremptory. This
dungeon is no place for trifling. Prisoners ten thousand times more
distinguished than thou have died within these walls, and their fate
hath never been known! But for thee is reserved a long and lingering
death, to which theirs were luxury."
He again made a signal for
the slaves to approach, and spoke to them apart, in their own
language; for he also had been in Palestine, where perhaps, he had
learnt his lesson of cruelty. The Saracens produced from their
baskets a quantity of charcoal, a pair of bellows, and a flask of
oil. While the one struck a light with a flint and steel, the other
disposed the charcoal in the large rusty grate which we have already
mentioned, and exercised the bellows until the fuel came to a red
glow.
"Seest thou, Isaac,"
said Front-de-Boeuf, "the range of iron bars above the glowing
charcoal?—
28 on
that warm couch thou shalt lie, stripped of thy clothes as if thou
wert to rest on a bed of down. One of these slaves shall maintain
the fire beneath thee, while the other shall anoint thy wretched
limbs with oil, lest the roast should burn.—Now, choose betwixt such
a scorching bed and the payment of a thousand pounds of silver; for,
by the head of my father, thou hast no other option."
"It is impossible,"
exclaimed the miserable Jew—"it is impossible that your purpose can
be real! The good God of nature never made a heart capable of
exercising such cruelty!"
"Trust not to that, Isaac,"
said Front-de-Boeuf, "it were a fatal error. Dost thou think that I,
who have seen a town sacked, in which thousands of my Christian
countrymen perished by sword, by flood, and by fire, will blench
from my purpose for the outcries or screams of one single wretched
Jew?—or thinkest thou that these swarthy slaves, who have neither
law, country, nor conscience, but their master's will—who use the
poison, or the stake, or the poniard, or the cord, at his slightest
wink—thinkest thou that THEY will have mercy, who do not even
understand the language in which it is asked?—Be wise, old man;
discharge thyself of a portion of thy superfluous wealth; repay to
the hands of a Christian a part of what thou hast acquired by the
usury thou hast practised on those of his religion. Thy cunning may
soon swell out once more thy shrivelled purse, but neither leech nor
medicine can restore thy scorched hide and flesh wert thou once
stretched on these bars. Tell down thy ransom, I say, and rejoice
that at such rate thou canst redeem thee from a dungeon, the secrets
of which few have returned to tell. I waste no more words with
thee—choose between thy dross and thy flesh and blood, and as thou
choosest, so shall it be."
"So may Abraham, Jacob, and
all the fathers of our people assist me," said Isaac, "I cannot make
the choice, because I have not the means of satisfying your
exorbitant demand!"
"Seize him and strip him,
slaves," said the knight, "and let the fathers of his race assist
him if they can."
The assistants, taking their
directions more from the Baron's eye and his hand than his tongue,
once more stepped forward, laid hands on the unfortunate Isaac,
plucked him up from the ground, and, holding him between them,
waited the hard-hearted Baron's farther signal. The unhappy Jew eyed
their countenances and that of Front-de-Boeuf, in hope of
discovering some symptoms of relenting; but that of the Baron
exhibited the same cold, half-sullen, half-sarcastic smile which had
been the prelude to his cruelty; and the savage eyes of the
Saracens, rolling gloomily under their dark brows, acquiring a yet
more sinister expression by the whiteness of the circle which
surrounds the pupil, evinced rather the secret pleasure which they
expected from the approaching scene, than any reluctance to be its
directors or agents. The Jew then looked at the glowing furnace,
over which he was presently to be stretched, and seeing no chance of
his tormentor's relenting, his resolution gave way.
"I will pay," he said, "the
thousand pounds of silver—That is," he added, after a moment's
pause, "I will pay it with the help of my brethren; for I must beg
as a mendicant at the door of our synagogue ere I make up so
unheard-of a sum.—When and where must it be delivered?"
"Here," replied
Front-de-Boeuf, "here it must be delivered—weighed it must
be—weighed and told down on this very dungeon floor.—Thinkest thou I
will part with thee until thy ransom is secure?"
"And what is to be my
surety," said the Jew, "that I shall be at liberty after this ransom
is paid?"
"The word of a Norman noble,
thou pawn-broking slave," answered Front-de-Boeuf; "the faith of a
Norman nobleman, more pure than the gold and silver of thee and all
thy tribe."
"I crave pardon, noble
lord," said Isaac timidly, "but wherefore should I rely wholly on
the word of one who will trust nothing to mine?"
"Because thou canst not help
it, Jew," said the knight, sternly. "Wert thou now in thy
treasure-chamber at York, and were I craving a loan of thy shekels,
it would be thine to dictate the time of payment, and the pledge of
security. This is MY treasure-chamber. Here I have thee at
advantage, nor will I again deign to repeat the terms on which I
grant thee liberty."
The Jew groaned
deeply.—"Grant me," he said, "at least with my own liberty, that of
the companions with whom I travel. They scorned me as a Jew, yet
they pitied my desolation, and because they tarried to aid me by the
way, a share of my evil hath come upon them; moreover, they may
contribute in some sort to my ransom."
"If thou meanest yonder
Saxon churls," said Front-de-Boeuf, "their ransom will depend upon
other terms than thine. Mind thine own concerns, Jew, I warn thee,
and meddle not with those of others."
"I am, then," said Isaac,
"only to be set at liberty, together with mine wounded friend?"
"Shall I twice recommend
it," said Front-de-Boeuf, "to a son of Israel, to meddle with his
own concerns, and leave those of others alone?—Since thou hast made
thy choice, it remains but that thou payest down thy ransom, and
that at a short day."
"Yet hear me," said the
Jew—"for the sake of that very wealth which thou wouldst obtain at
the expense of thy—-" Here he stopt short, afraid of irritating the
savage Norman. But Front-de-Boeuf only laughed, and himself filled
up the blank at which the Jew had hesitated.
"At the expense of my
conscience, thou wouldst say, Isaac; speak it out—I tell thee, I am
reasonable. I can bear the reproaches of a loser, even when that
loser is a Jew. Thou wert not so patient, Isaac, when thou didst
invoke justice against Jacques Fitzdotterel, for calling thee a
usurious blood-sucker, when thy exactions had devoured his
patrimony."
"I swear by the Talmud,"
said the Jew, "that your valour has been misled in that matter.
Fitzdotterel drew his poniard upon me in mine own chamber, because I
craved him for mine own silver. The term of payment was due at the
Passover."
"I care not what he did,"
said Front-de-Boeuf; "the question is, when shall I have mine
own?—when shall I have the shekels, Isaac?"
"Let my daughter Rebecca go
forth to York," answered Isaac, "with your safe conduct, noble
knight, and so soon as man and horse can return, the treasure—-"
Here he groaned deeply, but added, after the pause of a few
seconds,—"The treasure shall be told down on this very floor."
"Thy daughter!" said
Front-de-Boeuf, as if surprised,—"By heavens, Isaac, I would I had
known of this. I deemed that yonder black-browed girl had been thy
concubine, and I gave her to be a handmaiden to Sir Brian de
Bois-Guilbert, after the fashion of patriarchs and heroes of the
days of old, who set us in these matters a wholesome example."
The yell which Isaac raised
at this unfeeling communication made the very vault to ring, and
astounded the two Saracens so much that they let go their hold of
the Jew. He availed himself of his enlargement to throw himself on
the pavement, and clasp the knees of Front-de-Boeuf.
"Take all that you have
asked," said he, "Sir Knight—take ten times more—reduce me to ruin
and to beggary, if thou wilt,—nay, pierce me with thy poniard, broil
me on that furnace, but spare my daughter, deliver her in safety and
honour!—As thou art born of woman, spare the honour of a helpless
maiden—She is the image of my deceased Rachel, she is the last of
six pledges of her love—Will you deprive a widowed husband of his
sole remaining comfort?—Will you reduce a father to wish that his
only living child were laid beside her dead mother, in the tomb of
our fathers?"
"I would," said the Norman,
somewhat relenting, "that I had known of this before. I thought your
race had loved nothing save their moneybags."
"Think not so vilely of us,
Jews though we be," said Isaac, eager to improve the moment of
apparent sympathy; "the hunted fox, the tortured wildcat loves its
young—the despised and persecuted race of Abraham love their
children!"
"Be it so," said
Front-de-Boeuf; "I will believe it in future, Isaac, for thy very
sake—but it aids us not now, I cannot help what has happened, or
what is to follow; my word is passed to my comrade in arms, nor
would I break it for ten Jews and Jewesses to boot. Besides, why
shouldst thou think evil is to come to the girl, even if she became
Bois-Guilbert's booty?"
"There will, there must!"
exclaimed Isaac, wringing his hands in agony; "when did Templars
breathe aught but cruelty to men, and dishonour to women!"
"Dog of an infidel," said
Front-de-Boeuf, with sparkling eyes, and not sorry, perhaps, to
seize a pretext for working himself into a passion, "blaspheme not
the Holy Order of the Temple of Zion, but take thought instead to
pay me the ransom thou hast promised, or woe betide thy Jewish
throat!"
"Robber and villain!" said
the Jew, retorting the insults of his oppressor with passion, which,
however impotent, he now found it impossible to bridle, "I will pay
thee nothing—not one silver penny will I pay thee, unless my
daughter is delivered to me in safety and honour!"
"Art thou in thy senses,
Israelite?" said the Norman, sternly—"has thy flesh and blood a
charm against heated iron and scalding oil?"
"I care not!" said the Jew,
rendered desperate by paternal affection; "do thy worst. My daughter
is my flesh and blood, dearer to me a thousand times than those
limbs which thy cruelty threatens. No silver will I give thee,
unless I were to pour it molten down thy avaricious throat—no, not a
silver penny will I give thee, Nazarene, were it to save thee from
the deep damnation thy whole life has merited! Take my life if thou
wilt, and say, the Jew, amidst his tortures, knew how to disappoint
the Christian."
"We shall see that," said
Front-de-Boeuf; "for by the blessed rood, which is the abomination
of thy accursed tribe, thou shalt feel the extremities of fire and
steel!—Strip him, slaves, and chain him down upon the bars."
In spite of the feeble
struggles of the old man, the Saracens had already torn from him his
upper garment, and were proceeding totally to disrobe him, when the
sound of a bugle, twice winded without the castle, penetrated even
to the recesses of the dungeon, and immediately after loud voices
were heard calling for Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf. Unwilling to be
found engaged in his hellish occupation, the savage Baron gave the
slaves a signal to restore Isaac's garment, and, quitting the
dungeon with his attendants, he left the Jew to thank God for his
own deliverance, or to lament over his daughter's captivity, and
probable fate, as his personal or parental feelings might prove
strongest.
CHAPTER XXIII
Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words
Can no way change you to a milder form,
I'll woo you, like a soldier, at arms' end,
And love you 'gainst the nature of love, force you.
—Two Gentlemen of Verona
The apartment to which the
Lady Rowena had been introduced was fitted up with some rude
attempts at ornament and magnificence, and her being placed there
might be considered as a peculiar mark of respect not offered to the
other prisoners. But the wife of Front-de-Boeuf, for whom it had
been originally furnished, was long dead, and decay and neglect had
impaired the few ornaments with which her taste had adorned it. The
tapestry hung down from the walls in many places, and in others was
tarnished and faded under the effects of the sun, or tattered and
decayed by age. Desolate, however, as it was, this was the apartment
of the castle which had been judged most fitting for the
accommodation of the Saxon heiress; and here she was left to
meditate upon her fate, until the actors in this nefarious drama had
arranged the several parts which each of them was to perform. This
had been settled in a council held by Front-de-Boeuf, De Bracy, and
the Templar, in which, after a long and warm debate concerning the
several advantages which each insisted upon deriving from his
peculiar share in this audacious enterprise, they had at length
determined the fate of their unhappy prisoners.
It was about the hour of
noon, therefore, when De Bracy, for whose advantage the expedition
had been first planned, appeared to prosecute his views upon the
hand and possessions of the Lady Rowena.
The interval had not
entirely been bestowed in holding council with his confederates, for
De Bracy had found leisure to decorate his person with all the
foppery of the times. His green cassock and vizard were now flung
aside. His long luxuriant hair was trained to flow in quaint tresses
down his richly furred cloak. His beard was closely shaved, his
doublet reached to the middle of his leg, and the girdle which
secured it, and at the same time supported his ponderous sword, was
embroidered and embossed with gold work. We have already noticed the
extravagant fashion of the shoes at this period, and the points of
Maurice de Bracy's might have challenged the prize of extravagance
with the gayest, being turned up and twisted like the horns of a
ram. Such was the dress of a gallant of the period; and, in the
present instance, that effect was aided by the handsome person and
good demeanour of the wearer, whose manners partook alike of the
grace of a courtier, and the frankness of a soldier.
He saluted Rowena by doffing
his velvet bonnet, garnished with a golden broach, representing St
Michael trampling down the Prince of Evil. With this, he gently
motioned the lady to a seat; and, as she still retained her standing
posture, the knight ungloved his right hand, and motioned to conduct
her thither. But Rowena declined, by her gesture, the proffered
compliment, and replied, "If I be in the presence of my jailor, Sir
Knight—nor will circumstances allow me to think otherwise—it best
becomes his prisoner to remain standing till she learns her doom."
"Alas! fair Rowena,"
returned De Bracy, "you are in presence of your captive, not your
jailor; and it is from your fair eyes that De Bracy must receive
that doom which you fondly expect from him."
"I know you not, sir," said
the lady, drawing herself up with all the pride of offended rank and
beauty; "I know you not—and the insolent familiarity with which you
apply to me the jargon of a troubadour, forms no apology for the
violence of a robber."
"To thyself, fair maid,"
answered De Bracy, in his former tone—"to thine own charms be
ascribed whate'er I have done which passed the respect due to her,
whom I have chosen queen of my heart, and lodestar of my eyes."
"I repeat to you, Sir
Knight, that I know you not, and that no man wearing chain and spurs
ought thus to intrude himself upon the presence of an unprotected
lady."
"That I am unknown to you,"
said De Bracy, "is indeed my misfortune; yet let me hope that De
Bracy's name has not been always unspoken, when minstrels or heralds
have praised deeds of chivalry, whether in the lists or in the
battle-field."
"To heralds and to
minstrels, then, leave thy praise, Sir Knight," replied Rowena,
"more suiting for their mouths than for thine own; and tell me which
of them shall record in song, or in book of tourney, the memorable
conquest of this night, a conquest obtained over an old man,
followed by a few timid hinds; and its booty, an unfortunate maiden,
transported against her will to the castle of a robber?"
"You are unjust, Lady
Rowena," said the knight, biting his lips in some confusion, and
speaking in a tone more natural to him than that of affected
gallantry, which he had at first adopted; "yourself free from
passion, you can allow no excuse for the frenzy of another, although
caused by your own beauty."
"I pray you, Sir Knight,"
said Rowena, "to cease a language so commonly used by strolling
minstrels, that it becomes not the mouth of knights or nobles.
Certes, you constrain me to sit down, since you enter upon such
commonplace terms, of which each vile crowder hath a stock that
might last from hence to Christmas."
"Proud damsel," said De
Bracy, incensed at finding his gallant style procured him nothing
but contempt—"proud damsel, thou shalt be as proudly encountered.
Know then, that I have supported my pretensions to your hand in the
way that best suited thy character. It is meeter for thy humour to
be wooed with bow and bill, than in set terms, and in courtly
language."
"Courtesy of tongue," said
Rowena, "when it is used to veil churlishness of deed, is but a
knight's girdle around the breast of a base clown. I wonder not that
the restraint appears to gall you—more it were for your honour to
have retained the dress and language of an outlaw, than to veil the
deeds of one under an affectation of gentle language and demeanour."
"You counsel well, lady,"
said the Norman; "and in the bold language which best justifies bold
action I tell thee, thou shalt never leave this castle, or thou
shalt leave it as Maurice de Bracy's wife. I am not wont to be
baffled in my enterprises, nor needs a Norman noble scrupulously to
vindicate his conduct to the Saxon maiden whom he distinguishes by
the offer of his hand. Thou art proud, Rowena, and thou art the
fitter to be my wife. By what other means couldst thou be raised to
high honour and to princely place, saving by my alliance? How else
wouldst thou escape from the mean precincts of a country grange,
where Saxons herd with the swine which form their wealth, to take
thy seat, honoured as thou shouldst be, and shalt be, amid all in
England that is distinguished by beauty, or dignified by power?"
"Sir Knight," replied
Rowena, "the grange which you contemn hath been my shelter from
infancy; and, trust me, when I leave it—should that day ever
arrive—it shall be with one who has not learnt to despise the
dwelling and manners in which I have been brought up."
"I guess your meaning,
lady," said De Bracy, "though you may think it lies too obscure for
my apprehension. But dream not, that Richard Coeur de Lion will ever
resume his throne, far less that Wilfred of Ivanhoe, his minion,
will ever lead thee to his footstool, to be there welcomed as the
bride of a favourite. Another suitor might feel jealousy while he
touched this string; but my firm purpose cannot be changed by a
passion so childish and so hopeless. Know, lady, that this rival is
in my power, and that it rests but with me to betray the secret of
his being within the castle to Front-de-Boeuf, whose jealousy will
be more fatal than mine."
"Wilfred here?" said Rowena,
in disdain; "that is as true as that Front-de-Boeuf is his rival."
De Bracy looked at her
steadily for an instant.
"Wert thou really ignorant
of this?" said he; "didst thou not know that Wilfred of Ivanhoe
travelled in the litter of the Jew?—a meet conveyance for the
crusader, whose doughty arm was to reconquer the Holy Sepulchre!"
And he laughed scornfully.
"And if he is here," said
Rowena, compelling herself to a tone of indifference, though
trembling with an agony of apprehension which she could not
suppress, "in what is he the rival of Front-de-Boeuf? or what has he
to fear beyond a short imprisonment, and an honourable ransom,
according to the use of chivalry?"
"Rowena," said De Bracy,
"art thou, too, deceived by the common error of thy sex, who think
there can be no rivalry but that respecting their own charms?
Knowest thou not there is a jealousy of ambition and of wealth, as
well as of love; and that this our host, Front-de-Boeuf, will push
from his road him who opposes his claim to the fair barony of
Ivanhoe, as readily, eagerly, and unscrupulously, as if he were
preferred to him by some blue-eyed damsel? But smile on my suit,
lady, and the wounded champion shall have nothing to fear from
Front-de-Boeuf, whom else thou mayst mourn for, as in the hands of
one who has never shown compassion."
"Save him, for the love of
Heaven!" said Rowena, her firmness giving way under terror for her
lover's impending fate.
"I can—I will—it is my
purpose," said De Bracy; "for, when Rowena consents to be the bride
of De Bracy, who is it shall dare to put forth a violent hand upon
her kinsman—the son of her guardian—the companion of her youth? But
it is thy love must buy his protection. I am not romantic fool
enough to further the fortune, or avert the fate, of one who is
likely to be a successful obstacle between me and my wishes. Use
thine influence with me in his behalf, and he is safe,—refuse to
employ it, Wilfred dies, and thou thyself art not the nearer to
freedom."
"Thy language," answered
Rowena, "hath in its indifferent bluntness something which cannot be
reconciled with the horrors it seems to express. I believe not that
thy purpose is so wicked, or thy power so great."
"Flatter thyself, then, with
that belief," said De Bracy, "until time shall prove it false. Thy
lover lies wounded in this castle—thy preferred lover. He is a bar
betwixt Front-de-Boeuf and that which Front-de-Boeuf loves better
than either ambition or beauty. What will it cost beyond the blow of
a poniard, or the thrust of a javelin, to silence his opposition for
ever? Nay, were Front-de-Boeuf afraid to justify a deed so open, let
the leech but give his patient a wrong draught—let the chamberlain,
or the nurse who tends him, but pluck the pillow from his head, and
Wilfred in his present condition, is sped without the effusion of
blood. Cedric also—"
"And Cedric also," said
Rowena, repeating his words; "my noble—my generous guardian! I
deserved the evil I have encountered, for forgetting his fate even
in that of his son!"
"Cedric's fate also depends
upon thy determination," said De Bracy; "and I leave thee to form
it."
Hitherto, Rowena had
sustained her part in this trying scene with undismayed courage, but
it was because she had not considered the danger as serious and
imminent. Her disposition was naturally that which physiognomists
consider as proper to fair complexions, mild, timid, and gentle; but
it had been tempered, and, as it were, hardened, by the
circumstances of her education. Accustomed to see the will of all,
even of Cedric himself, (sufficiently arbitrary with others,) give
way before her wishes, she had acquired that sort of courage and
self-confidence which arises from the habitual and constant
deference of the circle in which we move. She could scarce conceive
the possibility of her will being opposed, far less that of its
being treated with total disregard.
Her haughtiness and habit of
domination was, therefore, a fictitious character, induced over that
which was natural to her, and it deserted her when her eyes were
opened to the extent of her own danger, as well as that of her lover
and her guardian; and when she found her will, the slightest
expression of which was wont to command respect and attention, now
placed in opposition to that of a man of a strong, fierce, and
determined mind, who possessed the advantage over her, and was
resolved to use it, she quailed before him.
After casting her eyes
around, as if to look for the aid which was nowhere to be found, and
after a few broken interjections, she raised her hands to heaven,
and burst into a passion of uncontrolled vexation and sorrow. It was
impossible to see so beautiful a creature in such extremity without
feeling for her, and De Bracy was not unmoved, though he was yet
more embarrassed than touched. He had, in truth, gone too far to
recede; and yet, in Rowena's present condition, she could not be
acted on either by argument or threats. He paced the apartment to
and fro, now vainly exhorting the terrified maiden to compose
herself, now hesitating concerning his own line of conduct.
If, thought he, I should be
moved by the tears and sorrow of this disconsolate damsel, what
should I reap but the loss of these fair hopes for which I have
encountered so much risk, and the ridicule of Prince John and his
jovial comrades? "And yet," he said to himself, "I feel myself ill
framed for the part which I am playing. I cannot look on so fair a
face while it is disturbed with agony, or on those eyes when they
are drowned in tears. I would she had retained her original
haughtiness of disposition, or that I had a larger share of
Front-de-Boeuf's thrice-tempered hardness of heart!"
Agitated by these thoughts,
he could only bid the unfortunate Rowena be comforted, and assure
her, that as yet she had no reason for the excess of despair to
which she was now giving way. But in this task of consolation De
Bracy was interrupted by the horn, "hoarse-winded blowing far and
keen," which had at the same time alarmed the other inmates of the
castle, and interrupted their several plans of avarice and of
license. Of them all, perhaps, De Bracy least regretted the
interruption; for his conference with the Lady Rowena had arrived at
a point, where he found it equally difficult to prosecute or to
resign his enterprise.
And here we cannot but think
it necessary to offer some better proof than the incidents of an
idle tale, to vindicate the melancholy representation of manners
which has been just laid before the reader. It is grievous to think
that those valiant barons, to whose stand against the crown the
liberties of England were indebted for their existence, should
themselves have been such dreadful oppressors, and capable of
excesses contrary not only to the laws of England, but to those of
nature and humanity. But, alas! we have only to extract from the
industrious Henry one of those numerous passages which he has
collected from contemporary historians, to prove that fiction itself
can hardly reach the dark reality of the horrors of the period.
The description given
by the author of the Saxon Chronicle of the cruelties exercised in
the reign of King Stephen by the great barons and lords of castles,
who were all Normans, affords a strong proof of the excesses of
which they were capable when their passions were inflamed. "They
grievously oppressed the poor people by building castles; and when
they were built, they filled them with wicked men, or rather devils,
who seized both men and women who they imagined had any money, threw
them into prison, and put them to more cruel tortures than the
martyrs ever endured. They suffocated some in mud, and suspended
others by the feet, or the head, or the thumbs, kindling fires below
them. They squeezed the heads of some with knotted cords till they
pierced their brains, while they threw others into dungeons swarming
with serpents, snakes, and toads." But it would be cruel to put the
reader to the pain of perusing the remainder of this description.
29
As another instance of these
bitter fruits of conquest, and perhaps the strongest that can be
quoted, we may mention, that the Princess Matilda, though a daughter
of the King of Scotland, and afterwards both Queen of England, niece
to Edgar Atheling, and mother to the Empress of Germany, the
daughter, the wife, and the mother of monarchs, was obliged, during
her early residence for education in England, to assume the veil of
a nun, as the only means of escaping the licentious pursuit of the
Norman nobles. This excuse she stated before a great council of the
clergy of England, as the sole reason for her having taken the
religious habit. The assembled clergy admitted the validity of the
plea, and the notoriety of the circumstances upon which it was
founded; giving thus an indubitable and most remarkable testimony to
the existence of that disgraceful license by which that age was
stained. It was a matter of public knowledge, they said, that after
the conquest of King William, his Norman followers, elated by so
great a victory, acknowledged no law but their own wicked pleasure,
and not only despoiled the conquered Saxons of their lands and their
goods, but invaded the honour of their wives and of their daughters
with the most unbridled license; and hence it was then common for
matrons and maidens of noble families to assume the veil, and take
shelter in convents, not as called thither by the vocation of God,
but solely to preserve their honour from the unbridled wickedness of
man.
Such and so licentious were
the times, as announced by the public declaration of the assembled
clergy, recorded by Eadmer; and we need add nothing more to
vindicate the probability of the scenes which we have detailed, and
are about to detail, upon the more apocryphal authority of the
Wardour MS.
CHAPTER XXIV
I'll woo her as the lion woos his bride.
—Douglas
While the scenes we have
described were passing in other parts of the castle, the Jewess
Rebecca awaited her fate in a distant and sequestered turret. Hither
she had been led by two of her disguised ravishers, and on being
thrust into the little cell, she found herself in the presence of an
old sibyl, who kept murmuring to herself a Saxon rhyme, as if to
beat time to the revolving dance which her spindle was performing
upon the floor. The hag raised her head as Rebecca entered, and
scowled at the fair Jewess with the malignant envy with which old
age and ugliness, when united with evil conditions, are apt to look
upon youth and beauty.
"Thou must up and away, old
house-cricket," said one of the men; "our noble master commands
it—Thou must e'en leave this chamber to a fairer guest."
"Ay," grumbled the hag,
"even thus is service requited. I have known when my bare word would
have cast the best man-at-arms among ye out of saddle and out of
service; and now must I up and away at the command of every groom
such as thou."
"Good Dame Urfried," said
the other man, "stand not to reason on it, but up and away. Lords'
hests must be listened to with a quick ear. Thou hast had thy day,
old dame, but thy sun has long been set. Thou art now the very
emblem of an old war-horse turned out on the barren heath—thou hast
had thy paces in thy time, but now a broken amble is the best of
them—Come, amble off with thee."
"Ill omens dog ye both!"
said the old woman; "and a kennel be your burying-place! May the
evil demon Zernebock tear me limb from limb, if I leave my own cell
ere I have spun out the hemp on my distaff!"
"Answer it to our lord,
then, old housefiend," said the man, and retired; leaving Rebecca in
company with the old woman, upon whose presence she had been thus
unwillingly forced.
"What devil's deed have they
now in the wind?" said the old hag, murmuring to herself, yet from
time to time casting a sidelong and malignant glance at Rebecca;
"but it is easy to guess—Bright eyes, black locks, and a skin like
paper, ere the priest stains it with his black unguent—Ay, it is
easy to guess why they send her to this lone turret, whence a shriek
could no more be heard than at the depth of five hundred fathoms
beneath the earth.—Thou wilt have owls for thy neighbours, fair one;
and their screams will be heard as far, and as much regarded, as
thine own. Outlandish, too," she said, marking the dress and turban
of Rebecca—"What country art thou of?—a Saracen? or an Egyptian?—Why
dost not answer?—thou canst weep, canst thou not speak?"
"Be not angry, good mother,"
said Rebecca.
"Thou needst say no more,"
replied Urfried "men know a fox by the train, and a Jewess by her
tongue."
"For the sake of mercy,"
said Rebecca, "tell me what I am to expect as the conclusion of the
violence which hath dragged me hither! Is it my life they seek, to
atone for my religion? I will lay it down cheerfully."
"Thy life, minion?" answered
the sibyl; "what would taking thy life pleasure them?—Trust me, thy
life is in no peril. Such usage shalt thou have as was once thought
good enough for a noble Saxon maiden. And shall a Jewess, like thee,
repine because she hath no better? Look at me—I was as young and
twice as fair as thou, when Front-de-Boeuf, father of this Reginald,
and his Normans, stormed this castle. My father and his seven sons
defended their inheritance from story to story, from chamber to
chamber—There was not a room, not a step of the stair, that was not
slippery with their blood. They died—they died every man; and ere
their bodies were cold, and ere their blood was dried, I had become
the prey and the scorn of the conqueror!"
"Is there no help?—Are there
no means of escape?" said Rebecca—"Richly, richly would I requite
thine aid."
"Think not of it," said the
hag; "from hence there is no escape but through the gates of death;
and it is late, late," she added, shaking her grey head, "ere these
open to us—Yet it is comfort to think that we leave behind us on
earth those who shall be wretched as ourselves. Fare thee well,
Jewess!—Jew or Gentile, thy fate would be the same; for thou hast to
do with them that have neither scruple nor pity. Fare thee well, I
say. My thread is spun out—thy task is yet to begin."
"Stay! stay! for Heaven's
sake!" said Rebecca; "stay, though it be to curse and to revile
me—thy presence is yet some protection."
"The presence of the mother
of God were no protection," answered the old woman. "There she
stands," pointing to a rude image of the Virgin Mary, "see if she
can avert the fate that awaits thee."
She left the room as she
spoke, her features writhed into a sort of sneering laugh, which
made them seem even more hideous than their habitual frown. She
locked the door behind her, and Rebecca might hear her curse every
step for its steepness, as slowly and with difficulty she descended
the turret-stair.
Rebecca was now to expect a
fate even more dreadful than that of Rowena; for what probability
was there that either softness or ceremony would be used towards one
of her oppressed race, whatever shadow of these might be preserved
towards a Saxon heiress? Yet had the Jewess this advantage, that she
was better prepared by habits of thought, and by natural strength of
mind, to encounter the dangers to which she was exposed. Of a strong
and observing character, even from her earliest years, the pomp and
wealth which her father displayed within his walls, or which she
witnessed in the houses of other wealthy Hebrews, had not been able
to blind her to the precarious circumstances under which they were
enjoyed. Like Damocles at his celebrated banquet, Rebecca
perpetually beheld, amid that gorgeous display, the sword which was
suspended over the heads of her people by a single hair. These
reflections had tamed and brought down to a pitch of sounder
judgment a temper, which, under other circumstances, might have
waxed haughty, supercilious, and obstinate.
From her father's example
and injunctions, Rebecca had learnt to bear herself courteously
towards all who approached her. She could not indeed imitate his
excess of subservience, because she was a stranger to the meanness
of mind, and to the constant state of timid apprehension, by which
it was dictated; but she bore herself with a proud humility, as if
submitting to the evil circumstances in which she was placed as the
daughter of a despised race, while she felt in her mind the
consciousness that she was entitled to hold a higher rank from her
merit, than the arbitrary despotism of religious prejudice permitted
her to aspire to.
Thus prepared to expect
adverse circumstances, she had acquired the firmness necessary for
acting under them. Her present situation required all her presence
of mind, and she summoned it up accordingly.
Her first care was to
inspect the apartment; but it afforded few hopes either of escape or
protection. It contained neither secret passage nor trap-door, and
unless where the door by which she had entered joined the main
building, seemed to be circumscribed by the round exterior wall of
the turret. The door had no inside bolt or bar. The single window
opened upon an embattled space surmounting the turret, which gave
Rebecca, at first sight, some hopes of escaping; but she soon found
it had no communication with any other part of the battlements,
being an isolated bartisan, or balcony, secured, as usual, by a
parapet, with embrasures, at which a few archers might be stationed
for defending the turret, and flanking with their shot the wall of
the castle on that side.
There was therefore no hope
but in passive fortitude, and in that strong reliance on Heaven
natural to great and generous characters. Rebecca, however
erroneously taught to interpret the promises of Scripture to the
chosen people of Heaven, did not err in supposing the present to be
their hour of trial, or in trusting that the children of Zion would
be one day called in with the fulness of the Gentiles. In the
meanwhile, all around her showed that their present state was that
of punishment and probation, and that it was their especial duty to
suffer without sinning. Thus prepared to consider herself as the
victim of misfortune, Rebecca had early reflected upon her own
state, and schooled her mind to meet the dangers which she had
probably to encounter.
The prisoner trembled,
however, and changed colour, when a step was heard on the stair, and
the door of the turret-chamber slowly opened, and a tall man,
dressed as one of those banditti to whom they owed their misfortune,
slowly entered, and shut the door behind him; his cap, pulled down
upon his brows, concealed the upper part of his face, and he held
his mantle in such a manner as to muffle the rest. In this guise, as
if prepared for the execution of some deed, at the thought of which
he was himself ashamed, he stood before the affrighted prisoner;
yet, ruffian as his dress bespoke him, he seemed at a loss to
express what purpose had brought him thither, so that Rebecca,
making an effort upon herself, had time to anticipate his
explanation. She had already unclasped two costly bracelets and a
collar, which she hastened to proffer to the supposed outlaw,
concluding naturally that to gratify his avarice was to bespeak his
favour.
"Take these," she said,
"good friend, and for God's sake be merciful to me and my aged
father! These ornaments are of value, yet are they trifling to what
he would bestow to obtain our dismissal from this castle, free and
uninjured."
"Fair flower of Palestine,"
replied the outlaw, "these pearls are orient, but they yield in
whiteness to your teeth; the diamonds are brilliant, but they cannot
match your eyes; and ever since I have taken up this wild trade, I
have made a vow to prefer beauty to wealth."
"Do not do yourself such
wrong," said Rebecca; "take ransom, and have mercy!—Gold will
purchase you pleasure,—to misuse us, could only bring thee remorse.
My father will willingly satiate thy utmost wishes; and if thou wilt
act wisely, thou mayst purchase with our spoils thy restoration to
civil society—mayst obtain pardon for past errors, and be placed
beyond the necessity of committing more."
"It is well spoken," replied
the outlaw in French, finding it difficult probably to sustain, in
Saxon, a conversation which Rebecca had opened in that language;
"but know, bright lily of the vale of Baca! that thy father is
already in the hands of a powerful alchemist, who knows how to
convert into gold and silver even the rusty bars of a dungeon grate.
The venerable Isaac is subjected to an alembic, which will distil
from him all he holds dear, without any assistance from my requests
or thy entreaty. The ransom must be paid by love and beauty, and in
no other coin will I accept it."
"Thou art no outlaw," said
Rebecca, in the same language in which he addressed her; "no outlaw
had refused such offers. No outlaw in this land uses the dialect in
which thou hast spoken. Thou art no outlaw, but a Norman—a Norman,
noble perhaps in birth—O, be so in thy actions, and cast off this
fearful mask of outrage and violence!"
"And thou, who canst guess
so truly," said Brian de Bois-Guilbert, dropping the mantle from his
face, "art no true daughter of Israel, but in all, save youth and
beauty, a very witch of Endor. I am not an outlaw, then, fair rose
of Sharon. And I am one who will be more prompt to hang thy neck and
arms with pearls and diamonds, which so well become them, than to
deprive thee of these ornaments."
"What wouldst thou have of
me," said Rebecca, "if not my wealth?—We can have nought in common
between us—you are a Christian—I am a Jewess.—Our union were
contrary to the laws, alike of the church and the synagogue."
"It were so, indeed,"
replied the Templar, laughing; "wed with a Jewess?
'Despardieux!'—Not if she were the Queen of Sheba! And know,
besides, sweet daughter of Zion, that were the most Christian king
to offer me his most Christian daughter, with Languedoc for a
dowery, I could not wed her. It is against my vow to love any
maiden, otherwise than 'par amours', as I will love thee. I am a
Templar. Behold the cross of my Holy Order."
"Darest thou appeal to it,"
said Rebecca, "on an occasion like the present?"
"And if I do so," said the
Templar, "it concerns not thee, who art no believer in the blessed
sign of our salvation."
"I believe as my fathers
taught," said Rebecca; "and may God forgive my belief if erroneous!
But you, Sir Knight, what is yours, when you appeal without scruple
to that which you deem most holy, even while you are about to
transgress the most solemn of your vows as a knight, and as a man of
religion?"
"It is gravely and well
preached, O daughter of Sirach!" answered the Templar; "but, gentle
Ecclesiastics, thy narrow Jewish prejudices make thee blind to our
high privilege. Marriage were an enduring crime on the part of a
Templar; but what lesser folly I may practise, I shall speedily be
absolved from at the next Preceptory of our Order. Not the wisest of
monarchs, not his father, whose examples you must needs allow are
weighty, claimed wider privileges than we poor soldiers of the
Temple of Zion have won by our zeal in its defence. The protectors
of Solomon's Temple may claim license by the example of Solomon."
"If thou readest the
Scripture," said the Jewess, "and the lives of the saints, only to
justify thine own license and profligacy, thy crime is like that of
him who extracts poison from the most healthful and necessary
herbs."
The eyes of the Templar
flashed fire at this reproof—"Hearken," he said, "Rebecca; I have
hitherto spoken mildly to thee, but now my language shall be that of
a conqueror. Thou art the captive of my bow and spear—subject to my
will by the laws of all nations; nor will I abate an inch of my
right, or abstain from taking by violence what thou refusest to
entreaty or necessity."
"Stand back," said
Rebecca—"stand back, and hear me ere thou offerest to commit a sin
so deadly! My strength thou mayst indeed overpower for God made
women weak, and trusted their defence to man's generosity. But I
will proclaim thy villainy, Templar, from one end of Europe to the
other. I will owe to the superstition of thy brethren what their
compassion might refuse me, Each Preceptory—each Chapter of thy
Order, shall learn, that, like a heretic, thou hast sinned with a
Jewess. Those who tremble not at thy crime, will hold thee accursed
for having so far dishonoured the cross thou wearest, as to follow a
daughter of my people."
"Thou art keen-witted,
Jewess," replied the Templar, well aware of the truth of what she
spoke, and that the rules of his Order condemned in the most
positive manner, and under high penalties, such intrigues as he now
prosecuted, and that, in some instances, even degradation had
followed upon it—"thou art sharp-witted," he said; "but loud must be
thy voice of complaint, if it is heard beyond the iron walls of this
castle; within these, murmurs, laments, appeals to justice, and
screams for help, die alike silent away. One thing only can save
thee, Rebecca. Submit to thy fate—embrace our religion, and thou
shalt go forth in such state, that many a Norman lady shall yield as
well in pomp as in beauty to the favourite of the best lance among
the defenders of the Temple."
"Submit to my fate!" said
Rebecca—"and, sacred Heaven! to what fate?—embrace thy religion! and
what religion can it be that harbours such a villain?—THOU the best
lance of the Templars!—Craven knight!—forsworn priest! I spit at
thee, and I defy thee.—The God of Abraham's promise hath opened an
escape to his daughter—even from this abyss of infamy!"
As she spoke, she threw open
the latticed window which led to the bartisan, and in an instant
after, stood on the very verge of the parapet, with not the
slightest screen between her and the tremendous depth below.
Unprepared for such a desperate effort, for she had hitherto stood
perfectly motionless, Bois-Guilbert had neither time to intercept
nor to stop her. As he offered to advance, she exclaimed, "Remain
where thou art, proud Templar, or at thy choice advance!—one foot
nearer, and I plunge myself from the precipice; my body shall be
crushed out of the very form of humanity upon the stones of that
court-yard, ere it become the victim of thy brutality!"
As she spoke this, she
clasped her hands and extended them towards heaven, as if imploring
mercy on her soul before she made the final plunge. The Templar
hesitated, and a resolution which had never yielded to pity or
distress, gave way to his admiration of her fortitude. "Come down,"
he said, "rash girl!—I swear by earth, and sea, and sky, I will
offer thee no offence."
"I will not trust thee,
Templar," said Rebecca; "thou hast taught me better how to estimate
the virtues of thine Order. The next Preceptory would grant thee
absolution for an oath, the keeping of which concerned nought but
the honour or the dishonour of a miserable Jewish maiden."
"You do me injustice,"
exclaimed the Templar fervently; "I swear to you by the name which I
bear—by the cross on my bosom—by the sword on my side—by the ancient
crest of my fathers do I swear, I will do thee no injury whatsoever!
If not for thyself, yet for thy father's sake forbear! I will be his
friend, and in this castle he will need a powerful one."
"Alas!" said Rebecca, "I
know it but too well—dare I trust thee?"
"May my arms be reversed,
and my name dishonoured," said Brian de Bois-Guilbert, "if thou
shalt have reason to complain of me! Many a law, many a commandment
have I broken, but my word never."
"I will then trust thee,"
said Rebecca, "thus far;" and she descended from the verge of the
battlement, but remained standing close by one of the embrasures, or
"machicolles", as they were then called.—"Here," she said, "I take
my stand. Remain where thou art, and if thou shalt attempt to
diminish by one step the distance now between us, thou shalt see
that the Jewish maiden will rather trust her soul with God, than her
honour to the Templar!"
While Rebecca spoke thus,
her high and firm resolve, which corresponded so well with the
expressive beauty of her countenance, gave to her looks, air, and
manner, a dignity that seemed more than mortal. Her glance quailed
not, her cheek blanched not, for the fear of a fate so instant and
so horrible; on the contrary, the thought that she had her fate at
her command, and could escape at will from infamy to death, gave a
yet deeper colour of carnation to her complexion, and a yet more
brilliant fire to her eye. Bois-Guilbert, proud himself and
high-spirited, thought he had never beheld beauty so animated and so
commanding.
"Let there be peace between
us, Rebecca," he said.
"Peace, if thou wilt,"
answered Rebecca—"Peace—but with this space between."
"Thou needst no longer fear
me," said Bois-Guilbert.
"I fear thee not," replied
she; "thanks to him that reared this dizzy tower so high, that
nought could fall from it and live—thanks to him, and to the God of
Israel!—I fear thee not."
"Thou dost me injustice,"
said the Templar; "by earth, sea, and sky, thou dost me injustice! I
am not naturally that which you have seen me, hard, selfish, and
relentless. It was woman that taught me cruelty, and on woman
therefore I have exercised it; but not upon such as thou. Hear me,
Rebecca—Never did knight take lance in his hand with a heart more
devoted to the lady of his love than Brian de Bois-Guilbert. She,
the daughter of a petty baron, who boasted for all his domains but a
ruinous tower, and an unproductive vineyard, and some few leagues of
the barren Landes of Bourdeaux, her name was known wherever deeds of
arms were done, known wider than that of many a lady's that had a
county for a dowery.—Yes," he continued, pacing up and down the
little platform, with an animation in which he seemed to lose all
consciousness of Rebecca's presence—"Yes, my deeds, my danger, my
blood, made the name of Adelaide de Montemare known from the court
of Castile to that of Byzantium. And how was I requited?—When I
returned with my dear-bought honours, purchased by toil and blood, I
found her wedded to a Gascon squire, whose name was never heard
beyond the limits of his own paltry domain! Truly did I love her,
and bitterly did I revenge me of her broken faith! But my vengeance
has recoiled on myself. Since that day I have separated myself from
life and its ties—My manhood must know no domestic home—must be
soothed by no affectionate wife—My age must know no kindly hearth—My
grave must be solitary, and no offspring must outlive me, to bear
the ancient name of Bois-Guilbert. At the feet of my Superior I have
laid down the right of self-action—the privilege of independence.
The Templar, a serf in all but the name, can possess neither lands
nor goods, and lives, moves, and breathes, but at the will and
pleasure of another."
"Alas!" said Rebecca, "what
advantages could compensate for such an absolute sacrifice?"
"The power of vengeance,
Rebecca," replied the Templar, "and the prospects of ambition."
"An evil recompense," said
Rebecca, "for the surrender of the rights which are dearest to
humanity."
"Say not so, maiden,"
answered the Templar; "revenge is a feast for the gods! And if they
have reserved it, as priests tell us, to themselves, it is because
they hold it an enjoyment too precious for the possession of mere
mortals.—And ambition? it is a temptation which could disturb even
the bliss of heaven itself."—He paused a moment, and then added,
"Rebecca! she who could prefer death to dishonour, must have a proud
and a powerful soul. Mine thou must be!—Nay, start not," he added,
"it must be with thine own consent, and on thine own terms. Thou
must consent to share with me hopes more extended than can be viewed
from the throne of a monarch!—Hear me ere you answer and judge ere
you refuse.—The Templar loses, as thou hast said, his social rights,
his power of free agency, but he becomes a member and a limb of a
mighty body, before which thrones already tremble,—even as the
single drop of rain which mixes with the sea becomes an individual
part of that resistless ocean, which undermines rocks and ingulfs
royal armadas. Such a swelling flood is that powerful league. Of
this mighty Order I am no mean member, but already one of the Chief
Commanders, and may well aspire one day to hold the batoon of Grand
Master. The poor soldiers of the Temple will not alone place their
foot upon the necks of kings—a hemp-sandall'd monk can do that. Our
mailed step shall ascend their throne—our gauntlet shall wrench the
sceptre from their gripe. Not the reign of your vainly-expected
Messiah offers such power to your dispersed tribes as my ambition
may aim at. I have sought but a kindred spirit to share it, and I
have found such in thee."
"Sayest thou this to one of
my people?" answered Rebecca. "Bethink thee—"
"Answer me not," said the
Templar, "by urging the difference of our creeds; within our secret
conclaves we hold these nursery tales in derision. Think not we long
remained blind to the idiotical folly of our founders, who forswore
every delight of life for the pleasure of dying martyrs by hunger,
by thirst, and by pestilence, and by the swords of savages, while
they vainly strove to defend a barren desert, valuable only in the
eyes of superstition. Our Order soon adopted bolder and wider views,
and found out a better indemnification for our sacrifices. Our
immense possessions in every kingdom of Europe, our high military
fame, which brings within our circle the flower of chivalry from
every Christian clime—these are dedicated to ends of which our pious
founders little dreamed, and which are equally concealed from such
weak spirits as embrace our Order on the ancient principles, and
whose superstition makes them our passive tools. But I will not
further withdraw the veil of our mysteries. That bugle-sound
announces something which may require my presence. Think on what I
have said.—Farewell!—I do not say forgive me the violence I have
threatened, for it was necessary to the display of thy character.
Gold can be only known by the application of the touchstone. I will
soon return, and hold further conference with thee."
He re-entered the
turret-chamber, and descended the stair, leaving Rebecca scarcely
more terrified at the prospect of the death to which she had been so
lately exposed, than at the furious ambition of the bold bad man in
whose power she found herself so unhappily placed. When she entered
the turret-chamber, her first duty was to return thanks to the God
of Jacob for the protection which he had afforded her, and to
implore its continuance for her and for her father. Another name
glided into her petition—it was that of the wounded Christian, whom
fate had placed in the hands of bloodthirsty men, his avowed
enemies. Her heart indeed checked her, as if, even in communing with
the Deity in prayer, she mingled in her devotions the recollection
of one with whose fate hers could have no alliance—a Nazarene, and
an enemy to her faith. But the petition was already breathed, nor
could all the narrow prejudices of her sect induce Rebecca to wish
it recalled.
CHAPTER XXV
A damn'd cramp piece of penmanship as ever I saw in my life!
—She Stoops to Conquer
When the Templar reached the
hall of the castle, he found De Bracy already there. "Your
love-suit," said De Bracy, "hath, I suppose, been disturbed, like
mine, by this obstreperous summons. But you have come later and more
reluctantly, and therefore I presume your interview has proved more
agreeable than mine."
"Has your suit, then, been
unsuccessfully paid to the Saxon heiress?" said the Templar.
"By the bones of Thomas a
Becket," answered De Bracy, "the Lady Rowena must have heard that I
cannot endure the sight of women's tears."
"Away!" said the Templar;
"thou a leader of a Free Company, and regard a woman's tears! A few
drops sprinkled on the torch of love, make the flame blaze the
brighter."
"Gramercy for the few
drops of thy sprinkling," replied De Bracy; "but this damsel hath
wept enough to extinguish a beacon-light. Never was such wringing of
hands and such overflowing of eyes, since the days of St Niobe, of
whom Prior Aymer told us.
30
A water-fiend hath possessed the fair Saxon."
"A legion of fiends have
occupied the bosom of the Jewess," replied the Templar; "for, I
think no single one, not even Apollyon himself, could have inspired
such indomitable pride and resolution.—But where is Front-de-Boeuf?
That horn is sounded more and more clamorously."
"He is negotiating with the
Jew, I suppose," replied De Bracy, coolly; "probably the howls of
Isaac have drowned the blast of the bugle. Thou mayst know, by
experience, Sir Brian, that a Jew parting with his treasures on such
terms as our friend Front-de-Boeuf is like to offer, will raise a
clamour loud enough to be heard over twenty horns and trumpets to
boot. But we will make the vassals call him."
They were soon after joined
by Front-de-Boeuf, who had been disturbed in his tyrannic cruelty in
the manner with which the reader is acquainted, and had only tarried
to give some necessary directions.
"Let us see the cause of
this cursed clamour," said Front-de-Boeuf—"here is a letter, and, if
I mistake not, it is in Saxon."
He looked at it, turning it
round and round as if he had had really some hopes of coming at the
meaning by inverting the position of the paper, and then handed it
to De Bracy.
"It may be magic spells for
aught I know," said De Bracy, who possessed his full proportion of
the ignorance which characterised the chivalry of the period. "Our
chaplain attempted to teach me to write," he said, "but all my
letters were formed like spear-heads and sword-blades, and so the
old shaveling gave up the task."
"Give it me," said the
Templar. "We have that of the priestly character, that we have some
knowledge to enlighten our valour."
"Let us profit by your most
reverend knowledge, then," said De Bracy; "what says the scroll?"
"It is a formal letter of
defiance," answered the Templar; "but, by our Lady of Bethlehem, if
it be not a foolish jest, it is the most extraordinary cartel that
ever was sent across the drawbridge of a baronial castle."
"Jest!" said Front-de-Boeuf,
"I would gladly know who dares jest with me in such a matter!—Read
it, Sir Brian."
The Templar accordingly read
it as follows:—"I, Wamba, the son of Witless, Jester to a noble and
free-born man, Cedric of Rotherwood, called the Saxon,—And I, Gurth,
the son of Beowulph, the swineherd—-"
"Thou art mad," said
Front-de-Boeuf, interrupting the reader.
"By St Luke, it is so set
down," answered the Templar. Then resuming his task, he went on,—"I,
Gurth, the son of Beowulph, swineherd unto the said Cedric, with the
assistance of our allies and confederates, who make common cause
with us in this our feud, namely, the good knight, called for the
present 'Le Noir Faineant', and the stout yeoman, Robert Locksley,
called Cleave-the-Wand. Do you, Reginald Front de-Boeuf, and your
allies and accomplices whomsoever, to wit, that whereas you have,
without cause given or feud declared, wrongfully and by mastery
seized upon the person of our lord and master the said Cedric; also
upon the person of a noble and freeborn damsel, the Lady Rowena of
Hargottstandstede; also upon the person of a noble and freeborn man,
Athelstane of Coningsburgh; also upon the persons of certain
freeborn men, their 'cnichts'; also upon certain serfs, their born
bondsmen; also upon a certain Jew, named Isaac of York, together
with his daughter, a Jewess, and certain horses and mules: Which
noble persons, with their 'cnichts' and slaves, and also with the
horses and mules, Jew and Jewess beforesaid, were all in peace with
his majesty, and travelling as liege subjects upon the king's
highway; therefore we require and demand that the said noble
persons, namely, Cedric of Rotherwood, Rowena of Hargottstandstede,
Athelstane of Coningsburgh, with their servants, 'cnichts', and
followers, also the horses and mules, Jew and Jewess aforesaid,
together with all goods and chattels to them pertaining, be, within
an hour after the delivery hereof, delivered to us, or to those whom
we shall appoint to receive the same, and that untouched and
unharmed in body and goods. Failing of which, we do pronounce to
you, that we hold ye as robbers and traitors, and will wager our
bodies against ye in battle, siege, or otherwise, and do our utmost
to your annoyance and destruction. Wherefore may God have you in his
keeping.—Signed by us upon the eve of St Withold's day, under the
great trysting oak in the Hart-hill Walk, the above being written by
a holy man, Clerk to God, our Lady, and St Dunstan, in the Chapel of
Copmanhurst."
At the bottom of this
document was scrawled, in the first place, a rude sketch of a cock's
head and comb, with a legend expressing this hieroglyphic to be the
sign-manual of Wamba, son of Witless. Under this respectable emblem
stood a cross, stated to be the mark of Gurth, the son of Beowulph.
Then was written, in rough bold characters, the words, "Le Noir
Faineant". And, to conclude the whole, an arrow, neatly enough
drawn, was described as the mark of the yeoman Locksley.
The knights heard this
uncommon document read from end to end, and then gazed upon each
other in silent amazement, as being utterly at a loss to know what
it could portend. De Bracy was the first to break silence by an
uncontrollable fit of laughter, wherein he was joined, though with
more moderation, by the Templar. Front-de-Boeuf, on the contrary,
seemed impatient of their ill-timed jocularity.
"I give you plain warning,"
he said, "fair sirs, that you had better consult how to bear
yourselves under these circumstances, than give way to such
misplaced merriment."
"Front-de-Boeuf has not
recovered his temper since his late overthrow," said De Bracy to the
Templar; "he is cowed at the very idea of a cartel, though it come
but from a fool and a swineherd."
"By St Michael," answered
Front-de-Boeuf, "I would thou couldst stand the whole brunt of this
adventure thyself, De Bracy. These fellows dared not have acted with
such inconceivable impudence, had they not been supported by some
strong bands. There are enough of outlaws in this forest to resent
my protecting the deer. I did but tie one fellow, who was taken
redhanded and in the fact, to the horns of a wild stag, which gored
him to death in five minutes, and I had as many arrows shot at me as
there were launched against yonder target at Ashby.—Here, fellow,"
he added, to one of his attendants, "hast thou sent out to see by
what force this precious challenge is to be supported?"
"There are at least two
hundred men assembled in the woods," answered a squire who was in
attendance.
"Here is a proper matter!"
said Front-de-Boeuf, "this comes of lending you the use of my
castle, that cannot manage your undertaking quietly, but you must
bring this nest of hornets about my ears!"
"Of hornets?" said De Bracy;
"of stingless drones rather; a band of lazy knaves, who take to the
wood, and destroy the venison rather than labour for their
maintenance."
"Stingless!" replied
Front-de-Boeuf; "fork-headed shafts of a cloth-yard in length, and
these shot within the breadth of a French crown, are sting enough."
"For shame, Sir Knight!"
said the Templar. "Let us summon our people, and sally forth upon
them. One knight—ay, one man-at-arms, were enough for twenty such
peasants."
"Enough, and too much," said
De Bracy; "I should only be ashamed to couch lance against them."
"True," answered
Front-de-Boeuf; "were they black Turks or Moors, Sir Templar, or the
craven peasants of France, most valiant De Bracy; but these are
English yeomen, over whom we shall have no advantage, save what we
may derive from our arms and horses, which will avail us little in
the glades of the forest. Sally, saidst thou? we have scarce men
enough to defend the castle. The best of mine are at York; so is all
your band, De Bracy; and we have scarcely twenty, besides the
handful that were engaged in this mad business."
"Thou dost not fear," said
the Templar, "that they can assemble in force sufficient to attempt
the castle?"
"Not so, Sir Brian,"
answered Front-de-Boeuf. "These outlaws have indeed a daring
captain; but without machines, scaling ladders, and experienced
leaders, my castle may defy them."
"Send to thy neighbours,"
said the Templar, "let them assemble their people, and come to the
rescue of three knights, besieged by a jester and a swineherd in the
baronial castle of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf!"
"You jest, Sir Knight,"
answered the baron; "but to whom should I send?—Malvoisin is by this
time at York with his retainers, and so are my other allies; and so
should I have been, but for this infernal enterprise."
"Then send to York, and
recall our people," said De Bracy. "If they abide the shaking of my
standard, or the sight of my Free Companions, I will give them
credit for the boldest outlaws ever bent bow in green-wood."
"And who shall bear such a
message?" said Front-de-Boeuf; "they will beset every path, and rip
the errand out of his bosom.—I have it," he added, after pausing for
a moment—"Sir Templar, thou canst write as well as read, and if we
can but find the writing materials of my chaplain, who died a
twelvemonth since in the midst of his Christmas carousals—"
"So please ye," said the
squire, who was still in attendance, "I think old Urfried has them
somewhere in keeping, for love of the confessor. He was the last
man, I have heard her tell, who ever said aught to her, which man
ought in courtesy to address to maid or matron."
"Go, search them out,
Engelred," said Front-de-Boeuf; "and then, Sir Templar, thou shalt
return an answer to this bold challenge."
"I would rather do it at the
sword's point than at that of the pen," said Bois-Guilbert; "but be
it as you will."
He sat down accordingly, and
indited, in the French language, an epistle of the following
tenor:—"Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, with his noble and knightly
allies and confederates, receive no defiances at the hands of
slaves, bondsmen, or fugitives. If the person calling himself the
Black Knight have indeed a claim to the honours of chivalry, he
ought to know that he stands degraded by his present association,
and has no right to ask reckoning at the hands of good men of noble
blood. Touching the prisoners we have made, we do in Christian
charity require you to send a man of religion, to receive their
confession, and reconcile them with God; since it is our fixed
intention to execute them this morning before noon, so that their
heads being placed on the battlements, shall show to all men how
lightly we esteem those who have bestirred themselves in their
rescue. Wherefore, as above, we require you to send a priest to
reconcile them to God, in doing which you shall render them the last
earthly service."
This letter being folded,
was delivered to the squire, and by him to the messenger who waited
without, as the answer to that which he had brought.
The yeoman having thus
accomplished his mission, returned to the head-quarters of the
allies, which were for the present established under a venerable
oak-tree, about three arrow-flights distant from the castle. Here
Wamba and Gurth, with their allies the Black Knight and Locksley,
and the jovial hermit, awaited with impatience an answer to their
summons. Around, and at a distance from them, were seen many a bold
yeoman, whose silvan dress and weatherbeaten countenances showed the
ordinary nature of their occupation. More than two hundred had
already assembled, and others were fast coming in. Those whom they
obeyed as leaders were only distinguished from the others by a
feather in the cap, their dress, arms, and equipments being in all
other respects the same.
Besides these bands, a less
orderly and a worse armed force, consisting of the Saxon inhabitants
of the neighbouring township, as well as many bondsmen and servants
from Cedric's extensive estate, had already arrived, for the purpose
of assisting in his rescue. Few of these were armed otherwise than
with such rustic weapons as necessity sometimes converts to military
purposes. Boar-spears, scythes, flails, and the like, were their
chief arms; for the Normans, with the usual policy of conquerors,
were jealous of permitting to the vanquished Saxons the possession
or the use of swords and spears. These circumstances rendered the
assistance of the Saxons far from being so formidable to the
besieged, as the strength of the men themselves, their superior
numbers, and the animation inspired by a just cause, might otherwise
well have made them. It was to the leaders of this motley army that
the letter of the Templar was now delivered.
Reference was at first made
to the chaplain for an exposition of its contents.
"By the crook of St
Dunstan," said that worthy ecclesiastic, "which hath brought more
sheep within the sheepfold than the crook of e'er another saint in
Paradise, I swear that I cannot expound unto you this jargon, which,
whether it be French or Arabic, is beyond my guess."
He then gave the letter to
Gurth, who shook his head gruffly, and passed it to Wamba. The
Jester looked at each of the four corners of the paper with such a
grin of affected intelligence as a monkey is apt to assume upon
similar occasions, then cut a caper, and gave the letter to
Locksley.
"If the long letters were
bows, and the short letters broad arrows, I might know something of
the matter," said the brave yeoman; "but as the matter stands, the
meaning is as safe, for me, as the stag that's at twelve miles
distance."
"I must be clerk, then,"
said the Black Knight; and taking the letter from Locksley, he first
read it over to himself, and then explained the meaning in Saxon to
his confederates.
"Execute the noble Cedric!"
exclaimed Wamba; "by the rood, thou must be mistaken, Sir Knight."
"Not I, my worthy friend,"
replied the knight, "I have explained the words as they are here set
down."
"Then, by St Thomas of
Canterbury," replied Gurth, "we will have the castle, should we tear
it down with our hands!"
"We have nothing else to
tear it with," replied Wamba; "but mine are scarce fit to make
mammocks of freestone and mortar."
"'Tis but a contrivance to
gain time," said Locksley; "they dare not do a deed for which I
could exact a fearful penalty."
"I would," said the Black
Knight, "there were some one among us who could obtain admission
into the castle, and discover how the case stands with the besieged.
Methinks, as they require a confessor to be sent, this holy hermit
might at once exercise his pious vocation, and procure us the
information we desire."
"A plague on thee, and thy
advice!" said the pious hermit; "I tell thee, Sir Slothful Knight,
that when I doff my friar's frock, my priesthood, my sanctity, my
very Latin, are put off along with it; and when in my green jerkin,
I can better kill twenty deer than confess one Christian."
"I fear," said the Black
Knight, "I fear greatly, there is no one here that is qualified to
take upon him, for the nonce, this same character of father
confessor?"
All looked on each other,
and were silent.
"I see," said Wamba, after a
short pause, "that the fool must be still the fool, and put his neck
in the venture which wise men shrink from. You must know, my dear
cousins and countrymen, that I wore russet before I wore motley, and
was bred to be a friar, until a brain-fever came upon me and left me
just wit enough to be a fool. I trust, with the assistance of the
good hermit's frock, together with the priesthood, sanctity, and
learning which are stitched into the cowl of it, I shall be found
qualified to administer both worldly and ghostly comfort to our
worthy master Cedric, and his companions in adversity."
"Hath he sense enough,
thinkst thou?" said the Black Knight, addressing Gurth.
"I know not," said Gurth;
"but if he hath not, it will be the first time he hath wanted wit to
turn his folly to account."
"On with the frock, then,
good fellow," quoth the Knight, "and let thy master send us an
account of their situation within the castle. Their numbers must be
few, and it is five to one they may be accessible by a sudden and
bold attack. Time wears—away with thee."
"And, in the meantime," said
Locksley, "we will beset the place so closely, that not so much as a
fly shall carry news from thence. So that, my good friend," he
continued, addressing Wamba, "thou mayst assure these tyrants, that
whatever violence they exercise on the persons of their prisoners,
shall be most severely repaid upon their own."
"Pax vobiscum," said Wamba,
who was now muffled in his religious disguise.
And so saying he imitated
the solemn and stately deportment of a friar, and departed to
execute his mission.
CHAPTER XXVI
The hottest horse will oft be cool,
The dullest will show fire;
The friar will often play the fool,
The fool will play the friar.
—Old Song
When the Jester, arrayed in
the cowl and frock of the hermit, and having his knotted cord
twisted round his middle, stood before the portal of the castle of
Front-de-Boeuf, the warder demanded of him his name and errand.
"Pax vobiscum," answered the
Jester, "I am a poor brother of the Order of St Francis, who come
hither to do my office to certain unhappy prisoners now secured
within this castle."
"Thou art a bold friar,"
said the warder, "to come hither, where, saving our own drunken
confessor, a cock of thy feather hath not crowed these twenty
years."
"Yet I pray thee, do mine
errand to the lord of the castle," answered the pretended friar;
"trust me it will find good acceptance with him, and the cock shall
crow, that the whole castle shall hear him."
"Gramercy," said the warder;
"but if I come to shame for leaving my post upon thine errand, I
will try whether a friar's grey gown be proof against a grey-goose
shaft."
With this threat he left his
turret, and carried to the hall of the castle his unwonted
intelligence, that a holy friar stood before the gate and demanded
instant admission. With no small wonder he received his master's
commands to admit the holy man immediately; and, having previously
manned the entrance to guard against surprise, he obeyed, without
further scruple, the commands which he had received. The harebrained
self-conceit which had emboldened Wamba to undertake this dangerous
office, was scarce sufficient to support him when he found himself
in the presence of a man so dreadful, and so much dreaded, as
Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, and he brought out his "pax vobiscum", to
which he, in a good measure, trusted for supporting his character,
with more anxiety and hesitation than had hitherto accompanied it.
But Front-de-Boeuf was accustomed to see men of all ranks tremble in
his presence, so that the timidity of the supposed father did not
give him any cause of suspicion.
"Who and whence art thou,
priest?" said he.
"'Pax vobiscum'," reiterated
the Jester, "I am a poor servant of St Francis, who, travelling
through this wilderness, have fallen among thieves, (as Scripture
hath it,) 'quidam viator incidit in latrones', which thieves have
sent me unto this castle in order to do my ghostly office on two
persons condemned by your honourable justice."
"Ay, right," answered
Front-de-Boeuf; "and canst thou tell me, holy father, the number of
those banditti?"
"Gallant sir," answered the
Jester, "'nomen illis legio', their name is legion."
"Tell me in plain terms what
numbers there are, or, priest, thy cloak and cord will ill protect
thee."
"Alas!" said the supposed
friar, "'cor meum eructavit', that is to say, I was like to burst
with fear! but I conceive they may be—what of yeomen—what of
commons, at least five hundred men."
"What!" said the Templar,
who came into the hall that moment, "muster the wasps so thick here?
it is time to stifle such a mischievous brood." Then taking
Front-de-Boeuf aside "Knowest thou the priest?"
"He is a stranger from a
distant convent," said Front-de-Boeuf; "I know him not."
"Then trust him not with thy
purpose in words," answered the Templar. "Let him carry a written
order to De Bracy's company of Free Companions, to repair instantly
to their master's aid. In the meantime, and that the shaveling may
suspect nothing, permit him to go freely about his task of preparing
these Saxon hogs for the slaughter-house."
"It shall be so," said
Front-de-Boeuf. And he forthwith appointed a domestic to conduct
Wamba to the apartment where Cedric and Athelstane were confined.
The impatience of Cedric had
been rather enhanced than diminished by his confinement. He walked
from one end of the hall to the other, with the attitude of one who
advances to charge an enemy, or to storm the breach of a beleaguered
place, sometimes ejaculating to himself, sometimes addressing
Athelstane, who stoutly and stoically awaited the issue of the
adventure, digesting, in the meantime, with great composure, the
liberal meal which he had made at noon, and not greatly interesting
himself about the duration of his captivity, which he concluded,
would, like all earthly evils, find an end in Heaven's good time.
"'Pax vobiscum'," said the
Jester, entering the apartment; "the blessing of St Dunstan, St
Dennis, St Duthoc, and all other saints whatsoever, be upon ye and
about ye."
"Enter freely," answered
Cedric to the supposed friar; "with what intent art thou come
hither?"
"To bid you prepare
yourselves for death," answered the Jester.
"It is impossible!" replied
Cedric, starting. "Fearless and wicked as they are, they dare not
attempt such open and gratuitous cruelty!"
"Alas!" said the Jester, "to
restrain them by their sense of humanity, is the same as to stop a
runaway horse with a bridle of silk thread. Bethink thee, therefore,
noble Cedric, and you also, gallant Athelstane, what crimes you have
committed in the flesh; for this very day will ye be called to
answer at a higher tribunal."
"Hearest thou this,
Athelstane?" said Cedric; "we must rouse up our hearts to this last
action, since better it is we should die like men, than live like
slaves."
"I am ready," answered
Athelstane, "to stand the worst of their malice, and shall walk to
my death with as much composure as ever I did to my dinner."
"Let us then unto our holy
gear, father," said Cedric.
"Wait yet a moment, good
uncle," said the Jester, in his natural tone; "better look long
before you leap in the dark."
"By my faith," said Cedric,
"I should know that voice!"
"It is that of your trusty
slave and jester," answered Wamba, throwing back his cowl. "Had you
taken a fool's advice formerly, you would not have been here at all.
Take a fool's advice now, and you will not be here long."
"How mean'st thou, knave?"
answered the Saxon.
"Even thus," replied Wamba;
"take thou this frock and cord, which are all the orders I ever had,
and march quietly out of the castle, leaving me your cloak and
girdle to take the long leap in thy stead."
"Leave thee in my stead!"
said Cedric, astonished at the proposal; "why, they would hang thee,
my poor knave."
"E'en let them do as they
are permitted," said Wamba; "I trust—no disparagement to your
birth—that the son of Witless may hang in a chain with as much
gravity as the chain hung upon his ancestor the alderman."
"Well, Wamba," answered
Cedric, "for one thing will I grant thy request. And that is, if
thou wilt make the exchange of garments with Lord Athelstane instead
of me."
"No, by St Dunstan,"
answered Wamba; "there were little reason in that. Good right there
is, that the son of Witless should suffer to save the son of
Hereward; but little wisdom there were in his dying for the benefit
of one whose fathers were strangers to his."
"Villain," said Cedric, "the
fathers of Athelstane were monarchs of England!"
"They might be whomsoever
they pleased," replied Wamba; "but my neck stands too straight upon
my shoulders to have it twisted for their sake. Wherefore, good my
master, either take my proffer yourself, or suffer me to leave this
dungeon as free as I entered."
"Let the old tree wither,"
continued Cedric, "so the stately hope of the forest be preserved.
Save the noble Athelstane, my trusty Wamba! it is the duty of each
who has Saxon blood in his veins. Thou and I will abide together the
utmost rage of our injurious oppressors, while he, free and safe,
shall arouse the awakened spirits of our countrymen to avenge us."
"Not so, father Cedric,"
said Athelstane, grasping his hand,—for, when roused to think or
act, his deeds and sentiments were not unbecoming his high race—"Not
so," he continued; "I would rather remain in this hall a week
without food save the prisoner's stinted loaf, or drink save the
prisoner's measure of water, than embrace the opportunity to escape
which the slave's untaught kindness has purveyed for his master."
"You are called wise men,
sirs," said the Jester, "and I a crazed fool; but, uncle Cedric, and
cousin Athelstane, the fool shall decide this controversy for ye,
and save ye the trouble of straining courtesies any farther. I am
like John-a-Duck's mare, that will let no man mount her but
John-a-Duck. I came to save my master, and if he will not
consent—basta—I can but go away home again. Kind service cannot be
chucked from hand to hand like a shuttlecock or stool-ball. I'll
hang for no man but my own born master."
"Go, then, noble Cedric,"
said Athelstane, "neglect not this opportunity. Your presence
without may encourage friends to our rescue—your remaining here
would ruin us all."
"And is there any prospect,
then, of rescue from without?" said Cedric, looking to the Jester.
"Prospect, indeed!" echoed
Wamba; "let me tell you, when you fill my cloak, you are wrapped in
a general's cassock. Five hundred men are there without, and I was
this morning one of the chief leaders. My fool's cap was a casque,
and my bauble a truncheon. Well, we shall see what good they will
make by exchanging a fool for a wise man. Truly, I fear they will
lose in valour what they may gain in discretion. And so farewell,
master, and be kind to poor Gurth and his dog Fangs; and let my
cockscomb hang in the hall at Rotherwood, in memory that I flung
away my life for my master, like a faithful—-fool."
The last word came out with
a sort of double expression, betwixt jest and earnest. The tears
stood in Cedric's eyes.
"Thy memory shall be
preserved," he said, "while fidelity and affection have honour upon
earth! But that I trust I shall find the means of saving Rowena, and
thee, Athelstane, and thee, also, my poor Wamba, thou shouldst not
overbear me in this matter."
The exchange of dress was
now accomplished, when a sudden doubt struck Cedric.
"I know no language," he
said, "but my own, and a few words of their mincing Norman. How
shall I bear myself like a reverend brother?"
"The spell lies in two
words," replied Wamba—"'Pax vobiscum' will answer all queries. If
you go or come, eat or drink, bless or ban, 'Pax vobiscum' carries
you through it all. It is as useful to a friar as a broomstick to a
witch, or a wand to a conjurer. Speak it but thus, in a deep grave
tone,—'Pax vobiscum!'—it is irresistible—Watch and ward, knight and
squire, foot and horse, it acts as a charm upon them all. I think,
if they bring me out to be hanged to-morrow, as is much to be
doubted they may, I will try its weight upon the finisher of the
sentence."
"If such prove the case,"
said the master, "my religious orders are soon taken—'Pax vobiscum'.
I trust I shall remember the pass-word.—Noble Athelstane, farewell;
and farewell, my poor boy, whose heart might make amends for a
weaker head—I will save you, or return and die with you. The royal
blood of our Saxon kings shall not be spilt while mine beats in my
veins; nor shall one hair fall from the head of the kind knave who
risked himself for his master, if Cedric's peril can prevent
it.—Farewell."
"Farewell, noble Cedric,"
said Athelstane; "remember it is the true part of a friar to accept
refreshment, if you are offered any."
"Farewell, uncle," added
Wamba; "and remember 'Pax vobiscum'."
Thus exhorted, Cedric
sallied forth upon his expedition; and it was not long ere he had
occasion to try the force of that spell which his Jester had
recommended as omnipotent. In a low-arched and dusky passage, by
which he endeavoured to work his way to the hall of the castle, he
was interrupted by a female form.
"'Pax vobiscum!'" said the
pseudo friar, and was endeavouring to hurry past, when a soft voice
replied, "'Et vobis—quaso, domine reverendissime, pro misericordia
vestra'."
"I am somewhat deaf,"
replied Cedric, in good Saxon, and at the same time muttered to
himself, "A curse on the fool and his 'Pax vobiscum!' I have lost my
javelin at the first cast."
It was, however, no unusual
thing for a priest of those days to be deaf of his Latin ear, and
this the person who now addressed Cedric knew full well.
"I pray you of dear love,
reverend father," she replied in his own language, "that you will
deign to visit with your ghostly comfort a wounded prisoner of this
castle, and have such compassion upon him and us as thy holy office
teaches—Never shall good deed so highly advantage thy convent."
"Daughter," answered Cedric,
much embarrassed, "my time in this castle will not permit me to
exercise the duties of mine office—I must presently forth—there is
life and death upon my speed."
"Yet, father, let me entreat
you by the vow you have taken on you," replied the suppliant, "not
to leave the oppressed and endangered without counsel or succour."
"May the fiend fly away with
me, and leave me in Ifrin with the souls of Odin and of Thor!"
answered Cedric impatiently, and would probably have proceeded in
the same tone of total departure from his spiritual character, when
the colloquy was interrupted by the harsh voice of Urfried, the old
crone of the turret.
"How, minion," said she to
the female speaker, "is this the manner in which you requite the
kindness which permitted thee to leave thy prison-cell
yonder?—Puttest thou the reverend man to use ungracious language to
free himself from the importunities of a Jewess?"
"A Jewess!" said Cedric,
availing himself of the information to get clear of their
interruption,—"Let me pass, woman! stop me not at your peril. I am
fresh from my holy office, and would avoid pollution."
"Come this way, father,"
said the old hag, "thou art a stranger in this castle, and canst not
leave it without a guide. Come hither, for I would speak with
thee.—And you, daughter of an accursed race, go to the sick man's
chamber, and tend him until my return; and woe betide you if you
again quit it without my permission!"
Rebecca retreated. Her
importunities had prevailed upon Urfried to suffer her to quit the
turret, and Urfried had employed her services where she herself
would most gladly have paid them, by the bedside of the wounded
Ivanhoe. With an understanding awake to their dangerous situation,
and prompt to avail herself of each means of safety which occurred,
Rebecca had hoped something from the presence of a man of religion,
who, she learned from Urfried, had penetrated into this godless
castle. She watched the return of the supposed ecclesiastic, with
the purpose of addressing him, and interesting him in favour of the
prisoners; with what imperfect success the reader has been just
acquainted.
CHAPTER XXVII
Fond wretch! and what canst thou relate,
But deeds of sorrow, shame, and sin?
Thy deeds are proved—thou know'st thy fate;
But come, thy tale—begin—begin.
But I have griefs of other kind,
Troubles and sorrows more severe;
Give me to ease my tortured mind,
Lend to my woes a patient ear;
And let me, if I may not find
A friend to help—find one to hear.
—Crabbe's Hall of Justice
When Urfried had with
clamours and menaces driven Rebecca back to the apartment from which
she had sallied, she proceeded to conduct the unwilling Cedric into
a small apartment, the door of which she heedfully secured. Then
fetching from a cupboard a stoup of wine and two flagons, she placed
them on the table, and said in a tone rather asserting a fact than
asking a question, "Thou art Saxon, father—Deny it not," she
continued, observing that Cedric hastened not to reply; "the sounds
of my native language are sweet to mine ears, though seldom heard
save from the tongues of the wretched and degraded serfs on whom the
proud Normans impose the meanest drudgery of this dwelling. Thou art
a Saxon, father—a Saxon, and, save as thou art a servant of God, a
freeman.—Thine accents are sweet in mine ear."
"Do not Saxon priests visit
this castle, then?" replied Cedric; "it were, methinks, their duty
to comfort the outcast and oppressed children of the soil."
"They come not—or if they
come, they better love to revel at the boards of their conquerors,"
answered Urfried, "than to hear the groans of their countrymen—so,
at least, report speaks of them—of myself I can say little. This
castle, for ten years, has opened to no priest save the debauched
Norman chaplain who partook the nightly revels of Front-de-Boeuf,
and he has been long gone to render an account of his
stewardship.—But thou art a Saxon—a Saxon priest, and I have one
question to ask of thee."
"I am a Saxon," answered
Cedric, "but unworthy, surely, of the name of priest. Let me begone
on my way—I swear I will return, or send one of our fathers more
worthy to hear your confession."
"Stay yet a while," said
Urfried; "the accents of the voice which thou hearest now will soon
be choked with the cold earth, and I would not descend to it like
the beast I have lived. But wine must give me strength to tell the
horrors of my tale." She poured out a cup, and drank it with a
frightful avidity, which seemed desirous of draining the last drop
in the goblet. "It stupifies," she said, looking upwards as she
finished her drought, "but it cannot cheer—Partake it, father, if
you would hear my tale without sinking down upon the pavement."
Cedric would have avoided pledging her in this ominous conviviality,
but the sign which she made to him expressed impatience and despair.
He complied with her request, and answered her challenge in a large
wine-cup; she then proceeded with her story, as if appeased by his
complaisance.
"I was not born," she said,
"father, the wretch that thou now seest me. I was free, was happy,
was honoured, loved, and was beloved. I am now a slave, miserable
and degraded—the sport of my masters' passions while I had yet
beauty—the object of their contempt, scorn, and hatred, since it has
passed away. Dost thou wonder, father, that I should hate mankind,
and, above all, the race that has wrought this change in me? Can the
wrinkled decrepit hag before thee, whose wrath must vent itself in
impotent curses, forget she was once the daughter of the noble Thane
of Torquilstone, before whose frown a thousand vassals trembled?"
"Thou the daughter of
Torquil Wolfganger!" said Cedric, receding as he spoke;
"thou—thou—the daughter of that noble Saxon, my father's friend and
companion in arms!"
"Thy father's friend!"
echoed Urfried; "then Cedric called the Saxon stands before me, for
the noble Hereward of Rotherwood had but one son, whose name is well
known among his countrymen. But if thou art Cedric of Rotherwood,
why this religious dress?—hast thou too despaired of saving thy
country, and sought refuge from oppression in the shade of the
convent?"
"It matters not who I am,"
said Cedric; "proceed, unhappy woman, with thy tale of horror and
guilt!—Guilt there must be—there is guilt even in thy living to tell
it."
"There is—there is,"
answered the wretched woman, "deep, black, damning guilt,—guilt,
that lies like a load at my breast—guilt, that all the penitential
fires of hereafter cannot cleanse.—Yes, in these halls, stained with
the noble and pure blood of my father and my brethren—in these very
halls, to have lived the paramour of their murderer, the slave at
once and the partaker of his pleasures, was to render every breath
which I drew of vital air, a crime and a curse."
"Wretched woman!" exclaimed
Cedric. "And while the friends of thy father—while each true Saxon
heart, as it breathed a requiem for his soul, and those of his
valiant sons, forgot not in their prayers the murdered Ulrica—while
all mourned and honoured the dead, thou hast lived to merit our hate
and execration—lived to unite thyself with the vile tyrant who
murdered thy nearest and dearest—who shed the blood of infancy,
rather than a male of the noble house of Torquil Wolfganger should
survive—with him hast thou lived to unite thyself, and in the hands
of lawless love!"
"In lawless hands, indeed,
but not in those of love!" answered the hag; "love will sooner visit
the regions of eternal doom, than those unhallowed vaults.—No, with
that at least I cannot reproach myself—hatred to Front-de-Boeuf and
his race governed my soul most deeply, even in the hour of his
guilty endearments."
"You hated him, and yet you
lived," replied Cedric; "wretch! was there no poniard—no knife—no
bodkin!—Well was it for thee, since thou didst prize such an
existence, that the secrets of a Norman castle are like those of the
grave. For had I but dreamed of the daughter of Torquil living in
foul communion with the murderer of her father, the sword of a true
Saxon had found thee out even in the arms of thy paramour!"
"Wouldst thou indeed have
done this justice to the name of Torquil?" said Ulrica, for we may
now lay aside her assumed name of Urfried; "thou art then the true
Saxon report speaks thee! for even within these accursed walls,
where, as thou well sayest, guilt shrouds itself in inscrutable
mystery, even there has the name of Cedric been sounded—and I,
wretched and degraded, have rejoiced to think that there yet
breathed an avenger of our unhappy nation.—I also have had my hours
of vengeance—I have fomented the quarrels of our foes, and heated
drunken revelry into murderous broil—I have seen their blood flow—I
have heard their dying groans!—Look on me, Cedric—are there not
still left on this foul and faded face some traces of the features
of Torquil?"
"Ask me not of them,
Ulrica," replied Cedric, in a tone of grief mixed with abhorrence;
"these traces form such a resemblance as arises from the graves of
the dead, when a fiend has animated the lifeless corpse."
"Be it so," answered Ulrica;
"yet wore these fiendish features the mask of a spirit of light when
they were able to set at variance the elder Front-de-Boeuf and his
son Reginald! The darkness of hell should hide what followed, but
revenge must lift the veil, and darkly intimate what it would raise
the dead to speak aloud. Long had the smouldering fire of discord
glowed between the tyrant father and his savage son—long had I
nursed, in secret, the unnatural hatred—it blazed forth in an hour
of drunken wassail, and at his own board fell my oppressor by the
hand of his own son—such are the secrets these vaults conceal!—Rend
asunder, ye accursed arches," she added, looking up towards the
roof, "and bury in your fall all who are conscious of the hideous
mystery!"
"And thou, creature of guilt
and misery," said Cedric, "what became thy lot on the death of thy
ravisher?"
"Guess it, but ask it
not.—Here—here I dwelt, till age, premature age, has stamped its
ghastly features on my countenance—scorned and insulted where I was
once obeyed, and compelled to bound the revenge which had once such
ample scope, to the efforts of petty malice of a discontented
menial, or the vain or unheeded curses of an impotent hag—condemned
to hear from my lonely turret the sounds of revelry in which I once
partook, or the shrieks and groans of new victims of oppression."
"Ulrica," said Cedric, "with
a heart which still, I fear, regrets the lost reward of thy crimes,
as much as the deeds by which thou didst acquire that meed, how
didst thou dare to address thee to one who wears this robe?
Consider, unhappy woman, what could the sainted Edward himself do
for thee, were he here in bodily presence? The royal Confessor was
endowed by heaven with power to cleanse the ulcers of the body, but
only God himself can cure the leprosy of the soul."
"Yet, turn not from me,
stern prophet of wrath," she exclaimed, "but tell me, if thou canst,
in what shall terminate these new and awful feelings that burst on
my solitude—Why do deeds, long since done, rise before me in new and
irresistible horrors? What fate is prepared beyond the grave for
her, to whom God has assigned on earth a lot of such unspeakable
wretchedness? Better had I turn to Woden, Hertha, and Zernebock—to
Mista, and to Skogula, the gods of our yet unbaptized ancestors,
than endure the dreadful anticipations which have of late haunted my
waking and my sleeping hours!"
"I am no priest," said
Cedric, turning with disgust from this miserable picture of guilt,
wretchedness, and despair; "I am no priest, though I wear a priest's
garment."
"Priest or layman," answered
Ulrica, "thou art the first I have seen for twenty years, by whom
God was feared or man regarded; and dost thou bid me despair?"
"I bid thee repent," said
Cedric. "Seek to prayer and penance, and mayest thou find
acceptance! But I cannot, I will not, longer abide with thee."
"Stay yet a moment!" said
Ulrica; "leave me not now, son of my father's friend, lest the demon
who has governed my life should tempt me to avenge myself of thy
hard-hearted scorn—Thinkest thou, if Front-de-Boeuf found Cedric the
Saxon in his castle, in such a disguise, that thy life would be a
long one?—Already his eye has been upon thee like a falcon on his
prey."
"And be it so," said Cedric;
"and let him tear me with beak and talons, ere my tongue say one
word which my heart doth not warrant. I will die a Saxon—true in
word, open in deed—I bid thee avaunt!—touch me not, stay me not!—The
sight of Front-de-Boeuf himself is less odious to me than thou,
degraded and degenerate as thou art."
"Be it so," said Ulrica, no
longer interrupting him; "go thy way, and forget, in the insolence
of thy superority, that the wretch before thee is the daughter of
thy father's friend.—Go thy way—if I am separated from mankind by my
sufferings—separated from those whose aid I might most justly
expect—not less will I be separated from them in my revenge!—No man
shall aid me, but the ears of all men shall tingle to hear of the
deed which I shall dare to do!—Farewell!—thy scorn has burst the
last tie which seemed yet to unite me to my kind—a thought that my
woes might claim the compassion of my people."
"Ulrica," said Cedric,
softened by this appeal, "hast thou borne up and endured to live
through so much guilt and so much misery, and wilt thou now yield to
despair when thine eyes are opened to thy crimes, and when
repentance were thy fitter occupation?"
"Cedric," answered Ulrica,
"thou little knowest the human heart. To act as I have acted, to
think as I have thought, requires the maddening love of pleasure,
mingled with the keen appetite of revenge, the proud consciousness
of power; droughts too intoxicating for the human heart to bear, and
yet retain the power to prevent. Their force has long passed
away—Age has no pleasures, wrinkles have no influence, revenge
itself dies away in impotent curses. Then comes remorse, with all
its vipers, mixed with vain regrets for the past, and despair for
the future!—Then, when all other strong impulses have ceased, we
become like the fiends in hell, who may feel remorse, but never
repentance.—But thy words have awakened a new soul within me—Well
hast thou said, all is possible for those who dare to die!—Thou hast
shown me the means of revenge, and be assured I will embrace them.
It has hitherto shared this wasted bosom with other and with rival
passions—henceforward it shall possess me wholly, and thou thyself
shalt say, that, whatever was the life of Ulrica, her death well
became the daughter of the noble Torquil. There is a force without
beleaguering this accursed castle—hasten to lead them to the attack,
and when thou shalt see a red flag wave from the turret on the
eastern angle of the donjon, press the Normans hard—they will then
have enough to do within, and you may win the wall in spite both of
bow and mangonel.—Begone, I pray thee—follow thine own fate, and
leave me to mine."
Cedric would have enquired
farther into the purpose which she thus darkly announced, but the
stern voice of Front-de-Boeuf was heard, exclaiming, "Where tarries
this loitering priest? By the scallop-shell of Compostella, I will
make a martyr of him, if he loiters here to hatch treason among my
domestics!"
"What a true prophet," said
Ulrica, "is an evil conscience! But heed him not—out and to thy
people—Cry your Saxon onslaught, and let them sing their war-song of
Rollo, if they will; vengeance shall bear a burden to it."
As she thus spoke, she
vanished through a private door, and Reginald Front-de-Boeuf entered
the apartment. Cedric, with some difficulty, compelled himself to
make obeisance to the haughty Baron, who returned his courtesy with
a slight inclination of the head.
"Thy penitents, father, have
made a long shrift—it is the better for them, since it is the last
they shall ever make. Hast thou prepared them for death?"
"I found them," said Cedric,
in such French as he could command, "expecting the worst, from the
moment they knew into whose power they had fallen."
"How now, Sir Friar,"
replied Front-de-Boeuf, "thy speech, methinks, smacks of a Saxon
tongue?"
"I was bred in the convent
of St Withold of Burton," answered Cedric.
"Ay?" said the Baron; "it
had been better for thee to have been a Norman, and better for my
purpose too; but need has no choice of messengers. That St Withold's
of Burton is an owlet's nest worth the harrying. The day will soon
come that the frock shall protect the Saxon as little as the
mail-coat."
"God's will be done," said
Cedric, in a voice tremulous with passion, which Front-de-Boeuf
imputed to fear.
"I see," said he, "thou
dreamest already that our men-at-arms are in thy refectory and thy
ale-vaults. But do me one cast of thy holy office, and, come what
list of others, thou shalt sleep as safe in thy cell as a snail
within his shell of proof."
"Speak your commands," said
Cedric, with suppressed emotion.
"Follow me through this
passage, then, that I may dismiss thee by the postern."
And as he strode on his way
before the supposed friar, Front-de-Boeuf thus schooled him in the
part which he desired he should act.
"Thou seest, Sir Friar, yon
herd of Saxon swine, who have dared to environ this castle of
Torquilstone—Tell them whatever thou hast a mind of the weakness of
this fortalice, or aught else that can detain them before it for
twenty-four hours. Meantime bear thou this scroll—But soft—canst
read, Sir Priest?"
"Not a jot I," answered
Cedric, "save on my breviary; and then I know the characters,
because I have the holy service by heart, praised be Our Lady and St
Withold!"
"The fitter messenger for my
purpose.—Carry thou this scroll to the castle of Philip de
Malvoisin; say it cometh from me, and is written by the Templar
Brian de Bois-Guilbert, and that I pray him to send it to York with
all the speed man and horse can make. Meanwhile, tell him to doubt
nothing, he shall find us whole and sound behind our
battlement—Shame on it, that we should be compelled to hide thus by
a pack of runagates, who are wont to fly even at the flash of our
pennons and the tramp of our horses! I say to thee, priest, contrive
some cast of thine art to keep the knaves where they are, until our
friends bring up their lances. My vengeance is awake, and she is a
falcon that slumbers not till she has been gorged."
"By my patron saint," said
Cedric, with deeper energy than became his character, "and by every
saint who has lived and died in England, your commands shall be
obeyed! Not a Saxon shall stir from before these walls, if I have
art and influence to detain them there."
"Ha!" said Front-de-Boeuf,
"thou changest thy tone, Sir Priest, and speakest brief and bold, as
if thy heart were in the slaughter of the Saxon herd; and yet thou
art thyself of kindred to the swine?"
Cedric was no ready
practiser of the art of dissimulation, and would at this moment have
been much the better of a hint from Wamba's more fertile brain. But
necessity, according to the ancient proverb, sharpens invention, and
he muttered something under his cowl concerning the men in question
being excommunicated outlaws both to church and to kingdom.
"'Despardieux'," answered
Front-de-Boeuf, "thou hast spoken the very truth—I forgot that the
knaves can strip a fat abbot, as well as if they had been born south
of yonder salt channel. Was it not he of St Ives whom they tied to
an oak-tree, and compelled to sing a mass while they were rifling
his mails and his wallets?—No, by our Lady—that jest was played by
Gualtier of Middleton, one of our own companions-at-arms. But they
were Saxons who robbed the chapel at St Bees of cup, candlestick and
chalice, were they not?"
"They were godless men,"
answered Cedric.
"Ay, and they drank out all
the good wine and ale that lay in store for many a secret carousal,
when ye pretend ye are but busied with vigils and primes!—Priest,
thou art bound to revenge such sacrilege."
"I am indeed bound to
vengeance," murmured Cedric; "Saint Withold knows my heart."
Front-de-Boeuf, in the
meanwhile, led the way to a postern, where, passing the moat on a
single plank, they reached a small barbican, or exterior defence,
which communicated with the open field by a well-fortified
sallyport.
"Begone, then; and if thou
wilt do mine errand, and if thou return hither when it is done, thou
shalt see Saxon flesh cheap as ever was hog's in the shambles of
Sheffield. And, hark thee, thou seemest to be a jolly confessor—come
hither after the onslaught, and thou shalt have as much Malvoisie as
would drench thy whole convent."
"Assuredly we shall meet
again," answered Cedric.
"Something in hand the
whilst," continued the Norman; and, as they parted at the postern
door, he thrust into Cedric's reluctant hand a gold byzant, adding,
"Remember, I will fly off both cowl and skin, if thou failest in thy
purpose."
"And full leave will I give
thee to do both," answered Cedric, leaving the postern, and striding
forth over the free field with a joyful step, "if, when we meet
next, I deserve not better at thine hand."—Turning then back towards
the castle, he threw the piece of gold towards the donor, exclaiming
at the same time, "False Norman, thy money perish with thee!"
Front-de-Boeuf heard the
words imperfectly, but the action was suspicious—"Archers," he
called to the warders on the outward battlements, "send me an arrow
through yon monk's frock!—yet stay," he said, as his retainers were
bending their bows, "it avails not—we must thus far trust him since
we have no better shift. I think he dares not betray me—at the worst
I can but treat with these Saxon dogs whom I have safe in
kennel.—Ho! Giles jailor, let them bring Cedric of Rotherwood before
me, and the other churl, his companion—him I mean of
Coningsburgh—Athelstane there, or what call they him? Their very
names are an encumbrance to a Norman knight's mouth, and have, as it
were, a flavour of bacon—Give me a stoup of wine, as jolly Prince
John said, that I may wash away the relish—place it in the armoury,
and thither lead the prisoners."
His commands were obeyed;
and, upon entering that Gothic apartment, hung with many spoils won
by his own valour and that of his father, he found a flagon of wine
on the massive oaken table, and the two Saxon captives under the
guard of four of his dependants. Front-de-Boeuf took a long drought
of wine, and then addressed his prisoners;—for the manner in which
Wamba drew the cap over his face, the change of dress, the gloomy
and broken light, and the Baron's imperfect acquaintance with the
features of Cedric, (who avoided his Norman neighbours, and seldom
stirred beyond his own domains,) prevented him from discovering that
the most important of his captives had made his escape.
"Gallants of England,"
said Front-de-Boeuf, "how relish ye your entertainment at
Torquilstone?—Are ye yet aware what your 'surquedy' and
'outrecuidance'
31
merit, for scoffing at the entertainment of a prince of the House of
Anjou?—Have ye forgotten how ye requited the unmerited hospitality
of the royal John? By God and St Dennis, an ye pay not the richer
ransom, I will hang ye up by the feet from the iron bars of these
windows, till the kites and hooded crows have made skeletons of
you!—Speak out, ye Saxon dogs—what bid ye for your worthless
lives?—How say you, you of Rotherwood?"
"Not a doit I," answered
poor Wamba—"and for hanging up by the feet, my brain has been
topsy-turvy, they say, ever since the biggin was bound first round
my head; so turning me upside down may peradventure restore it
again."
"Saint Genevieve!" said
Front-de-Boeuf, "what have we got here?"
And with the back of his
hand he struck Cedric's cap from the head of the Jester, and
throwing open his collar, discovered the fatal badge of servitude,
the silver collar round his neck.
"Giles—Clement—dogs and
varlets!" exclaimed the furious Norman, "what have you brought me
here?"
"I think I can tell you,"
said De Bracy, who just entered the apartment. "This is Cedric's
clown, who fought so manful a skirmish with Isaac of York about a
question of precedence."
"I shall settle it for them
both," replied Front-de-Boeuf; "they shall hang on the same gallows,
unless his master and this boar of Coningsburgh will pay well for
their lives. Their wealth is the least they can surrender; they must
also carry off with them the swarms that are besetting the castle,
subscribe a surrender of their pretended immunities, and live under
us as serfs and vassals; too happy if, in the new world that is
about to begin, we leave them the breath of their nostrils.—Go,"
said he to two of his attendants, "fetch me the right Cedric hither,
and I pardon your error for once; the rather that you but mistook a
fool for a Saxon franklin."
"Ay, but," said Wamba, "your
chivalrous excellency will find there are more fools than franklins
among us."
"What means the knave?" said
Front-de-Boeuf, looking towards his followers, who, lingering and
loath, faltered forth their belief, that if this were not Cedric who
was there in presence, they knew not what was become of him.
"Saints of Heaven!"
exclaimed De Bracy, "he must have escaped in the monk's garments!"
"Fiends of hell!" echoed
Front-de-Boeuf, "it was then the boar of Rotherwood whom I ushered
to the postern, and dismissed with my own hands!—And thou," he said
to Wamba, "whose folly could overreach the wisdom of idiots yet more
gross than thyself—I will give thee holy orders—I will shave thy
crown for thee!—Here, let them tear the scalp from his head, and
then pitch him headlong from the battlements—Thy trade is to jest,
canst thou jest now?"
"You deal with me better
than your word, noble knight," whimpered forth poor Wamba, whose
habits of buffoonery were not to be overcome even by the immediate
prospect of death; "if you give me the red cap you propose, out of a
simple monk you will make a cardinal."
"The poor wretch," said De
Bracy, "is resolved to die in his vocation.—Front-de-Boeuf, you
shall not slay him. Give him to me to make sport for my Free
Companions.—How sayst thou, knave? Wilt thou take heart of grace,
and go to the wars with me?"
"Ay, with my master's
leave," said Wamba; "for, look you, I must not slip collar" (and he
touched that which he wore) "without his permission."
"Oh, a Norman saw will soon
cut a Saxon collar." said De Bracy.
"Ay, noble sir," said Wamba,
"and thence goes the proverb—
'Norman saw on English oak,
On English neck a Norman yoke;
Norman spoon in English dish,
And England ruled as Normans wish;
Blithe world to England never will be more,
Till England's rid of all the four.'"
"Thou dost well, De Bracy,"
said Front-de-Boeuf, "to stand there listening to a fool's jargon,
when destruction is gaping for us! Seest thou not we are
overreached, and that our proposed mode of communicating with our
friends without has been disconcerted by this same motley gentleman
thou art so fond to brother? What views have we to expect but
instant storm?"
"To the battlements then,"
said De Bracy; "when didst thou ever see me the graver for the
thoughts of battle? Call the Templar yonder, and let him fight but
half so well for his life as he has done for his Order—Make thou to
the walls thyself with thy huge body—Let me do my poor endeavour in
my own way, and I tell thee the Saxon outlaws may as well attempt to
scale the clouds, as the castle of Torquilstone; or, if you will
treat with the banditti, why not employ the mediation of this worthy
franklin, who seems in such deep contemplation of the
wine-flagon?—Here, Saxon," he continued, addressing Athelstane, and
handing the cup to him, "rinse thy throat with that noble liquor,
and rouse up thy soul to say what thou wilt do for thy liberty."
"What a man of mould may,"
answered Athelstane, "providing it be what a man of manhood
ought.—Dismiss me free, with my companions, and I will pay a ransom
of a thousand marks."
"And wilt moreover assure us
the retreat of that scum of mankind who are swarming around the
castle, contrary to God's peace and the king's?" said
Front-de-Boeuf.
"In so far as I can,"
answered Athelstane, "I will withdraw them; and I fear not but that
my father Cedric will do his best to assist me."
"We are agreed then," said
Front-de-Boeuf—"thou and they are to be set at freedom, and peace is
to be on both sides, for payment of a thousand marks. It is a
trifling ransom, Saxon, and thou wilt owe gratitude to the
moderation which accepts of it in exchange of your persons. But
mark, this extends not to the Jew Isaac."
"Nor to the Jew Isaac's
daughter," said the Templar, who had now joined them.
"Neither," said
Front-de-Boeuf, "belong to this Saxon's company."
"I were unworthy to be
called Christian, if they did," replied Athelstane: "deal with the
unbelievers as ye list."
"Neither does the ransom
include the Lady Rowena," said De Bracy. "It shall never be said I
was scared out of a fair prize without striking a blow for it."
"Neither," said
Front-de-Boeuf, "does our treaty refer to this wretched Jester, whom
I retain, that I may make him an example to every knave who turns
jest into earnest."
"The Lady Rowena," answered
Athelstane, with the most steady countenance, "is my affianced
bride. I will be drawn by wild horses before I consent to part with
her. The slave Wamba has this day saved the life of my father
Cedric—I will lose mine ere a hair of his head be injured."
"Thy affianced bride?—The
Lady Rowena the affianced bride of a vassal like thee?" said De
Bracy; "Saxon, thou dreamest that the days of thy seven kingdoms are
returned again. I tell thee, the Princes of the House of Anjou
confer not their wards on men of such lineage as thine."
"My lineage, proud Norman,"
replied Athelstane, "is drawn from a source more pure and ancient
than that of a beggarly Frenchman, whose living is won by selling
the blood of the thieves whom he assembles under his paltry
standard. Kings were my ancestors, strong in war and wise in
council, who every day feasted in their hall more hundreds than thou
canst number individual followers; whose names have been sung by
minstrels, and their laws recorded by Wittenagemotes; whose bones
were interred amid the prayers of saints, and over whose tombs
minsters have been builded."
"Thou hast it, De Bracy,"
said Front-de-Boeuf, well pleased with the rebuff which his
companion had received; "the Saxon hath hit thee fairly."
"As fairly as a captive can
strike," said De Bracy, with apparent carelessness; "for he whose
hands are tied should have his tongue at freedom.—But thy glibness
of reply, comrade," rejoined he, speaking to Athelstane, "will not
win the freedom of the Lady Rowena."
To this Athelstane, who had
already made a longer speech than was his custom to do on any topic,
however interesting, returned no answer. The conversation was
interrupted by the arrival of a menial, who announced that a monk
demanded admittance at the postern gate.
"In the name of Saint
Bennet, the prince of these bull-beggars," said Front-de-Boeuf,
"have we a real monk this time, or another impostor? Search him,
slaves—for an ye suffer a second impostor to be palmed upon you, I
will have your eyes torn out, and hot coals put into the sockets."
"Let me endure the extremity
of your anger, my lord," said Giles, "if this be not a real
shaveling. Your squire Jocelyn knows him well, and will vouch him to
be brother Ambrose, a monk in attendance upon the Prior of
Jorvaulx."
"Admit him," said
Front-de-Boeuf; "most likely he brings us news from his jovial
master. Surely the devil keeps holiday, and the priests are relieved
from duty, that they are strolling thus wildly through the country.
Remove these prisoners; and, Saxon, think on what thou hast heard."
"I claim," said Athelstane,
"an honourable imprisonment, with due care of my board and of my
couch, as becomes my rank, and as is due to one who is in treaty for
ransom. Moreover, I hold him that deems himself the best of you,
bound to answer to me with his body for this aggression on my
freedom. This defiance hath already been sent to thee by thy sewer;
thou underliest it, and art bound to answer me—There lies my glove."
"I answer not the challenge
of my prisoner," said Front-de-Boeuf; "nor shalt thou, Maurice de
Bracy.—Giles," he continued, "hang the franklin's glove upon the
tine of yonder branched antlers: there shall it remain until he is a
free man. Should he then presume to demand it, or to affirm he was
unlawfully made my prisoner, by the belt of Saint Christopher, he
will speak to one who hath never refused to meet a foe on foot or on
horseback, alone or with his vassals at his back!"
The Saxon prisoners were
accordingly removed, just as they introduced the monk Ambrose, who
appeared to be in great perturbation.
"This is the real 'Deus
vobiscum'," said Wamba, as he passed the reverend brother; "the
others were but counterfeits."
"Holy Mother," said the
monk, as he addressed the assembled knights, "I am at last safe and
in Christian keeping!"
"Safe thou art," replied De
Bracy; "and for Christianity, here is the stout Baron Reginald
Front-de-Boeuf, whose utter abomination is a Jew; and the good
Knight Templar, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, whose trade is to slay
Saracens—If these are not good marks of Christianity, I know no
other which they bear about them."
"Ye are friends and allies
of our reverend father in God, Aymer, Prior of Jorvaulx," said the
monk, without noticing the tone of De Bracy's reply; "ye owe him aid
both by knightly faith and holy charity; for what saith the blessed
Saint Augustin, in his treatise 'De Civitate Dei'—-"
"What saith the devil!"
interrupted Front-de-Boeuf; "or rather what dost thou say, Sir
Priest? We have little time to hear texts from the holy fathers."
"'Sancta Maria!'" ejaculated
Father Ambrose, "how prompt to ire are these unhallowed laymen!—But
be it known to you, brave knights, that certain murderous caitiffs,
casting behind them fear of God, and reverence of his church, and
not regarding the bull of the holy see, 'Si quis, suadende
Diabolo'—-"
"Brother priest," said the
Templar, "all this we know or guess at—tell us plainly, is thy
master, the Prior, made prisoner, and to whom?"
"Surely," said Ambrose, "he
is in the hands of the men of Belial, infesters of these woods, and
contemners of the holy text, 'Touch not mine anointed, and do my
prophets naught of evil.'"
"Here is a new argument for
our swords, sirs," said Front-de-Boeuf, turning to his companions;
"and so, instead of reaching us any assistance, the Prior of
Jorvaulx requests aid at our hands? a man is well helped of these
lazy churchmen when he hath most to do!—But speak out, priest, and
say at once, what doth thy master expect from us?"
"So please you," said
Ambrose, "violent hands having been imposed on my reverend superior,
contrary to the holy ordinance which I did already quote, and the
men of Belial having rifled his mails and budgets, and stripped him
of two hundred marks of pure refined gold, they do yet demand of him
a large sum beside, ere they will suffer him to depart from their
uncircumcised hands. Wherefore the reverend father in God prays you,
as his dear friends, to rescue him, either by paying down the ransom
at which they hold him, or by force of arms, at your best
discretion."
"The foul fiend quell the
Prior!" said Front-de-Boeuf; "his morning's drought has been a deep
one. When did thy master hear of a Norman baron unbuckling his purse
to relieve a churchman, whose bags are ten times as weighty as
ours?—And how can we do aught by valour to free him, that are cooped
up here by ten times our number, and expect an assault every
moment?"
"And that was what I was
about to tell you," said the monk, "had your hastiness allowed me
time. But, God help me, I am old, and these foul onslaughts distract
an aged man's brain. Nevertheless, it is of verity that they
assemble a camp, and raise a bank against the walls of this castle."
"To the battlements!"
cried De Bracy, "and let us mark what these knaves do without;" and
so saying, he opened a latticed window which led to a sort of
bartisan or projecting balcony, and immediately called from thence
to those in the apartment—"Saint Dennis, but the old monk hath
brought true tidings!—They bring forward mantelets and pavisses,
32
and the archers muster on the skirts of the wood like a dark cloud
before a hailstorm."
Reginald Front-de-Boeuf also
looked out upon the field, and immediately snatched his bugle; and,
after winding a long and loud blast, commanded his men to their
posts on the walls.
"De Bracy, look to the
eastern side, where the walls are lowest—Noble Bois-Guilbert, thy
trade hath well taught thee how to attack and defend, look thou to
the western side—I myself will take post at the barbican. Yet, do
not confine your exertions to any one spot, noble friends!—we must
this day be everywhere, and multiply ourselves, were it possible, so
as to carry by our presence succour and relief wherever the attack
is hottest. Our numbers are few, but activity and courage may supply
that defect, since we have only to do with rascal clowns."
"But, noble knights,"
exclaimed Father Ambrose, amidst the bustle and confusion occasioned
by the preparations for defence, "will none of ye hear the message
of the reverend father in God Aymer, Prior of Jorvaulx?—I beseech
thee to hear me, noble Sir Reginald!"
"Go patter thy
petitions to heaven," said the fierce Norman, "for we on earth have
no time to listen to them.—Ho! there, Anselm I see that seething
pitch and oil are ready to pour on the heads of these audacious
traitors—Look that the cross-bowmen lack not bolts.
33—Fling
abroad my banner with the old bull's head—the knaves shall soon find
with whom they have to do this day!"
"But, noble sir," continued
the monk, persevering in his endeavours to draw attention, "consider
my vow of obedience, and let me discharge myself of my Superior's
errand."
"Away with this prating
dotard," said Front-de Boeuf, "lock him up in the chapel, to tell
his beads till the broil be over. It will be a new thing to the
saints in Torquilstone to hear aves and paters; they have not been
so honoured, I trow, since they were cut out of stone."
"Blaspheme not the holy
saints, Sir Reginald," said De Bracy, "we shall have need of their
aid to-day before yon rascal rout disband."
"I expect little aid from
their hand," said Front-de-Boeuf, "unless we were to hurl them from
the battlements on the heads of the villains. There is a huge
lumbering Saint Christopher yonder, sufficient to bear a whole
company to the earth."
The Templar had in the
meantime been looking out on the proceedings of the besiegers, with
rather more attention than the brutal Front-de-Boeuf or his giddy
companion.
"By the faith of mine
order," he said, "these men approach with more touch of discipline
than could have been judged, however they come by it. See ye how
dexterously they avail themselves of every cover which a tree or
bush affords, and shun exposing themselves to the shot of our
cross-bows? I spy neither banner nor pennon among them, and yet will
I gage my golden chain, that they are led on by some noble knight or
gentleman, skilful in the practice of wars."
"I espy him," said De Bracy;
"I see the waving of a knight's crest, and the gleam of his armour.
See yon tall man in the black mail, who is busied marshalling the
farther troop of the rascaille yeomen—by Saint Dennis, I hold him to
be the same whom we called 'Le Noir Faineant', who overthrew thee,
Front-de-Boeuf, in the lists at Ashby."
"So much the better," said
Front-de-Boeuf, "that he comes here to give me my revenge. Some
hilding fellow he must be, who dared not stay to assert his claim to
the tourney prize which chance had assigned him. I should in vain
have sought for him where knights and nobles seek their foes, and
right glad am I he hath here shown himself among yon villain
yeomanry."
The demonstrations of the
enemy's immediate approach cut off all farther discourse. Each
knight repaired to his post, and at the head of the few followers
whom they were able to muster, and who were in numbers inadequate to
defend the whole extent of the walls, they awaited with calm
determination the threatened assault.
CHAPTER XXVIII
This wandering race, sever'd from other men,
Boast yet their intercourse with human arts;
The seas, the woods, the deserts, which they haunt,
Find them acquainted with their secret treasures:
And unregarded herbs, and flowers, and blossoms,
Display undreamt-of powers when gather'd by them.
—The Jew
Our history must needs
retrograde for the space of a few pages, to inform the reader of
certain passages material to his understanding the rest of this
important narrative. His own intelligence may indeed have easily
anticipated that, when Ivanhoe sunk down, and seemed abandoned by
all the world, it was the importunity of Rebecca which prevailed on
her father to have the gallant young warrior transported from the
lists to the house which for the time the Jews inhabited in the
suburbs of Ashby.
It would not have been
difficult to have persuaded Isaac to this step in any other
circumstances, for his disposition was kind and grateful. But he had
also the prejudices and scrupulous timidity of his persecuted
people, and those were to be conquered.
"Holy Abraham!" he
exclaimed, "he is a good youth, and my heart bleeds to see the gore
trickle down his rich embroidered hacqueton, and his corslet of
goodly price—but to carry him to our house!—damsel, hast thou well
considered?—he is a Christian, and by our law we may not deal with
the stranger and Gentile, save for the advantage of our commerce."
"Speak not so, my dear
father," replied Rebecca; "we may not indeed mix with them in
banquet and in jollity; but in wounds and in misery, the Gentile
becometh the Jew's brother."
"I would I knew what the
Rabbi Jacob Ben Tudela would opine on it," replied
Isaac;—"nevertheless, the good youth must not bleed to death. Let
Seth and Reuben bear him to Ashby."
"Nay, let them place him in
my litter," said Rebecca; "I will mount one of the palfreys."
"That were to expose thee to
the gaze of those dogs of Ishmael and of Edom," whispered Isaac,
with a suspicious glance towards the crowd of knights and squires.
But Rebecca was already busied in carrying her charitable purpose
into effect, and listed not what he said, until Isaac, seizing the
sleeve of her mantle, again exclaimed, in a hurried voice—"Beard of
Aaron!—what if the youth perish!—if he die in our custody, shall we
not be held guilty of his blood, and be torn to pieces by the
multitude?"
"He will not die, my
father," said Rebecca, gently extricating herself from the grasp of
Isaac "he will not die unless we abandon him; and if so, we are
indeed answerable for his blood to God and to man."
"Nay," said Isaac, releasing
his hold, "it grieveth me as much to see the drops of his blood, as
if they were so many golden byzants from mine own purse; and I well
know, that the lessons of Miriam, daughter of the Rabbi Manasses of
Byzantium whose soul is in Paradise, have made thee skilful in the
art of healing, and that thou knowest the craft of herbs, and the
force of elixirs. Therefore, do as thy mind giveth thee—thou art a
good damsel, a blessing, and a crown, and a song of rejoicing unto
me and unto my house, and unto the people of my fathers."
The apprehensions of Isaac,
however, were not ill founded; and the generous and grateful
benevolence of his daughter exposed her, on her return to Ashby, to
the unhallowed gaze of Brian de Bois-Guilbert. The Templar twice
passed and repassed them on the road, fixing his bold and ardent
look on the beautiful Jewess; and we have already seen the
consequences of the admiration which her charms excited when
accident threw her into the power of that unprincipled voluptuary.
Rebecca lost no time in
causing the patient to be transported to their temporary dwelling,
and proceeded with her own hands to examine and to bind up his
wounds. The youngest reader of romances and romantic ballads, must
recollect how often the females, during the dark ages, as they are
called, were initiated into the mysteries of surgery, and how
frequently the gallant knight submitted the wounds of his person to
her cure, whose eyes had yet more deeply penetrated his heart.
But the Jews, both male and
female, possessed and practised the medical science in all its
branches, and the monarchs and powerful barons of the time
frequently committed themselves to the charge of some experienced
sage among this despised people, when wounded or in sickness. The
aid of the Jewish physicians was not the less eagerly sought after,
though a general belief prevailed among the Christians, that the
Jewish Rabbins were deeply acquainted with the occult sciences, and
particularly with the cabalistical art, which had its name and
origin in the studies of the sages of Israel. Neither did the
Rabbins disown such acquaintance with supernatural arts, which added
nothing (for what could add aught?) to the hatred with which their
nation was regarded, while it diminished the contempt with which
that malevolence was mingled. A Jewish magician might be the subject
of equal abhorrence with a Jewish usurer, but he could not be
equally despised. It is besides probable, considering the wonderful
cures they are said to have performed, that the Jews possessed some
secrets of the healing art peculiar to themselves, and which, with
the exclusive spirit arising out of their condition, they took great
care to conceal from the Christians amongst whom they dwelt.
The beautiful Rebecca had
been heedfully brought up in all the knowledge proper to her nation,
which her apt and powerful mind had retained, arranged, and
enlarged, in the course of a progress beyond her years, her sex, and
even the age in which she lived. Her knowledge of medicine and of
the healing art had been acquired under an aged Jewess, the daughter
of one of their most celebrated doctors, who loved Rebecca as her
own child, and was believed to have communicated to her secrets,
which had been left to herself by her sage father at the same time,
and under the same circumstances. The fate of Miriam had indeed been
to fall a sacrifice to the fanaticism of the times; but her secrets
had survived in her apt pupil.
Rebecca, thus endowed with
knowledge as with beauty, was universally revered and admired by her
own tribe, who almost regarded her as one of those gifted women
mentioned in the sacred history. Her father himself, out of
reverence for her talents, which involuntarily mingled itself with
his unbounded affection, permitted the maiden a greater liberty than
was usually indulged to those of her sex by the habits of her
people, and was, as we have just seen, frequently guided by her
opinion, even in preference to his own.
When Ivanhoe reached the
habitation of Isaac, he was still in a state of unconsciousness,
owing to the profuse loss of blood which had taken place during his
exertions in the lists. Rebecca examined the wound, and having
applied to it such vulnerary remedies as her art prescribed,
informed her father that if fever could be averted, of which the
great bleeding rendered her little apprehensive, and if the healing
balsam of Miriam retained its virtue, there was nothing to fear for
his guest's life, and that he might with safety travel to York with
them on the ensuing day. Isaac looked a little blank at this
annunciation. His charity would willingly have stopped short at
Ashby, or at most would have left the wounded Christian to be tended
in the house where he was residing at present, with an assurance to
the Hebrew to whom it belonged, that all expenses should be duly
discharged. To this, however, Rebecca opposed many reasons, of which
we shall only mention two that had peculiar weight with Isaac. The
one was, that she would on no account put the phial of precious
balsam into the hands of another physician even of her own tribe,
lest that valuable mystery should be discovered; the other, that
this wounded knight, Wilfred of Ivanhoe, was an intimate favourite
of Richard Coeur-de-Lion, and that, in case the monarch should
return, Isaac, who had supplied his brother John with treasure to
prosecute his rebellious purposes, would stand in no small need of a
powerful protector who enjoyed Richard's favour.
"Thou art speaking but
sooth, Rebecca," said Isaac, giving way to these weighty
arguments—"it were an offending of Heaven to betray the secrets of
the blessed Miriam; for the good which Heaven giveth, is not rashly
to be squandered upon others, whether it be talents of gold and
shekels of silver, or whether it be the secret mysteries of a wise
physician—assuredly they should be preserved to those to whom
Providence hath vouchsafed them. And him whom the Nazarenes of
England call the Lion's Heart, assuredly it were better for me to
fall into the hands of a strong lion of Idumea than into his, if he
shall have got assurance of my dealing with his brother. Wherefore I
will lend ear to thy counsel, and this youth shall journey with us
unto York, and our house shall be as a home to him until his wounds
shall be healed. And if he of the Lion Heart shall return to the
land, as is now noised abroad, then shall this Wilfred of Ivanhoe be
unto me as a wall of defence, when the king's displeasure shall burn
high against thy father. And if he doth not return, this Wilfred may
natheless repay us our charges when he shall gain treasure by the
strength of his spear and of his sword, even as he did yesterday and
this day also. For the youth is a good youth, and keepeth the day
which he appointeth, and restoreth that which he borroweth, and
succoureth the Israelite, even the child of my father's house, when
he is encompassed by strong thieves and sons of Belial."
It was not until evening was
nearly closed that Ivanhoe was restored to consciousness of his
situation. He awoke from a broken slumber, under the confused
impressions which are naturally attendant on the recovery from a
state of insensibility. He was unable for some time to recall
exactly to memory the circumstances which had preceded his fall in
the lists, or to make out any connected chain of the events in which
he had been engaged upon the yesterday. A sense of wounds and
injury, joined to great weakness and exhaustion, was mingled with
the recollection of blows dealt and received, of steeds rushing upon
each other, overthrowing and overthrown—of shouts and clashing of
arms, and all the heady tumult of a confused fight. An effort to
draw aside the curtain of his couch was in some degree successful,
although rendered difficult by the pain of his wound.
To his great surprise he
found himself in a room magnificently furnished, but having cushions
instead of chairs to rest upon, and in other respects partaking so
much of Oriental costume, that he began to doubt whether he had not,
during his sleep, been transported back again to the land of
Palestine. The impression was increased, when, the tapestry being
drawn aside, a female form, dressed in a rich habit, which partook
more of the Eastern taste than that of Europe, glided through the
door which it concealed, and was followed by a swarthy domestic.
As the wounded knight was
about to address this fair apparition, she imposed silence by
placing her slender finger upon her ruby lips, while the attendant,
approaching him, proceeded to uncover Ivanhoe's side, and the lovely
Jewess satisfied herself that the bandage was in its place, and the
wound doing well. She performed her task with a graceful and
dignified simplicity and modesty, which might, even in more
civilized days, have served to redeem it from whatever might seem
repugnant to female delicacy. The idea of so young and beautiful a
person engaged in attendance on a sick-bed, or in dressing the wound
of one of a different sex, was melted away and lost in that of a
beneficent being contributing her effectual aid to relieve pain, and
to avert the stroke of death. Rebecca's few and brief directions
were given in the Hebrew language to the old domestic; and he, who
had been frequently her assistant in similar cases, obeyed them
without reply.
The accents of an unknown
tongue, however harsh they might have sounded when uttered by
another, had, coming from the beautiful Rebecca, the romantic and
pleasing effect which fancy ascribes to the charms pronounced by
some beneficent fairy, unintelligible, indeed, to the ear, but, from
the sweetness of utterance, and benignity of aspect, which
accompanied them, touching and affecting to the heart. Without
making an attempt at further question, Ivanhoe suffered them in
silence to take the measures they thought most proper for his
recovery; and it was not until those were completed, and this kind
physician about to retire, that his curiosity could no longer be
suppressed.—"Gentle maiden," he began in the Arabian tongue, with
which his Eastern travels had rendered him familiar, and which he
thought most likely to be understood by the turban'd and caftan'd
damsel who stood before him—"I pray you, gentle maiden, of your
courtesy—-"
But here he was interrupted
by his fair physician, a smile which she could scarce suppress
dimpling for an instant a face, whose general expression was that of
contemplative melancholy. "I am of England, Sir Knight, and speak
the English tongue, although my dress and my lineage belong to
another climate."
"Noble damsel,"—again the
Knight of Ivanhoe began; and again Rebecca hastened to interrupt
him.
"Bestow not on me, Sir
Knight," she said, "the epithet of noble. It is well you should
speedily know that your handmaiden is a poor Jewess, the daughter of
that Isaac of York, to whom you were so lately a good and kind lord.
It well becomes him, and those of his household, to render to you
such careful tendance as your present state necessarily demands."
I know not whether the fair
Rowena would have been altogether satisfied with the species of
emotion with which her devoted knight had hitherto gazed on the
beautiful features, and fair form, and lustrous eyes, of the lovely
Rebecca; eyes whose brilliancy was shaded, and, as it were,
mellowed, by the fringe of her long silken eyelashes, and which a
minstrel would have compared to the evening star darting its rays
through a bower of jessamine. But Ivanhoe was too good a Catholic to
retain the same class of feelings towards a Jewess. This Rebecca had
foreseen, and for this very purpose she had hastened to mention her
father's name and lineage; yet—for the fair and wise daughter of
Isaac was not without a touch of female weakness—she could not but
sigh internally when the glance of respectful admiration, not
altogether unmixed with tenderness, with which Ivanhoe had hitherto
regarded his unknown benefactress, was exchanged at once for a
manner cold, composed, and collected, and fraught with no deeper
feeling than that which expressed a grateful sense of courtesy
received from an unexpected quarter, and from one of an inferior
race. It was not that Ivanhoe's former carriage expressed more than
that general devotional homage which youth always pays to beauty;
yet it was mortifying that one word should operate as a spell to
remove poor Rebecca, who could not be supposed altogether ignorant
of her title to such homage, into a degraded class, to whom it could
not be honourably rendered.
But the gentleness and
candour of Rebecca's nature imputed no fault to Ivanhoe for sharing
in the universal prejudices of his age and religion. On the contrary
the fair Jewess, though sensible her patient now regarded her as one
of a race of reprobation, with whom it was disgraceful to hold any
beyond the most necessary intercourse, ceased not to pay the same
patient and devoted attention to his safety and convalescence. She
informed him of the necessity they were under of removing to York,
and of her father's resolution to transport him thither, and tend
him in his own house until his health should be restored. Ivanhoe
expressed great repugnance to this plan, which he grounded on
unwillingness to give farther trouble to his benefactors.
"Was there not," he said,
"in Ashby, or near it, some Saxon franklin, or even some wealthy
peasant, who would endure the burden of a wounded countryman's
residence with him until he should be again able to bear his
armour?—Was there no convent of Saxon endowment, where he could be
received?—Or could he not be transported as far as Burton, where he
was sure to find hospitality with Waltheoff, the Abbot of St
Withold's, to whom he was related?"
"Any, the worst of these
harbourages," said Rebecca, with a melancholy smile, "would
unquestionably be more fitting for your residence than the abode of
a despised Jew; yet, Sir Knight, unless you would dismiss your
physician, you cannot change your lodging. Our nation, as you well
know, can cure wounds, though we deal not in inflicting them; and in
our own family, in particular, are secrets which have been handed
down since the days of Solomon, and of which you have already
experienced the advantages. No Nazarene—I crave your forgiveness,
Sir Knight—no Christian leech, within the four seas of Britain,
could enable you to bear your corslet within a month."
"And how soon wilt THOU
enable me to brook it?" said Ivanhoe, impatiently.
"Within eight days, if thou
wilt be patient and conformable to my directions," replied Rebecca.
"By Our Blessed Lady," said
Wilfred, "if it be not a sin to name her here, it is no time for me
or any true knight to be bedridden; and if thou accomplish thy
promise, maiden, I will pay thee with my casque full of crowns, come
by them as I may."
"I will accomplish my
promise," said Rebecca, "and thou shalt bear thine armour on the
eighth day from hence, if thou will grant me but one boon in the
stead of the silver thou dost promise me."
"If it be within my power,
and such as a true Christian knight may yield to one of thy people,"
replied Ivanhoe, "I will grant thy boon blithely and thankfully."
"Nay," answered Rebecca, "I
will but pray of thee to believe henceforward that a Jew may do good
service to a Christian, without desiring other guerdon than the
blessing of the Great Father who made both Jew and Gentile."
"It were sin to doubt it,
maiden," replied Ivanhoe; "and I repose myself on thy skill without
further scruple or question, well trusting you will enable me to
bear my corslet on the eighth day. And now, my kind leech, let me
enquire of the news abroad. What of the noble Saxon Cedric and his
household?—what of the lovely Lady—" He stopt, as if unwilling to
speak Rowena's name in the house of a Jew—"Of her, I mean, who was
named Queen of the tournament?"
"And who was selected by
you, Sir Knight, to hold that dignity, with judgment which was
admired as much as your valour," replied Rebecca.
The blood which Ivanhoe had
lost did not prevent a flush from crossing his cheek, feeling that
he had incautiously betrayed a deep interest in Rowena by the
awkward attempt he had made to conceal it.
"It was less of her I would
speak," said he, "than of Prince John; and I would fain know
somewhat of a faithful squire, and why he now attends me not?"
"Let me use my authority as
a leech," answered Rebecca, "and enjoin you to keep silence, and
avoid agitating reflections, whilst I apprize you of what you desire
to know. Prince John hath broken off the tournament, and set forward
in all haste towards York, with the nobles, knights, and churchmen
of his party, after collecting such sums as they could wring, by
fair means or foul, from those who are esteemed the wealthy of the
land. It is said he designs to assume his brother's crown."
"Not without a blow struck
in its defence," said Ivanhoe, raising himself upon the couch, "if
there were but one true subject in England I will fight for
Richard's title with the best of them—ay, one or two, in his just
quarrel!"
"But that you may be able to
do so," said Rebecca touching his shoulder with her hand, "you must
now observe my directions, and remain quiet."
"True, maiden," said
Ivanhoe, "as quiet as these disquieted times will permit—And of
Cedric and his household?"
"His steward came but brief
while since," said the Jewess, "panting with haste, to ask my father
for certain monies, the price of wool the growth of Cedric's flocks,
and from him I learned that Cedric and Athelstane of Coningsburgh
had left Prince John's lodging in high displeasure, and were about
to set forth on their return homeward."
"Went any lady with them to
the banquet?" said Wilfred.
"The Lady Rowena," said
Rebecca, answering the question with more precision than it had been
asked—"The Lady Rowena went not to the Prince's feast, and, as the
steward reported to us, she is now on her journey back to
Rotherwood, with her guardian Cedric. And touching your faithful
squire Gurth—-"
"Ha!" exclaimed the knight,
"knowest thou his name?—But thou dost," he immediately added, "and
well thou mayst, for it was from thy hand, and, as I am now
convinced, from thine own generosity of spirit, that he received but
yesterday a hundred zecchins."
"Speak not of that," said
Rebecca, blushing deeply; "I see how easy it is for the tongue to
betray what the heart would gladly conceal."
"But this sum of gold," said
Ivanhoe, gravely, "my honour is concerned in repaying it to your
father."
"Let it be as thou wilt,"
said Rebecca, "when eight days have passed away; but think not, and
speak not now, of aught that may retard thy recovery."
"Be it so, kind maiden,"
said Ivanhoe; "I were most ungrateful to dispute thy commands. But
one word of the fate of poor Gurth, and I have done with questioning
thee."
"I grieve to tell thee, Sir
Knight," answered the Jewess, "that he is in custody by the order of
Cedric."—And then observing the distress which her communication
gave to Wilfred, she instantly added, "But the steward Oswald said,
that if nothing occurred to renew his master's displeasure against
him, he was sure that Cedric would pardon Gurth, a faithful serf,
and one who stood high in favour, and who had but committed this
error out of the love which he bore to Cedric's son. And he said,
moreover, that he and his comrades, and especially Wamba the Jester,
were resolved to warn Gurth to make his escape by the way, in case
Cedric's ire against him could not be mitigated."
"Would to God they may keep
their purpose!" said Ivanhoe; "but it seems as if I were destined to
bring ruin on whomsoever hath shown kindness to me. My king, by whom
I was honoured and distinguished, thou seest that the brother most
indebted to him is raising his arms to grasp his crown;—my regard
hath brought restraint and trouble on the fairest of her sex;—and
now my father in his mood may slay this poor bondsman but for his
love and loyal service to me!—Thou seest, maiden, what an ill-fated
wretch thou dost labour to assist; be wise, and let me go, ere the
misfortunes which track my footsteps like slot-hounds, shall involve
thee also in their pursuit."
"Nay," said Rebecca, "thy
weakness and thy grief, Sir Knight, make thee miscalculate the
purposes of Heaven. Thou hast been restored to thy country when it
most needed the assistance of a strong hand and a true heart, and
thou hast humbled the pride of thine enemies and those of thy king,
when their horn was most highly exalted, and for the evil which thou
hast sustained, seest thou not that Heaven has raised thee a helper
and a physician, even among the most despised of the
land?—Therefore, be of good courage, and trust that thou art
preserved for some marvel which thine arm shall work before this
people. Adieu—and having taken the medicine which I shall send thee
by the hand of Reuben, compose thyself again to rest, that thou
mayest be the more able to endure the journey on the succeeding
day."
Ivanhoe was convinced by the
reasoning, and obeyed the directions, of Rebecca. The drought which
Reuben administered was of a sedative and narcotic quality, and
secured the patient sound and undisturbed slumbers. In the morning
his kind physician found him entirely free from feverish symptoms,
and fit to undergo the fatigue of a journey.
He was deposited in the
horse-litter which had brought him from the lists, and every
precaution taken for his travelling with ease. In one circumstance
only even the entreaties of Rebecca were unable to secure sufficient
attention to the accommodation of the wounded knight. Isaac, like
the enriched traveller of Juvenal's tenth satire, had ever the fear
of robbery before his eyes, conscious that he would be alike
accounted fair game by the marauding Norman noble, and by the Saxon
outlaw. He therefore journeyed at a great rate, and made short
halts, and shorter repasts, so that he passed by Cedric and
Athelstane who had several hours the start of him, but who had been
delayed by their protracted feasting at the convent of Saint
Withold's. Yet such was the virtue of Miriam's balsam, or such the
strength of Ivanhoe's constitution, that he did not sustain from the
hurried journey that inconvenience which his kind physician had
apprehended.
In another point of view,
however, the Jew's haste proved somewhat more than good speed. The
rapidity with which he insisted on travelling, bred several disputes
between him and the party whom he had hired to attend him as a
guard. These men were Saxons, and not free by any means from the
national love of ease and good living which the Normans stigmatized
as laziness and gluttony. Reversing Shylock's position, they had
accepted the employment in hopes of feeding upon the wealthy Jew,
and were very much displeased when they found themselves
disappointed, by the rapidity with which he insisted on their
proceeding. They remonstrated also upon the risk of damage to their
horses by these forced marches. Finally, there arose betwixt Isaac
and his satellites a deadly feud, concerning the quantity of wine
and ale to be allowed for consumption at each meal. And thus it
happened, that when the alarm of danger approached, and that which
Isaac feared was likely to come upon him, he was deserted by the
discontented mercenaries on whose protection he had relied, without
using the means necessary to secure their attachment.
In this deplorable condition
the Jew, with his daughter and her wounded patient, were found by
Cedric, as has already been noticed, and soon afterwards fell into
the power of De Bracy and his confederates. Little notice was at
first taken of the horse-litter, and it might have remained behind
but for the curiosity of De Bracy, who looked into it under the
impression that it might contain the object of his enterprise, for
Rowena had not unveiled herself. But De Bracy's astonishment was
considerable, when he discovered that the litter contained a wounded
man, who, conceiving himself to have fallen into the power of Saxon
outlaws, with whom his name might be a protection for himself and
his friends, frankly avowed himself to be Wilfred of Ivanhoe.
The ideas of chivalrous
honour, which, amidst his wildness and levity, never utterly
abandoned De Bracy, prohibited him from doing the knight any injury
in his defenceless condition, and equally interdicted his betraying
him to Front-de-Boeuf, who would have had no scruples to put to
death, under any circumstances, the rival claimant of the fief of
Ivanhoe. On the other hand, to liberate a suitor preferred by the
Lady Rowena, as the events of the tournament, and indeed Wilfred's
previous banishment from his father's house, had made matter of
notoriety, was a pitch far above the flight of De Bracy's
generosity. A middle course betwixt good and evil was all which he
found himself capable of adopting, and he commanded two of his own
squires to keep close by the litter, and to suffer no one to
approach it. If questioned, they were directed by their master to
say, that the empty litter of the Lady Rowena was employed to
transport one of their comrades who had been wounded in the scuffle.
On arriving at Torquilstone, while the Knight Templar and the lord
of that castle were each intent upon their own schemes, the one on
the Jew's treasure, and the other on his daughter, De Bracy's
squires conveyed Ivanhoe, still under the name of a wounded comrade,
to a distant apartment. This explanation was accordingly returned by
these men to Front-de-Boeuf, when he questioned them why they did
not make for the battlements upon the alarm.
"A wounded companion!" he
replied in great wrath and astonishment. "No wonder that churls and
yeomen wax so presumptuous as even to lay leaguer before castles,
and that clowns and swineherds send defiances to nobles, since
men-at-arms have turned sick men's nurses, and Free Companions are
grown keepers of dying folk's curtains, when the castle is about to
be assailed.—To the battlements, ye loitering villains!" he
exclaimed, raising his stentorian voice till the arches around rung
again, "to the battlements, or I will splinter your bones with this
truncheon!"
The men sulkily replied,
"that they desired nothing better than to go to the battlements,
providing Front-de-Boeuf would bear them out with their master, who
had commanded them to tend the dying man."
"The dying man,
knaves!" rejoined the Baron; "I promise thee we shall all be dying
men an we stand not to it the more stoutly. But I will relieve the
guard upon this caitiff companion of yours.—Here, Urfried—hag—fiend
of a Saxon witch—hearest me not?—tend me this bedridden fellow since
he must needs be tended, whilst these knaves use their weapons.—Here
be two arblasts, comrades, with windlaces and quarrells
34—to
the barbican with you, and see you drive each bolt through a Saxon
brain."
The men, who, like most of
their description, were fond of enterprise and detested inaction,
went joyfully to the scene of danger as they were commanded, and
thus the charge of Ivanhoe was transferred to Urfried, or Ulrica.
But she, whose brain was burning with remembrance of injuries and
with hopes of vengeance, was readily induced to devolve upon Rebecca
the care of her patient.
CHAPTER XXIX
Ascend the watch-tower yonder, valiant soldier,
Look on the field, and say how goes the battle.
—Schiller's Maid of Orleans
A moment of peril is often
also a moment of open-hearted kindness and affection. We are thrown
off our guard by the general agitation of our feelings, and betray
the intensity of those, which, at more tranquil periods, our
prudence at least conceals, if it cannot altogether suppress them.
In finding herself once more by the side of Ivanhoe, Rebecca was
astonished at the keen sensation of pleasure which she experienced,
even at a time when all around them both was danger, if not despair.
As she felt his pulse, and enquired after his health, there was a
softness in her touch and in her accents implying a kinder interest
than she would herself have been pleased to have voluntarily
expressed. Her voice faltered and her hand trembled, and it was only
the cold question of Ivanhoe, "Is it you, gentle maiden?" which
recalled her to herself, and reminded her the sensations which she
felt were not and could not be mutual. A sigh escaped, but it was
scarce audible; and the questions which she asked the knight
concerning his state of health were put in the tone of calm
friendship. Ivanhoe answered her hastily that he was, in point of
health, as well, and better than he could have expected—"Thanks," he
said, "dear Rebecca, to thy helpful skill."
"He calls me DEAR Rebecca,"
said the maiden to herself, "but it is in the cold and careless tone
which ill suits the word. His war-horse—his hunting hound, are
dearer to him than the despised Jewess!"
"My mind, gentle maiden,"
continued Ivanhoe, "is more disturbed by anxiety, than my body with
pain. From the speeches of those men who were my warders just now, I
learn that I am a prisoner, and, if I judge aright of the loud
hoarse voice which even now dispatched them hence on some military
duty, I am in the castle of Front-de-Boeuf—If so, how will this end,
or how can I protect Rowena and my father?"
"He names not the Jew or
Jewess," said Rebecca internally; "yet what is our portion in him,
and how justly am I punished by Heaven for letting my thoughts dwell
upon him!" She hastened after this brief self-accusation to give
Ivanhoe what information she could; but it amounted only to this,
that the Templar Bois-Guilbert, and the Baron Front-de-Boeuf, were
commanders within the castle; that it was beleaguered from without,
but by whom she knew not. She added, that there was a Christian
priest within the castle who might be possessed of more information.
"A Christian priest!" said
the knight, joyfully; "fetch him hither, Rebecca, if thou canst—say
a sick man desires his ghostly counsel—say what thou wilt, but bring
him—something I must do or attempt, but how can I determine until I
know how matters stand without?"
Rebecca in compliance with
the wishes of Ivanhoe, made that attempt to bring Cedric into the
wounded Knight's chamber, which was defeated as we have already seen
by the interference of Urfried, who had also been on the watch to
intercept the supposed monk. Rebecca retired to communicate to
Ivanhoe the result of her errand.
They had not much leisure to
regret the failure of this source of intelligence, or to contrive by
what means it might be supplied; for the noise within the castle,
occasioned by the defensive preparations which had been considerable
for some time, now increased into tenfold bustle and clamour. The
heavy, yet hasty step of the men-at-arms, traversed the battlements
or resounded on the narrow and winding passages and stairs which led
to the various bartisans and points of defence. The voices of the
knights were heard, animating their followers, or directing means of
defence, while their commands were often drowned in the clashing of
armour, or the clamorous shouts of those whom they addressed.
Tremendous as these sounds were, and yet more terrible from the
awful event which they presaged, there was a sublimity mixed with
them, which Rebecca's high-toned mind could feel even in that moment
of terror. Her eye kindled, although the blood fled from her cheeks;
and there was a strong mixture of fear, and of a thrilling sense of
the sublime, as she repeated, half whispering to herself, half
speaking to her companion, the sacred text,—"The quiver rattleth—the
glittering spear and the shield—the noise of the captains and the
shouting!"
But Ivanhoe was like the
war-horse of that sublime passage, glowing with impatience at his
inactivity, and with his ardent desire to mingle in the affray of
which these sounds were the introduction. "If I could but drag
myself," he said, "to yonder window, that I might see how this brave
game is like to go—If I had but bow to shoot a shaft, or battle-axe
to strike were it but a single blow for our deliverance!—It is in
vain—it is in vain—I am alike nerveless and weaponless!"
"Fret not thyself, noble
knight," answered Rebecca, "the sounds have ceased of a sudden—it
may be they join not battle."
"Thou knowest nought of it,"
said Wilfred, impatiently; "this dead pause only shows that the men
are at their posts on the walls, and expecting an instant attack;
what we have heard was but the instant muttering of the storm—it
will burst anon in all its fury.—Could I but reach yonder window!"
"Thou wilt but injure
thyself by the attempt, noble knight," replied his attendant.
Observing his extreme solicitude, she firmly added, "I myself will
stand at the lattice, and describe to you as I can what passes
without."
"You must not—you shall
not!" exclaimed Ivanhoe; "each lattice, each aperture, will be soon
a mark for the archers; some random shaft—"
"It shall be welcome!"
murmured Rebecca, as with firm pace she ascended two or three steps,
which led to the window of which they spoke.
"Rebecca, dear Rebecca!"
exclaimed Ivanhoe, "this is no maiden's pastime—do not expose
thyself to wounds and death, and render me for ever miserable for
having given the occasion; at least, cover thyself with yonder
ancient buckler, and show as little of your person at the lattice as
may be."
Following with wonderful
promptitude the directions of Ivanhoe, and availing herself of the
protection of the large ancient shield, which she placed against the
lower part of the window, Rebecca, with tolerable security to
herself, could witness part of what was passing without the castle,
and report to Ivanhoe the preparations which the assailants were
making for the storm. Indeed the situation which she thus obtained
was peculiarly favourable for this purpose, because, being placed on
an angle of the main building, Rebecca could not only see what
passed beyond the precincts of the castle, but also commanded a view
of the outwork likely to be the first object of the meditated
assault. It was an exterior fortification of no great height or
strength, intended to protect the postern-gate, through which Cedric
had been recently dismissed by Front-de-Boeuf. The castle moat
divided this species of barbican from the rest of the fortress, so
that, in case of its being taken, it was easy to cut off the
communication with the main building, by withdrawing the temporary
bridge. In the outwork was a sallyport corresponding to the postern
of the castle, and the whole was surrounded by a strong palisade.
Rebecca could observe, from the number of men placed for the defence
of this post, that the besieged entertained apprehensions for its
safety; and from the mustering of the assailants in a direction
nearly opposite to the outwork, it seemed no less plain that it had
been selected as a vulnerable point of attack.
These appearances she
hastily communicated to Ivanhoe, and added, "The skirts of the wood
seem lined with archers, although only a few are advanced from its
dark shadow."
"Under what banner?" asked
Ivanhoe.
"Under no ensign of war
which I can observe," answered Rebecca.
"A singular novelty,"
muttered the knight, "to advance to storm such a castle without
pennon or banner displayed!—Seest thou who they be that act as
leaders?"
"A knight, clad in sable
armour, is the most conspicuous," said the Jewess; "he alone is
armed from head to heel, and seems to assume the direction of all
around him."
"What device does he bear on
his shield?" replied Ivanhoe.
"Something resembling
a bar of iron, and a padlock painted blue on the black shield."
35
"A fetterlock and
shacklebolt azure," said Ivanhoe; "I know not who may bear the
device, but well I ween it might now be mine own. Canst thou not see
the motto?"
"Scarce the device itself at
this distance," replied Rebecca; "but when the sun glances fair upon
his shield, it shows as I tell you."
"Seem there no other
leaders?" exclaimed the anxious enquirer.
"None of mark and
distinction that I can behold from this station," said Rebecca;
"but, doubtless, the other side of the castle is also assailed. They
appear even now preparing to advance—God of Zion, protect us!—What a
dreadful sight!—Those who advance first bear huge shields and
defences made of plank; the others follow, bending their bows as
they come on.—They raise their bows!—God of Moses, forgive the
creatures thou hast made!"
Her description was here
suddenly interrupted by the signal for assault, which was given by
the blast of a shrill bugle, and at once answered by a flourish of
the Norman trumpets from the battlements, which, mingled with the
deep and hollow clang of the nakers, (a species of kettle-drum,)
retorted in notes of defiance the challenge of the enemy. The shouts
of both parties augmented the fearful din, the assailants crying,
"Saint George for merry England!" and the Normans answering them
with loud cries of "En avant De Bracy!—Beau-seant!
Beau-seant!—Front-de-Boeuf a la rescousse!" according to the
war-cries of their different commanders.
It was not, however, by
clamour that the contest was to be decided, and the desperate
efforts of the assailants were met by an equally vigorous defence on
the part of the besieged. The archers, trained by their woodland
pastimes to the most effective use of the long-bow, shot, to use the
appropriate phrase of the time, so "wholly together," that no point
at which a defender could show the least part of his person, escaped
their cloth-yard shafts. By this heavy discharge, which continued as
thick and sharp as hail, while, notwithstanding, every arrow had its
individual aim, and flew by scores together against each embrasure
and opening in the parapets, as well as at every window where a
defender either occasionally had post, or might be suspected to be
stationed,—by this sustained discharge, two or three of the garrison
were slain, and several others wounded. But, confident in their
armour of proof, and in the cover which their situation afforded,
the followers of Front-de-Boeuf, and his allies, showed an obstinacy
in defence proportioned to the fury of the attack and replied with
the discharge of their large cross-bows, as well as with their
long-bows, slings, and other missile weapons, to the close and
continued shower of arrows; and, as the assailants were necessarily
but indifferently protected, did considerably more damage than they
received at their hand. The whizzing of shafts and of missiles, on
both sides, was only interrupted by the shouts which arose when
either side inflicted or sustained some notable loss.
"And I must lie here like a
bedridden monk," exclaimed Ivanhoe, "while the game that gives me
freedom or death is played out by the hand of others!—Look from the
window once again, kind maiden, but beware that you are not marked
by the archers beneath—Look out once more, and tell me if they yet
advance to the storm."
With patient courage,
strengthened by the interval which she had employed in mental
devotion, Rebecca again took post at the lattice, sheltering
herself, however, so as not to be visible from beneath.
"What dost thou see,
Rebecca?" again demanded the wounded knight.
"Nothing but the cloud of
arrows flying so thick as to dazzle mine eyes, and to hide the
bowmen who shoot them."
"That cannot endure," said
Ivanhoe; "if they press not right on to carry the castle by pure
force of arms, the archery may avail but little against stone walls
and bulwarks. Look for the Knight of the Fetterlock, fair Rebecca,
and see how he bears himself; for as the leader is, so will his
followers be."
"I see him not," said
Rebecca.
"Foul craven!" exclaimed
Ivanhoe; "does he blench from the helm when the wind blows highest?"
"He blenches not! he
blenches not!" said Rebecca, "I see him now; he leads a body of men
close under the outer barrier of the barbican.
36
—They pull down the piles and palisades; they hew down the barriers
with axes.—His high black plume floats abroad over the throng, like
a raven over the field of the slain.—They have made a breach in the
barriers—they rush in—they are thrust back!—Front-de-Boeuf heads the
defenders; I see his gigantic form above the press. They throng
again to the breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand, and man
to man. God of Jacob! it is the meeting of two fierce tides—the
conflict of two oceans moved by adverse winds!"
She turned her head from the
lattice, as if unable longer to endure a sight so terrible.
"Look forth again, Rebecca,"
said Ivanhoe, mistaking the cause of her retiring; "the archery must
in some degree have ceased, since they are now fighting hand to
hand.—Look again, there is now less danger."
Rebecca again looked forth,
and almost immediately exclaimed, "Holy prophets of the law!
Front-de-Boeuf and the Black Knight fight hand to hand on the
breach, amid the roar of their followers, who watch the progress of
the strife—Heaven strike with the cause of the oppressed and of the
captive!" She then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed, "He is
down!—he is down!"
"Who is down?" cried
Ivanhoe; "for our dear Lady's sake, tell me which has fallen?"
"The Black Knight," answered
Rebecca, faintly; then instantly again shouted with joyful
eagerness—"But no—but no!—the name of the Lord of Hosts be
blessed!—he is on foot again, and fights as if there were twenty
men's strength in his single arm—His sword is broken—he snatches an
axe from a yeoman—he presses Front-de-Boeuf with blow on blow—The
giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of the
woodman—he falls—he falls!"
"Front-de-Boeuf?" exclaimed
Ivanhoe.
"Front-de-Boeuf!" answered
the Jewess; "his men rush to the rescue, headed by the haughty
Templar—their united force compels the champion to pause—They drag
Front-de-Boeuf within the walls."
"The assailants have won the
barriers, have they not?" said Ivanhoe.
"They have—they have!"
exclaimed Rebecca—"and they press the besieged hard upon the outer
wall; some plant ladders, some swarm like bees, and endeavour to
ascend upon the shoulders of each other—down go stones, beams, and
trunks of trees upon their heads, and as fast as they bear the
wounded to the rear, fresh men supply their places in the
assault—Great God! hast thou given men thine own image, that it
should be thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren!"
"Think not of that," said
Ivanhoe; "this is no time for such thoughts—Who yield?—who push
their way?"
"The ladders are thrown
down," replied Rebecca, shuddering; "the soldiers lie grovelling
under them like crushed reptiles—The besieged have the better."
"Saint George strike for
us!" exclaimed the knight; "do the false yeomen give way?"
"No!" exclaimed Rebecca,
"they bear themselves right yeomanly—the Black Knight approaches the
postern with his huge axe—the thundering blows which he deals, you
may hear them above all the din and shouts of the battle—Stones and
beams are hailed down on the bold champion—he regards them no more
than if they were thistle-down or feathers!"
"By Saint John of Acre,"
said Ivanhoe, raising himself joyfully on his couch, "methought
there was but one man in England that might do such a deed!"
"The postern gate shakes,"
continued Rebecca; "it crashes—it is splintered by his blows—they
rush in—the outwork is won—Oh, God!—they hurl the defenders from the
battlements—they throw them into the moat—O men, if ye be indeed
men, spare them that can resist no longer!"
"The bridge—the bridge which
communicates with the castle—have they won that pass?" exclaimed
Ivanhoe.
"No," replied Rebecca, "The
Templar has destroyed the plank on which they crossed—few of the
defenders escaped with him into the castle—the shrieks and cries
which you hear tell the fate of the others—Alas!—I see it is still
more difficult to look upon victory than upon battle."
"What do they now, maiden?"
said Ivanhoe; "look forth yet again—this is no time to faint at
bloodshed."
"It is over for the time,"
answered Rebecca; "our friends strengthen themselves within the
outwork which they have mastered, and it affords them so good a
shelter from the foemen's shot, that the garrison only bestow a few
bolts on it from interval to interval, as if rather to disquiet than
effectually to injure them."
"Our friends," said
Wilfred, "will surely not abandon an enterprise so gloriously begun
and so happily attained.—O no! I will put my faith in the good
knight whose axe hath rent heart-of-oak and bars of iron.—Singular,"
he again muttered to himself, "if there be two who can do a deed of
such derring-do!
37—a
fetterlock, and a shacklebolt on a field sable—what may that
mean?—seest thou nought else, Rebecca, by which the Black Knight may
be distinguished?"
"Nothing," said the Jewess;
"all about him is black as the wing of the night raven. Nothing can
I spy that can mark him further—but having once seen him put forth
his strength in battle, methinks I could know him again among a
thousand warriors. He rushes to the fray as if he were summoned to a
banquet. There is more than mere strength, there seems as if the
whole soul and spirit of the champion were given to every blow which
he deals upon his enemies. God assoilize him of the sin of
bloodshed!—it is fearful, yet magnificent, to behold how the arm and
heart of one man can triumph over hundreds."
"Rebecca," said Ivanhoe,
"thou hast painted a hero; surely they rest but to refresh their
force, or to provide the means of crossing the moat—Under such a
leader as thou hast spoken this knight to be, there are no craven
fears, no cold-blooded delays, no yielding up a gallant emprize;
since the difficulties which render it arduous render it also
glorious. I swear by the honour of my house—I vow by the name of my
bright lady-love, I would endure ten years' captivity to fight one
day by that good knight's side in such a quarrel as this!"
"Alas," said Rebecca,
leaving her station at the window, and approaching the couch of the
wounded knight, "this impatient yearning after action—this
struggling with and repining at your present weakness, will not fail
to injure your returning health—How couldst thou hope to inflict
wounds on others, ere that be healed which thou thyself hast
received?"
"Rebecca," he replied, "thou
knowest not how impossible it is for one trained to actions of
chivalry to remain passive as a priest, or a woman, when they are
acting deeds of honour around him. The love of battle is the food
upon which we live—the dust of the 'melee' is the breath of our
nostrils! We live not—we wish not to live—longer than while we are
victorious and renowned—Such, maiden, are the laws of chivalry to
which we are sworn, and to which we offer all that we hold dear."
"Alas!" said the fair
Jewess, "and what is it, valiant knight, save an offering of
sacrifice to a demon of vain glory, and a passing through the fire
to Moloch?—What remains to you as the prize of all the blood you
have spilled—of all the travail and pain you have endured—of all the
tears which your deeds have caused, when death hath broken the
strong man's spear, and overtaken the speed of his war-horse?"
"What remains?" cried
Ivanhoe; "Glory, maiden, glory! which gilds our sepulchre and
embalms our name."
"Glory?" continued Rebecca;
"alas, is the rusted mail which hangs as a hatchment over the
champion's dim and mouldering tomb—is the defaced sculpture of the
inscription which the ignorant monk can hardly read to the enquiring
pilgrim—are these sufficient rewards for the sacrifice of every
kindly affection, for a life spent miserably that ye may make others
miserable? Or is there such virtue in the rude rhymes of a wandering
bard, that domestic love, kindly affection, peace and happiness, are
so wildly bartered, to become the hero of those ballads which
vagabond minstrels sing to drunken churls over their evening ale?"
"By the soul of Hereward!"
replied the knight impatiently, "thou speakest, maiden, of thou
knowest not what. Thou wouldst quench the pure light of chivalry,
which alone distinguishes the noble from the base, the gentle knight
from the churl and the savage; which rates our life far, far beneath
the pitch of our honour; raises us victorious over pain, toil, and
suffering, and teaches us to fear no evil but disgrace. Thou art no
Christian, Rebecca; and to thee are unknown those high feelings
which swell the bosom of a noble maiden when her lover hath done
some deed of emprize which sanctions his flame. Chivalry!—why,
maiden, she is the nurse of pure and high affection—the stay of the
oppressed, the redresser of grievances, the curb of the power of the
tyrant—Nobility were but an empty name without her, and liberty
finds the best protection in her lance and her sword."
"I am, indeed," said
Rebecca, "sprung from a race whose courage was distinguished in the
defence of their own land, but who warred not, even while yet a
nation, save at the command of the Deity, or in defending their
country from oppression. The sound of the trumpet wakes Judah no
longer, and her despised children are now but the unresisting
victims of hostile and military oppression. Well hast thou spoken,
Sir Knight,—until the God of Jacob shall raise up for his chosen
people a second Gideon, or a new Maccabeus, it ill beseemeth the
Jewish damsel to speak of battle or of war."
The high-minded maiden
concluded the argument in a tone of sorrow, which deeply expressed
her sense of the degradation of her people, embittered perhaps by
the idea that Ivanhoe considered her as one not entitled to
interfere in a case of honour, and incapable of entertaining or
expressing sentiments of honour and generosity.
"How little he knows this
bosom," she said, "to imagine that cowardice or meanness of soul
must needs be its guests, because I have censured the fantastic
chivalry of the Nazarenes! Would to heaven that the shedding of mine
own blood, drop by drop, could redeem the captivity of Judah! Nay,
would to God it could avail to set free my father, and this his
benefactor, from the chains of the oppressor! The proud Christian
should then see whether the daughter of God's chosen people dared
not to die as bravely as the vainest Nazarene maiden, that boasts
her descent from some petty chieftain of the rude and frozen north!"
She then looked towards the
couch of the wounded knight.
"He sleeps," she said;
"nature exhausted by sufferance and the waste of spirits, his
wearied frame embraces the first moment of temporary relaxation to
sink into slumber. Alas! is it a crime that I should look upon him,
when it may be for the last time?—When yet but a short space, and
those fair features will be no longer animated by the bold and
buoyant spirit which forsakes them not even in sleep!—When the
nostril shall be distended, the mouth agape, the eyes fixed and
bloodshot; and when the proud and noble knight may be trodden on by
the lowest caitiff of this accursed castle, yet stir not when the
heel is lifted up against him!—And my father!—oh, my father! evil is
it with his daughter, when his grey hairs are not remembered because
of the golden locks of youth!—What know I but that these evils are
the messengers of Jehovah's wrath to the unnatural child, who thinks
of a stranger's captivity before a parent's? who forgets the
desolation of Judah, and looks upon the comeliness of a Gentile and
a stranger?—But I will tear this folly from my heart, though every
fibre bleed as I rend it away!"
She wrapped herself closely
in her veil, and sat down at a distance from the couch of the
wounded knight, with her back turned towards it, fortifying, or
endeavouring to fortify her mind, not only against the impending
evils from without, but also against those treacherous feelings
which assailed her from within.
CHAPTER XXX
Approach the chamber, look upon his bed.
His is the passing of no peaceful ghost,
Which, as the lark arises to the sky,
'Mid morning's sweetest breeze and softest dew,
Is wing'd to heaven by good men's sighs and tears!—
Anselm parts otherwise.
—Old Play
During the interval of quiet
which followed the first success of the besiegers, while the one
party was preparing to pursue their advantage, and the other to
strengthen their means of defence, the Templar and De Bracy held
brief council together in the hall of the castle.
"Where is Front-de-Boeuf?"
said the latter, who had superintended the defence of the fortress
on the other side; "men say he hath been slain."
"He lives," said the
Templar, coolly, "lives as yet; but had he worn the bull's head of
which he bears the name, and ten plates of iron to fence it withal,
he must have gone down before yonder fatal axe. Yet a few hours, and
Front-de-Boeuf is with his fathers—a powerful limb lopped off Prince
John's enterprise."
"And a brave addition to the
kingdom of Satan," said De Bracy; "this comes of reviling saints and
angels, and ordering images of holy things and holy men to be flung
down on the heads of these rascaille yeomen."
"Go to—thou art a fool,"
said the Templar; "thy superstition is upon a level with
Front-de-Boeuf's want of faith; neither of you can render a reason
for your belief or unbelief."
"Benedicite, Sir Templar,"
replied De Bracy, "pray you to keep better rule with your tongue
when I am the theme of it. By the Mother of Heaven, I am a better
Christian man than thou and thy fellowship; for the 'bruit' goeth
shrewdly out, that the most holy Order of the Temple of Zion nurseth
not a few heretics within its bosom, and that Sir Brian de
Bois-Guilbert is of the number."
"Care not thou for such
reports," said the Templar; "but let us think of making good the
castle.—How fought these villain yeomen on thy side?"
"Like fiends incarnate,"
said De Bracy. "They swarmed close up to the walls, headed, as I
think, by the knave who won the prize at the archery, for I knew his
horn and baldric. And this is old Fitzurse's boasted policy,
encouraging these malapert knaves to rebel against us! Had I not
been armed in proof, the villain had marked me down seven times with
as little remorse as if I had been a buck in season. He told every
rivet on my armour with a cloth-yard shaft, that rapped against my
ribs with as little compunction as if my bones had been of iron—But
that I wore a shirt of Spanish mail under my plate-coat, I had been
fairly sped."
"But you maintained your
post?" said the Templar. "We lost the outwork on our part."
"That is a shrewd loss,"
said De Bracy; "the knaves will find cover there to assault the
castle more closely, and may, if not well watched, gain some
unguarded corner of a tower, or some forgotten window, and so break
in upon us. Our numbers are too few for the defence of every point,
and the men complain that they can nowhere show themselves, but they
are the mark for as many arrows as a parish-butt on a holyday even.
Front-de-Boeuf is dying too, so we shall receive no more aid from
his bull's head and brutal strength. How think you, Sir Brian, were
we not better make a virtue of necessity, and compound with the
rogues by delivering up our prisoners?"
"How?" exclaimed the
Templar; "deliver up our prisoners, and stand an object alike of
ridicule and execration, as the doughty warriors who dared by a
night-attack to possess themselves of the persons of a party of
defenceless travellers, yet could not make good a strong castle
against a vagabond troop of outlaws, led by swineherds, jesters, and
the very refuse of mankind?—Shame on thy counsel, Maurice de
Bracy!—The ruins of this castle shall bury both my body and my
shame, ere I consent to such base and dishonourable composition."
"Let us to the walls, then,"
said De Bracy, carelessly; "that man never breathed, be he Turk or
Templar, who held life at lighter rate than I do. But I trust there
is no dishonour in wishing I had here some two scores of my gallant
troop of Free Companions?—Oh, my brave lances! if ye knew but how
hard your captain were this day bested, how soon should I see my
banner at the head of your clump of spears! And how short while
would these rabble villains stand to endure your encounter!"
"Wish for whom thou wilt,"
said the Templar, "but let us make what defence we can with the
soldiers who remain—They are chiefly Front-de-Boeuf's followers,
hated by the English for a thousand acts of insolence and
oppression."
"The better," said De Bracy;
"the rugged slaves will defend themselves to the last drop of their
blood, ere they encounter the revenge of the peasants without. Let
us up and be doing, then, Brian de Bois-Guilbert; and, live or die,
thou shalt see Maurice de Bracy bear himself this day as a gentleman
of blood and lineage."
"To the walls!" answered the
Templar; and they both ascended the battlements to do all that skill
could dictate, and manhood accomplish, in defence of the place. They
readily agreed that the point of greatest danger was that opposite
to the outwork of which the assailants had possessed themselves. The
castle, indeed, was divided from that barbican by the moat, and it
was impossible that the besiegers could assail the postern-door,
with which the outwork corresponded, without surmounting that
obstacle; but it was the opinion both of the Templar and De Bracy,
that the besiegers, if governed by the same policy their leader had
already displayed, would endeavour, by a formidable assault, to draw
the chief part of the defenders' observation to this point, and take
measures to avail themselves of every negligence which might take
place in the defence elsewhere. To guard against such an evil, their
numbers only permitted the knights to place sentinels from space to
space along the walls in communication with each other, who might
give the alarm whenever danger was threatened. Meanwhile, they
agreed that De Bracy should command the defence at the postern, and
the Templar should keep with him a score of men or thereabouts as a
body of reserve, ready to hasten to any other point which might be
suddenly threatened. The loss of the barbican had also this
unfortunate effect, that, notwithstanding the superior height of the
castle walls, the besieged could not see from them, with the same
precision as before, the operations of the enemy; for some
straggling underwood approached so near the sallyport of the
outwork, that the assailants might introduce into it whatever force
they thought proper, not only under cover, but even without the
knowledge of the defenders. Utterly uncertain, therefore, upon what
point the storm was to burst, De Bracy and his companion were under
the necessity of providing against every possible contingency, and
their followers, however brave, experienced the anxious dejection of
mind incident to men enclosed by enemies, who possessed the power of
choosing their time and mode of attack.
Meanwhile, the lord of the
beleaguered and endangered castle lay upon a bed of bodily pain and
mental agony. He had not the usual resource of bigots in that
superstitious period, most of whom were wont to atone for the crimes
they were guilty of by liberality to the church, stupefying by this
means their terrors by the idea of atonement and forgiveness; and
although the refuge which success thus purchased, was no more like
to the peace of mind which follows on sincere repentance, than the
turbid stupefaction procured by opium resembles healthy and natural
slumbers, it was still a state of mind preferable to the agonies of
awakened remorse. But among the vices of Front-de-Boeuf, a hard and
griping man, avarice was predominant; and he preferred setting
church and churchmen at defiance, to purchasing from them pardon and
absolution at the price of treasure and of manors. Nor did the
Templar, an infidel of another stamp, justly characterise his
associate, when he said Front-de-Boeuf could assign no cause for his
unbelief and contempt for the established faith; for the Baron would
have alleged that the Church sold her wares too dear, that the
spiritual freedom which she put up to sale was only to be bought
like that of the chief captain of Jerusalem, "with a great sum," and
Front-de-Boeuf preferred denying the virtue of the medicine, to
paying the expense of the physician.
But the moment had now
arrived when earth and all his treasures were gliding from before
his eyes, and when the savage Baron's heart, though hard as a nether
millstone, became appalled as he gazed forward into the waste
darkness of futurity. The fever of his body aided the impatience and
agony of his mind, and his death-bed exhibited a mixture of the
newly awakened feelings of horror, combating with the fixed and
inveterate obstinacy of his disposition;—a fearful state of mind,
only to be equalled in those tremendous regions, where there are
complaints without hope, remorse without repentance, a dreadful
sense of present agony, and a presentiment that it cannot cease or
be diminished!
"Where be these dog-priests
now," growled the Baron, "who set such price on their ghostly
mummery?—where be all those unshod Carmelites, for whom old
Front-de-Boeuf founded the convent of St Anne, robbing his heir of
many a fair rood of meadow, and many a fat field and close—where be
the greedy hounds now?—Swilling, I warrant me, at the ale, or
playing their juggling tricks at the bedside of some miserly
churl.—Me, the heir of their founder—me, whom their foundation binds
them to pray for—me—ungrateful villains as they are!—they suffer to
die like the houseless dog on yonder common, unshriven and
unhouseled!—Tell the Templar to come hither—he is a priest, and may
do something—But no!—as well confess myself to the devil as to Brian
de Bois-Guilbert, who recks neither of heaven nor of hell.—I have
heard old men talk of prayer—prayer by their own voice—Such need not
to court or to bribe the false priest—But I—I dare not!"
"Lives Reginald
Front-de-Boeuf," said a broken and shrill voice close by his
bedside, "to say there is that which he dares not!"
The evil conscience and the
shaken nerves of Front-de-Boeuf heard, in this strange interruption
to his soliloquy, the voice of one of those demons, who, as the
superstition of the times believed, beset the beds of dying men to
distract their thoughts, and turn them from the meditations which
concerned their eternal welfare. He shuddered and drew himself
together; but, instantly summoning up his wonted resolution, he
exclaimed, "Who is there?—what art thou, that darest to echo my
words in a tone like that of the night-raven?—Come before my couch
that I may see thee."
"I am thine evil angel,
Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," replied the voice.
"Let me behold thee then in
thy bodily shape, if thou be'st indeed a fiend," replied the dying
knight; "think not that I will blench from thee.—By the eternal
dungeon, could I but grapple with these horrors that hover round me,
as I have done with mortal dangers, heaven or hell should never say
that I shrunk from the conflict!"
"Think on thy sins, Reginald
Front-de-Boeuf," said the almost unearthly voice, "on rebellion, on
rapine, on murder!—Who stirred up the licentious John to war against
his grey-headed father—against his generous brother?"
"Be thou fiend, priest, or
devil," replied Front-de-Boeuf, "thou liest in thy throat!—Not I
stirred John to rebellion—not I alone—there were fifty knights and
barons, the flower of the midland counties—better men never laid
lance in rest—And must I answer for the fault done by fifty?—False
fiend, I defy thee! Depart, and haunt my couch no more—let me die in
peace if thou be mortal—if thou be a demon, thy time is not yet
come."
"In peace thou shalt NOT
die," repeated the voice; "even in death shalt thou think on thy
murders—on the groans which this castle has echoed—on the blood that
is engrained in its floors!"
"Thou canst not shake me by
thy petty malice," answered Front-de-Boeuf, with a ghastly and
constrained laugh. "The infidel Jew—it was merit with heaven to deal
with him as I did, else wherefore are men canonized who dip their
hands in the blood of Saracens?—The Saxon porkers, whom I have
slain, they were the foes of my country, and of my lineage, and of
my liege lord.—Ho! ho! thou seest there is no crevice in my coat of
plate—Art thou fled?—art thou silenced?"
"No, foul parricide!"
replied the voice; "think of thy father!—think of his death!—think
of his banquet-room flooded with his gore, and that poured forth by
the hand of a son!"
"Ha!" answered the Baron,
after a long pause, "an thou knowest that, thou art indeed the
author of evil, and as omniscient as the monks call thee!—That
secret I deemed locked in my own breast, and in that of one
besides—the temptress, the partaker of my guilt.—Go, leave me,
fiend! and seek the Saxon witch Ulrica, who alone could tell thee
what she and I alone witnessed.—Go, I say, to her, who washed the
wounds, and straighted the corpse, and gave to the slain man the
outward show of one parted in time and in the course of nature—Go to
her, she was my temptress, the foul provoker, the more foul
rewarder, of the deed—let her, as well as I, taste of the tortures
which anticipate hell!"
"She already tastes them,"
said Ulrica, stepping before the couch of Front-de-Boeuf; "she hath
long drunken of this cup, and its bitterness is now sweetened to see
that thou dost partake it.—Grind not thy teeth, Front-de-Boeuf—roll
not thine eyes—clench not thine hand, nor shake it at me with that
gesture of menace!—The hand which, like that of thy renowned
ancestor who gained thy name, could have broken with one stroke the
skull of a mountain-bull, is now unnerved and powerless as mine
own!"
"Vile murderous hag!"
replied Front-de-Boeuf; "detestable screech-owl! it is then thou who
art come to exult over the ruins thou hast assisted to lay low?"
"Ay, Reginald
Front-de-Boeuf," answered she, "it is Ulrica!—it is the daughter of
the murdered Torquil Wolfganger!—it is the sister of his slaughtered
sons!—it is she who demands of thee, and of thy father's house,
father and kindred, name and fame—all that she has lost by the name
of Front-de-Boeuf!—Think of my wrongs, Front-de-Boeuf, and answer me
if I speak not truth. Thou hast been my evil angel, and I will be
thine—I will dog thee till the very instant of dissolution!"
"Detestable fury!" exclaimed
Front-de-Boeuf, "that moment shalt thou never witness—Ho! Giles,
Clement, and Eustace! Saint Maur, and Stephen! seize this damned
witch, and hurl her from the battlements headlong—she has betrayed
us to the Saxon!—Ho! Saint Maur! Clement! false-hearted, knaves,
where tarry ye?"
"Call on them again, valiant
Baron," said the hag, with a smile of grisly mockery; "summon thy
vassals around thee, doom them that loiter to the scourge and the
dungeon—But know, mighty chief," she continued, suddenly changing
her tone, "thou shalt have neither answer, nor aid, nor obedience at
their hands.—Listen to these horrid sounds," for the din of the
recommenced assault and defence now rung fearfully loud from the
battlements of the castle; "in that war-cry is the downfall of thy
house—The blood-cemented fabric of Front-de-Boeuf's power totters to
the foundation, and before the foes he most despised!—The Saxon,
Reginald!—the scorned Saxon assails thy walls!—Why liest thou here,
like a worn-out hind, when the Saxon storms thy place of strength?"
"Gods and fiends!" exclaimed
the wounded knight; "O, for one moment's strength, to drag myself to
the 'melee', and perish as becomes my name!"
"Think not of it, valiant
warrior!" replied she; "thou shalt die no soldier's death, but
perish like the fox in his den, when the peasants have set fire to
the cover around it."
"Hateful hag! thou liest!"
exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf; "my followers bear them bravely—my walls
are strong and high—my comrades in arms fear not a whole host of
Saxons, were they headed by Hengist and Horsa!—The war-cry of the
Templar and of the Free Companions rises high over the conflict! And
by mine honour, when we kindle the blazing beacon, for joy of our
defence, it shall consume thee, body and bones; and I shall live to
hear thou art gone from earthly fires to those of that hell, which
never sent forth an incarnate fiend more utterly diabolical!"
"Hold thy belief," replied
Ulrica, "till the proof reach thee—But, no!" she said, interrupting
herself, "thou shalt know, even now, the doom, which all thy power,
strength, and courage, is unable to avoid, though it is prepared for
thee by this feeble band. Markest thou the smouldering and
suffocating vapour which already eddies in sable folds through the
chamber?—Didst thou think it was but the darkening of thy bursting
eyes—the difficulty of thy cumbered breathing?—No! Front-de-Boeuf,
there is another cause—Rememberest thou the magazine of fuel that is
stored beneath these apartments?"
"Woman!" he exclaimed with
fury, "thou hast not set fire to it?—By heaven, thou hast, and the
castle is in flames!"
"They are fast rising at
least," said Ulrica, with frightful composure; "and a signal shall
soon wave to warn the besiegers to press hard upon those who would
extinguish them.—Farewell, Front-de-Boeuf!—May Mista, Skogula, and
Zernebock, gods of the ancient Saxons—fiends, as the priests now
call them—supply the place of comforters at your dying bed, which
Ulrica now relinquishes!—But know, if it will give thee comfort to
know it, that Ulrica is bound to the same dark coast with thyself,
the companion of thy punishment as the companion of thy guilt.—And
now, parricide, farewell for ever!—May each stone of this vaulted
roof find a tongue to echo that title into thine ear!"
So saying, she left the
apartment; and Front-de-Boeuf could hear the crash of the ponderous
key, as she locked and double-locked the door behind her, thus
cutting off the most slender chance of escape. In the extremity of
agony he shouted upon his servants and allies—"Stephen and Saint
Maur!—Clement and Giles!—I burn here unaided!—To the rescue—to the
rescue, brave Bois-Guilbert, valiant De Bracy!—It is Front-de-Boeuf
who calls!—It is your master, ye traitor squires!—Your ally—your
brother in arms, ye perjured and faithless knights!—all the curses
due to traitors upon your recreant heads, do you abandon me to
perish thus miserably!—They hear me not—they cannot hear me—my voice
is lost in the din of battle.—The smoke rolls thicker and
thicker—the fire has caught upon the floor below—O, for one drought
of the air of heaven, were it to be purchased by instant
annihilation!" And in the mad frenzy of despair, the wretch now
shouted with the shouts of the fighters, now muttered curses on
himself, on mankind, and on Heaven itself.—"The red fire flashes
through the thick smoke!" he exclaimed; "the demon marches against
me under the banner of his own element—Foul spirit, avoid!—I go not
with thee without my comrades—all, all are thine, that garrison
these walls—Thinkest thou Front-de-Boeuf will be singled out to go
alone?—No—the infidel Templar—the licentious De Bracy—Ulrica, the
foul murdering strumpet—the men who aided my enterprises—the dog
Saxons and accursed Jews, who are my prisoners—all, all shall attend
me—a goodly fellowship as ever took the downward road—Ha, ha, ha!"
and he laughed in his frenzy till the vaulted roof rang again. "Who
laughed there?" exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf, in altered mood, for the
noise of the conflict did not prevent the echoes of his own mad
laughter from returning upon his ear—"who laughed there?—Ulrica, was
it thou?—Speak, witch, and I forgive thee—for, only thou or the
fiend of hell himself could have laughed at such a moment.
Avaunt—avaunt!—-"
But it were impious to trace
any farther the picture of the blasphemer and parricide's deathbed.
CHAPTER XXXI
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,
Or, close the wall up with our English dead.
———-And you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture—let us swear
That you are worth your breeding.
King Henry V
Cedric, although not greatly
confident in Ulrica's message, omitted not to communicate her
promise to the Black Knight and Locksley. They were well pleased to
find they had a friend within the place, who might, in the moment of
need, be able to facilitate their entrance, and readily agreed with
the Saxon that a storm, under whatever disadvantages, ought to be
attempted, as the only means of liberating the prisoners now in the
hands of the cruel Front-de-Boeuf.
"The royal blood of Alfred
is endangered," said Cedric.
"The honour of a noble lady
is in peril," said the Black Knight.
"And, by the Saint
Christopher at my baldric," said the good yeoman, "were there no
other cause than the safety of that poor faithful knave, Wamba, I
would jeopard a joint ere a hair of his head were hurt."
"And so would I," said the
Friar; "what, sirs! I trust well that a fool—I mean, d'ye see me,
sirs, a fool that is free of his guild and master of his craft, and
can give as much relish and flavour to a cup of wine as ever a
flitch of bacon can—I say, brethren, such a fool shall never want a
wise clerk to pray for or fight for him at a strait, while I can say
a mass or flourish a partisan." And with that he made his heavy
halberd to play around his head as a shepherd boy flourishes his
light crook.
"True, Holy Clerk," said the
Black Knight, "true as if Saint Dunstan himself had said it.—And
now, good Locksley, were it not well that noble Cedric should assume
the direction of this assault?"
"Not a jot I," returned
Cedric; "I have never been wont to study either how to take or how
to hold out those abodes of tyrannic power, which the Normans have
erected in this groaning land. I will fight among the foremost; but
my honest neighbours well know I am not a trained soldier in the
discipline of wars, or the attack of strongholds."
"Since it stands thus with
noble Cedric," said Locksley, "I am most willing to take on me the
direction of the archery; and ye shall hang me up on my own
Trysting-tree, an the defenders be permitted to show themselves over
the walls without being stuck with as many shafts as there are
cloves in a gammon of bacon at Christmas."
"Well said, stout yeoman,"
answered the Black Knight; "and if I be thought worthy to have a
charge in these matters, and can find among these brave men as many
as are willing to follow a true English knight, for so I may surely
call myself, I am ready, with such skill as my experience has taught
me, to lead them to the attack of these walls."
The parts being thus
distributed to the leaders, they commenced the first assault, of
which the reader has already heard the issue.
When the barbican was
carried, the Sable Knight sent notice of the happy event to
Locksley, requesting him at the same time, to keep such a strict
observation on the castle as might prevent the defenders from
combining their force for a sudden sally, and recovering the outwork
which they had lost. This the knight was chiefly desirous of
avoiding, conscious that the men whom he led, being hasty and
untrained volunteers, imperfectly armed and unaccustomed to
discipline, must, upon any sudden attack, fight at great
disadvantage with the veteran soldiers of the Norman knights, who
were well provided with arms both defensive and offensive; and who,
to match the zeal and high spirit of the besiegers, had all the
confidence which arises from perfect discipline and the habitual use
of weapons.
The knight employed the
interval in causing to be constructed a sort of floating bridge, or
long raft, by means of which he hoped to cross the moat in despite
of the resistance of the enemy. This was a work of some time, which
the leaders the less regretted, as it gave Ulrica leisure to execute
her plan of diversion in their favour, whatever that might be.
When the raft was completed,
the Black Knight addressed the besiegers:—"It avails not waiting
here longer, my friends; the sun is descending to the west—and I
have that upon my hands which will not permit me to tarry with you
another day. Besides, it will be a marvel if the horsemen come not
upon us from York, unless we speedily accomplish our purpose.
Wherefore, one of ye go to Locksley, and bid him commence a
discharge of arrows on the opposite side of the castle, and move
forward as if about to assault it; and you, true English hearts,
stand by me, and be ready to thrust the raft endlong over the moat
whenever the postern on our side is thrown open. Follow me boldly
across, and aid me to burst yon sallyport in the main wall of the
castle. As many of you as like not this service, or are but ill
armed to meet it, do you man the top of the outwork, draw your
bow-strings to your ears, and mind you quell with your shot whatever
shall appear to man the rampart—Noble Cedric, wilt thou take the
direction of those which remain?"
"Not so, by the soul of
Hereward!" said the Saxon; "lead I cannot; but may posterity curse
me in my grave, if I follow not with the foremost wherever thou
shalt point the way—The quarrel is mine, and well it becomes me to
be in the van of the battle."
"Yet, bethink thee, noble
Saxon," said the knight, "thou hast neither hauberk, nor corslet,
nor aught but that light helmet, target, and sword."
"The better!" answered
Cedric; "I shall be the lighter to climb these walls. And,—forgive
the boast, Sir Knight,—thou shalt this day see the naked breast of a
Saxon as boldly presented to the battle as ever ye beheld the steel
corslet of a Norman."
"In the name of God, then,"
said the knight, "fling open the door, and launch the floating
bridge."
The portal, which led from
the inner-wall of the barbican to the moat, and which corresponded
with a sallyport in the main wall of the castle, was now suddenly
opened; the temporary bridge was then thrust forward, and soon
flashed in the waters, extending its length between the castle and
outwork, and forming a slippery and precarious passage for two men
abreast to cross the moat. Well aware of the importance of taking
the foe by surprise, the Black Knight, closely followed by Cedric,
threw himself upon the bridge, and reached the opposite side. Here
he began to thunder with his axe upon the gate of the castle,
protected in part from the shot and stones cast by the defenders by
the ruins of the former drawbridge, which the Templar had demolished
in his retreat from the barbican, leaving the counterpoise still
attached to the upper part of the portal. The followers of the
knight had no such shelter; two were instantly shot with cross-bow
bolts, and two more fell into the moat; the others retreated back
into the barbican.
The situation of Cedric and
of the Black Knight was now truly dangerous, and would have been
still more so, but for the constancy of the archers in the barbican,
who ceased not to shower their arrows upon the battlements,
distracting the attention of those by whom they were manned, and
thus affording a respite to their two chiefs from the storm of
missiles which must otherwise have overwhelmed them. But their
situation was eminently perilous, and was becoming more so with
every moment.
"Shame on ye all!" cried De
Bracy to the soldiers around him; "do ye call yourselves
cross-bowmen, and let these two dogs keep their station under the
walls of the castle?—Heave over the coping stones from the
battlements, an better may not be—Get pick-axe and levers, and down
with that huge pinnacle!" pointing to a heavy piece of stone
carved-work that projected from the parapet.
At this moment the besiegers
caught sight of the red flag upon the angle of the tower which
Ulrica had described to Cedric. The stout yeoman Locksley was the
first who was aware of it, as he was hasting to the outwork,
impatient to see the progress of the assault.
"Saint George!" he cried,
"Merry Saint George for England!—To the charge, bold yeomen!—why
leave ye the good knight and noble Cedric to storm the pass
alone?—make in, mad priest, show thou canst fight for thy
rosary,—make in, brave yeomen!—the castle is ours, we have friends
within—See yonder flag, it is the appointed signal—Torquilstone is
ours!—Think of honour, think of spoil—One effort, and the place is
ours!"
With that he bent his good
bow, and sent a shaft right through the breast of one of the
men-at-arms, who, under De Bracy's direction, was loosening a
fragment from one of the battlements to precipitate on the heads of
Cedric and the Black Knight. A second soldier caught from the hands
of the dying man the iron crow, with which he heaved at and had
loosened the stone pinnacle, when, receiving an arrow through his
head-piece, he dropped from the battlements into the moat a dead
man. The men-at-arms were daunted, for no armour seemed proof
against the shot of this tremendous archer.
"Do you give ground, base
knaves!" said De Bracy; "'Mount joye Saint Dennis!'—Give me the
lever!"
And, snatching it up, he
again assailed the loosened pinnacle, which was of weight enough, if
thrown down, not only to have destroyed the remnant of the
drawbridge, which sheltered the two foremost assailants, but also to
have sunk the rude float of planks over which they had crossed. All
saw the danger, and the boldest, even the stout Friar himself,
avoided setting foot on the raft. Thrice did Locksley bend his shaft
against De Bracy, and thrice did his arrow bound back from the
knight's armour of proof.
"Curse on thy Spanish
steel-coat!" said Locksley, "had English smith forged it, these
arrows had gone through, an as if it had been silk or sendal." He
then began to call out, "Comrades! friends! noble Cedric! bear back,
and let the ruin fall."
His warning voice was
unheard, for the din which the knight himself occasioned by his
strokes upon the postern would have drowned twenty war-trumpets. The
faithful Gurth indeed sprung forward on the planked bridge, to warn
Cedric of his impending fate, or to share it with him. But his
warning would have come too late; the massive pinnacle already
tottered, and De Bracy, who still heaved at his task, would have
accomplished it, had not the voice of the Templar sounded close in
his ears:—
"All is lost, De Bracy, the
castle burns."
"Thou art mad to say so!"
replied the knight.
"It is all in a light flame
on the western side. I have striven in vain to extinguish it."
With the stern coolness
which formed the basis of his character, Brian de Bois-Guilbert
communicated this hideous intelligence, which was not so calmly
received by his astonished comrade.
"Saints of Paradise!" said
De Bracy; "what is to be done? I vow to Saint Nicholas of Limoges a
candlestick of pure gold—"
"Spare thy vow," said the
Templar, "and mark me. Lead thy men down, as if to a sally; throw
the postern-gate open—There are but two men who occupy the float,
fling them into the moat, and push across for the barbican. I will
charge from the main gate, and attack the barbican on the outside;
and if we can regain that post, be assured we shall defend ourselves
until we are relieved, or at least till they grant us fair quarter."
"It is well thought upon,"
said De Bracy; "I will play my part—Templar, thou wilt not fail me?"
"Hand and glove, I will
not!" said Bois-Guilbert. "But haste thee, in the name of God!"
De Bracy hastily drew his
men together, and rushed down to the postern-gate, which he caused
instantly to be thrown open. But scarce was this done ere the
portentous strength of the Black Knight forced his way inward in
despite of De Bracy and his followers. Two of the foremost instantly
fell, and the rest gave way notwithstanding all their leader's
efforts to stop them.
"Dogs!" said De Bracy, "will
ye let TWO men win our only pass for safety?"
"He is the devil!" said a
veteran man-at-arms, bearing back from the blows of their sable
antagonist.
"And if he be the devil,"
replied De Bracy, "would you fly from him into the mouth of
hell?—the castle burns behind us, villains!—let despair give you
courage, or let me forward! I will cope with this champion myself."
And well and chivalrous did
De Bracy that day maintain the fame he had acquired in the civil
wars of that dreadful period. The vaulted passage to which the
postern gave entrance, and in which these two redoubted champions
were now fighting hand to hand, rung with the furious blows which
they dealt each other, De Bracy with his sword, the Black Knight
with his ponderous axe. At length the Norman received a blow, which,
though its force was partly parried by his shield, for otherwise
never more would De Bracy have again moved limb, descended yet with
such violence on his crest, that he measured his length on the paved
floor.
"Yield thee, De Bracy," said
the Black Champion, stooping over him, and holding against the bars
of his helmet the fatal poniard with which the knights dispatched
their enemies, (and which was called the dagger of mercy,)—"yield
thee, Maurice de Bracy, rescue or no rescue, or thou art but a dead
man."
"I will not yield," replied
De Bracy faintly, "to an unknown conqueror. Tell me thy name, or
work thy pleasure on me—it shall never be said that Maurice de Bracy
was prisoner to a nameless churl."
The Black Knight whispered
something into the ear of the vanquished.
"I yield me to be true
prisoner, rescue or no rescue," answered the Norman, exchanging his
tone of stern and determined obstinacy for one of deep though sullen
submission.
"Go to the barbican," said
the victor, in a tone of authority, "and there wait my further
orders."
"Yet first, let me say,"
said De Bracy, "what it imports thee to know. Wilfred of Ivanhoe is
wounded and a prisoner, and will perish in the burning castle
without present help."
"Wilfred of Ivanhoe!"
exclaimed the Black Knight—"prisoner, and perish!—The life of every
man in the castle shall answer it if a hair of his head be
singed—Show me his chamber!"
"Ascend yonder winding
stair," said De Bracy; "it leads to his apartment—Wilt thou not
accept my guidance?" he added, in a submissive voice.
"No. To the barbican, and
there wait my orders. I trust thee not, De Bracy."
During this combat and the
brief conversation which ensued, Cedric, at the head of a body of
men, among whom the Friar was conspicuous, had pushed across the
bridge as soon as they saw the postern open, and drove back the
dispirited and despairing followers of De Bracy, of whom some asked
quarter, some offered vain resistance, and the greater part fled
towards the court-yard. De Bracy himself arose from the ground, and
cast a sorrowful glance after his conqueror. "He trusts me not!" he
repeated; "but have I deserved his trust?" He then lifted his sword
from the floor, took off his helmet in token of submission, and,
going to the barbican, gave up his sword to Locksley, whom he met by
the way.
As the fire augmented,
symptoms of it became soon apparent in the chamber, where Ivanhoe
was watched and tended by the Jewess Rebecca. He had been awakened
from his brief slumber by the noise of the battle; and his
attendant, who had, at his anxious desire, again placed herself at
the window to watch and report to him the fate of the attack, was
for some time prevented from observing either, by the increase of
the smouldering and stifling vapour. At length the volumes of smoke
which rolled into the apartment—the cries for water, which were
heard even above the din of the battle made them sensible of the
progress of this new danger.
"The castle burns," said
Rebecca; "it burns!—What can we do to save ourselves?"
"Fly, Rebecca, and save
thine own life," said Ivanhoe, "for no human aid can avail me."
"I will not fly," answered
Rebecca; "we will be saved or perish together—And yet, great God!—my
father, my father—what will be his fate!"
At this moment the
door of the apartment flew open, and the Templar presented
himself,—a ghastly figure, for his gilded armour was broken and
bloody, and the plume was partly shorn away, partly burnt from his
casque. "I have found thee," said he to Rebecca; "thou shalt prove I
will keep my word to share weal and woe with thee—There is but one
path to safety, I have cut my way through fifty dangers to point it
to thee—up, and instantly follow me!"
38
"Alone," answered Rebecca,
"I will not follow thee. If thou wert born of woman—if thou hast but
a touch of human charity in thee—if thy heart be not hard as thy
breastplate—save my aged father—save this wounded knight!"
"A knight," answered the
Templar, with his characteristic calmness, "a knight, Rebecca, must
encounter his fate, whether it meet him in the shape of sword or
flame—and who recks how or where a Jew meets with his?"
"Savage warrior," said
Rebecca, "rather will I perish in the flames than accept safety from
thee!"
"Thou shalt not choose,
Rebecca—once didst thou foil me, but never mortal did so twice."
So saying, he seized on the
terrified maiden, who filled the air with her shrieks, and bore her
out of the room in his arms in spite of her cries, and without
regarding the menaces and defiance which Ivanhoe thundered against
him. "Hound of the Temple—stain to thine Order—set free the damsel!
Traitor of Bois-Guilbert, it is Ivanhoe commands thee!—Villain, I
will have thy heart's blood!"
"I had not found thee,
Wilfred," said the Black Knight, who at that instant entered the
apartment, "but for thy shouts."
"If thou be'st true knight,"
said Wilfred, "think not of me—pursue yon ravisher—save the Lady
Rowena—look to the noble Cedric!"
"In their turn," answered he
of the Fetterlock, "but thine is first."
And seizing upon Ivanhoe, he
bore him off with as much ease as the Templar had carried off
Rebecca, rushed with him to the postern, and having there delivered
his burden to the care of two yeomen, he again entered the castle to
assist in the rescue of the other prisoners.
One turret was now in bright
flames, which flashed out furiously from window and shot-hole. But
in other parts, the great thickness of the walls and the vaulted
roofs of the apartments, resisted the progress of the flames, and
there the rage of man still triumphed, as the scarce more dreadful
element held mastery elsewhere; for the besiegers pursued the
defenders of the castle from chamber to chamber, and satiated in
their blood the vengeance which had long animated them against the
soldiers of the tyrant Front-de-Boeuf. Most of the garrison resisted
to the uttermost—few of them asked quarter—none received it. The air
was filled with groans and clashing of arms—the floors were slippery
with the blood of despairing and expiring wretches.
Through this scene of
confusion, Cedric rushed in quest of Rowena, while the faithful
Gurth, following him closely through the "melee", neglected his own
safety while he strove to avert the blows that were aimed at his
master. The noble Saxon was so fortunate as to reach his ward's
apartment just as she had abandoned all hope of safety, and, with a
crucifix clasped in agony to her bosom, sat in expectation of
instant death. He committed her to the charge of Gurth, to be
conducted in safety to the barbican, the road to which was now
cleared of the enemy, and not yet interrupted by the flames. This
accomplished, the loyal Cedric hastened in quest of his friend
Athelstane, determined, at every risk to himself, to save that last
scion of Saxon royalty. But ere Cedric penetrated as far as the old
hall in which he had himself been a prisoner, the inventive genius
of Wamba had procured liberation for himself and his companion in
adversity.
When the noise of the
conflict announced that it was at the hottest, the Jester began to
shout, with the utmost power of his lungs, "Saint George and the
dragon!—Bonny Saint George for merry England!—The castle is won!"
And these sounds he rendered yet more fearful, by banging against
each other two or three pieces of rusty armour which lay scattered
around the hall.
A guard, which had been
stationed in the outer, or anteroom, and whose spirits were already
in a state of alarm, took fright at Wamba's clamour, and, leaving
the door open behind them, ran to tell the Templar that foemen had
entered the old hall. Meantime the prisoners found no difficulty in
making their escape into the anteroom, and from thence into the
court of the castle, which was now the last scene of contest. Here
sat the fierce Templar, mounted on horseback, surrounded by several
of the garrison both on horse and foot, who had united their
strength to that of this renowned leader, in order to secure the
last chance of safety and retreat which remained to them. The
drawbridge had been lowered by his orders, but the passage was
beset; for the archers, who had hitherto only annoyed the castle on
that side by their missiles, no sooner saw the flames breaking out,
and the bridge lowered, than they thronged to the entrance, as well
to prevent the escape of the garrison, as to secure their own share
of booty ere the castle should be burnt down. On the other hand, a
party of the besiegers who had entered by the postern were now
issuing out into the court-yard, and attacking with fury the remnant
of the defenders who were thus assaulted on both sides at once.
Animated, however, by
despair, and supported by the example of their indomitable leader,
the remaining soldiers of the castle fought with the utmost valour;
and, being well-armed, succeeded more than once in driving back the
assailants, though much inferior in numbers. Rebecca, placed on
horseback before one of the Templar's Saracen slaves, was in the
midst of the little party; and Bois-Guilbert, notwithstanding the
confusion of the bloody fray, showed every attention to her safety.
Repeatedly he was by her side, and, neglecting his own defence, held
before her the fence of his triangular steel-plated shield; and anon
starting from his position by her, he cried his war-cry, dashed
forward, struck to earth the most forward of the assailants, and was
on the same instant once more at her bridle rein.
Athelstane, who, as the
reader knows, was slothful, but not cowardly, beheld the female form
whom the Templar protected thus sedulously, and doubted not that it
was Rowena whom the knight was carrying off, in despite of all
resistance which could be offered.
"By the soul of Saint
Edward," he said, "I will rescue her from yonder over-proud knight,
and he shall die by my hand!"
"Think what you do!" cried
Wamba; "hasty hand catches frog for fish—by my bauble, yonder is
none of my Lady Rowena—see but her long dark locks!—Nay, an ye will
not know black from white, ye may be leader, but I will be no
follower—no bones of mine shall be broken unless I know for
whom.—And you without armour too!—Bethink you, silk bonnet never
kept out steel blade.—Nay, then, if wilful will to water, wilful
must drench.—'Deus vobiscum', most doughty Athelstane!"—he
concluded, loosening the hold which he had hitherto kept upon the
Saxon's tunic.
To snatch a mace from the
pavement, on which it lay beside one whose dying grasp had just
relinquished it—to rush on the Templar's band, and to strike in
quick succession to the right and left, levelling a warrior at each
blow, was, for Athelstane's great strength, now animated with
unusual fury, but the work of a single moment; he was soon within
two yards of Bois-Guilbert, whom he defied in his loudest tone.
"Turn, false-hearted
Templar! let go her whom thou art unworthy to touch—turn, limb of a
hand of murdering and hypocritical robbers!"
"Dog!" said the Templar,
grinding his teeth, "I will teach thee to blaspheme the holy Order
of the Temple of Zion;" and with these words, half-wheeling his
steed, he made a demi-courbette towards the Saxon, and rising in the
stirrups, so as to take full advantage of the descent of the horse,
he discharged a fearful blow upon the head of Athelstane.
Well said Wamba, that silken
bonnet keeps out no steel blade. So trenchant was the Templar's
weapon, that it shore asunder, as it had been a willow twig, the
tough and plaited handle of the mace, which the ill-fated Saxon
reared to parry the blow, and, descending on his head, levelled him
with the earth.
"'Ha! Beau-seant!'"
exclaimed Bois-Guilbert, "thus be it to the maligners of the
Temple-knights!" Taking advantage of the dismay which was spread by
the fall of Athelstane, and calling aloud, "Those who would save
themselves, follow me!" he pushed across the drawbridge, dispersing
the archers who would have intercepted them. He was followed by his
Saracens, and some five or six men-at-arms, who had mounted their
horses. The Templar's retreat was rendered perilous by the numbers
of arrows shot off at him and his party; but this did not prevent
him from galloping round to the barbican, of which, according to his
previous plan, he supposed it possible De Bracy might have been in
possession.
"De Bracy! De Bracy!" he
shouted, "art thou there?"
"I am here," replied De
Bracy, "but I am a prisoner."
"Can I rescue thee?" cried
Bois-Guilbert.
"No," replied De Bracy; "I
have rendered me, rescue or no rescue. I will be true prisoner. Save
thyself—there are hawks abroad—put the seas betwixt you and
England—I dare not say more."
"Well," answered the
Templar, "an thou wilt tarry there, remember I have redeemed word
and glove. Be the hawks where they will, methinks the walls of the
Preceptory of Templestowe will be cover sufficient, and thither will
I, like heron to her haunt."
Having thus spoken, he
galloped off with his followers.
Those of the castle who had
not gotten to horse, still continued to fight desperately with the
besiegers, after the departure of the Templar, but rather in despair
of quarter than that they entertained any hope of escape. The fire
was spreading rapidly through all parts of the castle, when Ulrica,
who had first kindled it, appeared on a turret, in the guise of one
of the ancient furies, yelling forth a war-song, such as was of yore
raised on the field of battle by the scalds of the yet heathen
Saxons. Her long dishevelled grey hair flew back from her uncovered
head; the inebriating delight of gratified vengeance contended in
her eyes with the fire of insanity; and she brandished the distaff
which she held in her hand, as if she had been one of the Fatal
Sisters, who spin and abridge the thread of human life. Tradition
has preserved some wild strophes of the barbarous hymn which she
chanted wildly amid that scene of fire and of slaughter:—
1.
Whet the bright steel,
Sons of the White Dragon!
Kindle the torch,
Daughter of Hengist!
The steel glimmers not for the carving of the banquet,
It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed;
The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber,
It steams and glitters blue with sulphur.
Whet the steel, the raven croaks!
Light the torch, Zernebock is yelling!
Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon!
Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist!
2.
The black cloud is low over the thane's castle
The eagle screams—he rides on its bosom.
Scream not, grey rider of the sable cloud,
Thy banquet is prepared!
The maidens of Valhalla look forth,
The race of Hengist will send them guests.
Shake your black tresses, maidens of Valhalla!
And strike your loud timbrels for joy!
Many a haughty step bends to your halls,
Many a helmed head.
3.
Dark sits the evening upon the thanes castle,
The black clouds gather round;
Soon shall they be red as the blood of the valiant!
The destroyer of forests shall shake his red crest against
them.
He, the bright consumer of palaces,
Broad waves he his blazing banner,
Red, wide and dusky,
Over the strife of the valiant:
His joy is in the clashing swords and broken bucklers;
He loves to lick the hissing blood as it bursts warm from the
wound!
4.
All must perish!
The sword cleaveth the helmet;
The strong armour is pierced by the lance;
Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes,
Engines break down the fences of the battle.
All must perish!
The race of Hengist is gone—
The name of Horsa is no more!
Shrink not then from your doom, sons of the sword!
Let your blades drink blood like wine;
Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter,
By the light of the blazing halls!
Strong be your swords while your blood is warm,
And spare neither for pity nor fear,
For vengeance hath but an hour;
Strong hate itself shall expire
I also must perish! 39
The towering flames had now
surmounted every obstruction, and rose to the evening skies one huge
and burning beacon, seen far and wide through the adjacent country.
Tower after tower crashed down, with blazing roof and rafter; and
the combatants were driven from the court-yard. The vanquished, of
whom very few remained, scattered and escaped into the neighbouring
wood. The victors, assembling in large bands, gazed with wonder, not
unmixed with fear, upon the flames, in which their own ranks and
arms glanced dusky red. The maniac figure of the Saxon Ulrica was
for a long time visible on the lofty stand she had chosen, tossing
her arms abroad with wild exultation, as if she reined empress of
the conflagration which she had raised. At length, with a terrific
crash, the whole turret gave way, and she perished in the flames
which had consumed her tyrant. An awful pause of horror silenced
each murmur of the armed spectators, who, for the space of several
minutes, stirred not a finger, save to sign the cross. The voice of
Locksley was then heard, "Shout, yeomen!—the den of tyrants is no
more! Let each bring his spoil to our chosen place of rendezvous at
the Trysting-tree in the Harthill-walk; for there at break of day
will we make just partition among our own bands, together with our
worthy allies in this great deed of vengeance."
CHAPTER XXXII.
Trust me each state must have its policies:
Kingdoms have edicts, cities have their charters;
Even the wild outlaw, in his forest-walk,
Keeps yet some touch of civil discipline;
For not since Adam wore his verdant apron,
Hath man with man in social union dwelt,
But laws were made to draw that union closer.
—Old Play
The daylight had dawned upon
the glades of the oak forest. The green boughs glittered with all
their pearls of dew. The hind led her fawn from the covert of high
fern to the more open walks of the greenwood, and no huntsman was
there to watch or intercept the stately hart, as he paced at the
head of the antler'd herd.
The outlaws were all
assembled around the Trysting-tree in the Harthill-walk, where they
had spent the night in refreshing themselves after the fatigues of
the siege, some with wine, some with slumber, many with hearing and
recounting the events of the day, and computing the heaps of plunder
which their success had placed at the disposal of their Chief.
The spoils were indeed very
large; for, notwithstanding that much was consumed, a great deal of
plate, rich armour, and splendid clothing, had been secured by the
exertions of the dauntless outlaws, who could be appalled by no
danger when such rewards were in view. Yet so strict were the laws
of their society, that no one ventured to appropriate any part of
the booty, which was brought into one common mass, to be at the
disposal of their leader.
The place of rendezvous was
an aged oak; not however the same to which Locksley had conducted
Gurth and Wamba in the earlier part of the story, but one which was
the centre of a silvan amphitheatre, within half a mile of the
demolished castle of Torquilstone. Here Locksley assumed his seat—a
throne of turf erected under the twisted branches of the huge oak,
and the silvan followers were gathered around him. He assigned to
the Black Knight a seat at his right hand, and to Cedric a place
upon his left.
"Pardon my freedom, noble
sirs," he said, "but in these glades I am monarch—they are my
kingdom; and these my wild subjects would reck but little of my
power, were I, within my own dominions, to yield place to mortal
man.—Now, sirs, who hath seen our chaplain? where is our curtal
Friar? A mass amongst Christian men best begins a busy morning."—No
one had seen the Clerk of Copmanhurst. "Over gods forbode!" said the
outlaw chief, "I trust the jolly priest hath but abidden by the
wine-pot a thought too late. Who saw him since the castle was
ta'en?"
"I," quoth the Miller,
"marked him busy about the door of a cellar, swearing by each saint
in the calendar he would taste the smack of Front-de-Boeuf's
Gascoigne wine."
"Now, the saints, as many as
there be of them," said the Captain, "forefend, lest he has drunk
too deep of the wine-butts, and perished by the fall of the
castle!—Away, Miller!—take with you enow of men, seek the place
where you last saw him—throw water from the moat on the scorching
ruins—I will have them removed stone by stone ere I lose my curtal
Friar."
The numbers who hastened to
execute this duty, considering that an interesting division of spoil
was about to take place, showed how much the troop had at heart the
safety of their spiritual father.
"Meanwhile, let us proceed,"
said Locksley; "for when this bold deed shall be sounded abroad, the
bands of De Bracy, of Malvoisin, and other allies of Front-de-Boeuf,
will be in motion against us, and it were well for our safety that
we retreat from the vicinity.—Noble Cedric," he said, turning to the
Saxon, "that spoil is divided into two portions; do thou make choice
of that which best suits thee, to recompense thy people who were
partakers with us in this adventure."
"Good yeoman," said Cedric,
"my heart is oppressed with sadness. The noble Athelstane of
Coningsburgh is no more—the last sprout of the sainted Confessor!
Hopes have perished with him which can never return!—A sparkle hath
been quenched by his blood, which no human breath can again
rekindle! My people, save the few who are now with me, do but tarry
my presence to transport his honoured remains to their last mansion.
The Lady Rowena is desirous to return to Rotherwood, and must be
escorted by a sufficient force. I should, therefore, ere now, have
left this place; and I waited—not to share the booty, for, so help
me God and Saint Withold! as neither I nor any of mine will touch
the value of a liard,—I waited but to render my thanks to thee and
to thy bold yeomen, for the life and honour ye have saved."
"Nay, but," said the chief
Outlaw, "we did but half the work at most—take of the spoil what may
reward your own neighbours and followers."
"I am rich enough to reward
them from mine own wealth," answered Cedric.
"And some," said Wamba,
"have been wise enough to reward themselves; they do not march off
empty-handed altogether. We do not all wear motley."
"They are welcome," said
Locksley; "our laws bind none but ourselves."
"But, thou, my poor knave,"
said Cedric, turning about and embracing his Jester, "how shall I
reward thee, who feared not to give thy body to chains and death
instead of mine!—All forsook me, when the poor fool was faithful!"
A tear stood in the eye of
the rough Thane as he spoke—a mark of feeling which even the death
of Athelstane had not extracted; but there was something in the
half-instinctive attachment of his clown, that waked his nature more
keenly than even grief itself.
"Nay," said the Jester,
extricating himself from master's caress, "if you pay my service
with the water of your eye, the Jester must weep for company, and
then what becomes of his vocation?—But, uncle, if you would indeed
pleasure me, I pray you to pardon my playfellow Gurth, who stole a
week from your service to bestow it on your son."
"Pardon him!"
exclaimed Cedric; "I will both pardon and reward him.—Kneel down,
Gurth."—The swineherd was in an instant at his master's feet—"THEOW
and ESNE
40
art thou no longer," said Cedric touching him with a wand; "FOLKFREE
and SACLESS
41
art thou in town and from town, in the forest as in the field. A
hide of land I give to thee in my steads of Walbrugham, from me and
mine to thee and thine aye and for ever; and God's malison on his
head who this gainsays!"
No longer a serf, but a
freeman and a landholder, Gurth sprung upon his feet, and twice
bounded aloft to almost his own height from the ground. "A smith and
a file," he cried, "to do away the collar from the neck of a
freeman!—Noble master! doubled is my strength by your gift, and
doubly will I fight for you!—There is a free spirit in my breast—I
am a man changed to myself and all around.—Ha, Fangs!" he
continued,—for that faithful cur, seeing his master thus
transported, began to jump upon him, to express his
sympathy,—"knowest thou thy master still?"
"Ay," said Wamba, "Fangs and
I still know thee, Gurth, though we must needs abide by the collar;
it is only thou art likely to forget both us and thyself."
"I shall forget myself
indeed ere I forget thee, true comrade," said Gurth; "and were
freedom fit for thee, Wamba, the master would not let thee want it."
"Nay," said Wamba, "never
think I envy thee, brother Gurth; the serf sits by the hall-fire
when the freeman must forth to the field of battle—And what saith
Oldhelm of Malmsbury—Better a fool at a feast than a wise man at a
fray."
The tramp of horses was now
heard, and the Lady Rowena appeared, surrounded by several riders,
and a much stronger party of footmen, who joyfully shook their pikes
and clashed their brown-bills for joy of her freedom. She herself,
richly attired, and mounted on a dark chestnut palfrey, had
recovered all the dignity of her manner, and only an unwonted degree
of paleness showed the sufferings she had undergone. Her lovely
brow, though sorrowful, bore on it a cast of reviving hope for the
future, as well as of grateful thankfulness for the past
deliverance—She knew that Ivanhoe was safe, and she knew that
Athelstane was dead. The former assurance filled her with the most
sincere delight; and if she did not absolutely rejoice at the
latter, she might be pardoned for feeling the full advantage of
being freed from further persecution on the only subject in which
she had ever been contradicted by her guardian Cedric.
As Rowena bent her steed
towards Locksley's seat, that bold yeoman, with all his followers,
rose to receive her, as if by a general instinct of courtesy. The
blood rose to her cheeks, as, courteously waving her hand, and
bending so low that her beautiful and loose tresses were for an
instant mixed with the flowing mane of her palfrey, she expressed in
few but apt words her obligations and her gratitude to Locksley and
her other deliverers.—"God bless you, brave men," she concluded,
"God and Our Lady bless you and requite you for gallantly perilling
yourselves in the cause of the oppressed!—If any of you should
hunger, remember Rowena has food—if you should thirst, she has many
a butt of wine and brown ale—and if the Normans drive ye from these
walks, Rowena has forests of her own, where her gallant deliverers
may range at full freedom, and never ranger ask whose arrow hath
struck down the deer."
"Thanks, gentle lady," said
Locksley; "thanks from my company and myself. But, to have saved you
requites itself. We who walk the greenwood do many a wild deed, and
the Lady Rowena's deliverance may be received as an atonement."
Again bowing from her
palfrey, Rowena turned to depart; but pausing a moment, while
Cedric, who was to attend her, was also taking his leave, she found
herself unexpectedly close by the prisoner De Bracy. He stood under
a tree in deep meditation, his arms crossed upon his breast, and
Rowena was in hopes she might pass him unobserved. He looked up,
however, and, when aware of her presence, a deep flush of shame
suffused his handsome countenance. He stood a moment most
irresolute; then, stepping forward, took her palfrey by the rein,
and bent his knee before her.
"Will the Lady Rowena deign
to cast an eye—on a captive knight—on a dishonoured soldier?"
"Sir Knight," answered
Rowena, "in enterprises such as yours, the real dishonour lies not
in failure, but in success."
"Conquest, lady, should
soften the heart," answered De Bracy; "let me but know that the Lady
Rowena forgives the violence occasioned by an ill-fated passion, and
she shall soon learn that De Bracy knows how to serve her in nobler
ways."
"I forgive you, Sir Knight,"
said Rowena, "as a Christian."
"That means," said Wamba,
"that she does not forgive him at all."
"But I can never forgive the
misery and desolation your madness has occasioned," continued
Rowena.
"Unloose your hold on the
lady's rein," said Cedric, coming up. "By the bright sun above us,
but it were shame, I would pin thee to the earth with my javelin—but
be well assured, thou shalt smart, Maurice de Bracy, for thy share
in this foul deed."
"He threatens safely who
threatens a prisoner," said De Bracy; "but when had a Saxon any
touch of courtesy?"
Then retiring two steps
backward, he permitted the lady to move on.
Cedric, ere they departed,
expressed his peculiar gratitude to the Black Champion, and
earnestly entreated him to accompany him to Rotherwood.
"I know," he said, "that ye
errant knights desire to carry your fortunes on the point of your
lance, and reck not of land or goods; but war is a changeful
mistress, and a home is sometimes desirable even to the champion
whose trade is wandering. Thou hast earned one in the halls of
Rotherwood, noble knight. Cedric has wealth enough to repair the
injuries of fortune, and all he has is his deliverer's—Come,
therefore, to Rotherwood, not as a guest, but as a son or brother."
"Cedric has already made me
rich," said the Knight,—"he has taught me the value of Saxon virtue.
To Rotherwood will I come, brave Saxon, and that speedily; but, as
now, pressing matters of moment detain me from your halls.
Peradventure when I come hither, I will ask such a boon as will put
even thy generosity to the test."
"It is granted ere spoken
out," said Cedric, striking his ready hand into the gauntleted palm
of the Black Knight,—"it is granted already, were it to affect half
my fortune."
"Gage not thy promise so
lightly," said the Knight of the Fetterlock; "yet well I hope to
gain the boon I shall ask. Meanwhile, adieu."
"I have but to say," added
the Saxon, "that, during the funeral rites of the noble Athelstane,
I shall be an inhabitant of the halls of his castle of
Coningsburgh—They will be open to all who choose to partake of the
funeral banqueting; and, I speak in name of the noble Edith, mother
of the fallen prince, they will never be shut against him who
laboured so bravely, though unsuccessfully, to save Athelstane from
Norman chains and Norman steel."
"Ay, ay," said Wamba, who
had resumed his attendance on his master, "rare feeding there will
be—pity that the noble Athelstane cannot banquet at his own
funeral.—But he," continued the Jester, lifting up his eyes gravely,
"is supping in Paradise, and doubtless does honour to the cheer."
"Peace, and move on," said
Cedric, his anger at this untimely jest being checked by the
recollection of Wamba's recent services. Rowena waved a graceful
adieu to him of the Fetterlock—the Saxon bade God speed him, and on
they moved through a wide glade of the forest.
They had scarce departed,
ere a sudden procession moved from under the greenwood branches,
swept slowly round the silvan amphitheatre, and took the same
direction with Rowena and her followers. The priests of a
neighbouring convent, in expectation of the ample donation, or
"soul-scat", which Cedric had propined, attended upon the car in
which the body of Athelstane was laid, and sang hymns as it was
sadly and slowly borne on the shoulders of his vassals to his castle
of Coningsburgh, to be there deposited in the grave of Hengist, from
whom the deceased derived his long descent. Many of his vassals had
assembled at the news of his death, and followed the bier with all
the external marks, at least, of dejection and sorrow. Again the
outlaws arose, and paid the same rude and spontaneous homage to
death, which they had so lately rendered to beauty—the slow chant
and mournful step of the priests brought back to their remembrance
such of their comrades as had fallen in the yesterday's array. But
such recollections dwell not long with those who lead a life of
danger and enterprise, and ere the sound of the death-hymn had died
on the wind, the outlaws were again busied in the distribution of
their spoil.
"Valiant knight," said
Locksley to the Black Champion, "without whose good heart and mighty
arm our enterprise must altogether have failed, will it please you
to take from that mass of spoil whatever may best serve to pleasure
you, and to remind you of this my Trysting-tree?"
"I accept the offer," said
the Knight, "as frankly as it is given; and I ask permission to
dispose of Sir Maurice de Bracy at my own pleasure."
"He is thine already," said
Locksley, "and well for him! else the tyrant had graced the highest
bough of this oak, with as many of his Free-Companions as we could
gather, hanging thick as acorns around him.—But he is thy prisoner,
and he is safe, though he had slain my father."
"De Bracy," said the Knight,
"thou art free—depart. He whose prisoner thou art scorns to take
mean revenge for what is past. But beware of the future, lest a
worse thing befall thee.—Maurice de Bracy, I say BEWARE!"
De Bracy bowed low and in
silence, and was about to withdraw, when the yeomen burst at once
into a shout of execration and derision. The proud knight instantly
stopped, turned back, folded his arms, drew up his form to its full
height, and exclaimed, "Peace, ye yelping curs! who open upon a cry
which ye followed not when the stag was at bay—De Bracy scorns your
censure as he would disdain your applause. To your brakes and caves,
ye outlawed thieves! and be silent when aught knightly or noble is
but spoken within a league of your fox-earths."
This ill-timed defiance
might have procured for De Bracy a volley of arrows, but for the
hasty and imperative interference of the outlaw Chief. Meanwhile the
knight caught a horse by the rein, for several which had been taken
in the stables of Front-de-Boeuf stood accoutred around, and were a
valuable part of the booty. He threw himself upon the saddle, and
galloped off through the wood.
When the bustle occasioned
by this incident was somewhat composed, the chief Outlaw took from
his neck the rich horn and baldric which he had recently gained at
the strife of archery near Ashby.
"Noble knight." he
said to him of the Fetterlock, "if you disdain not to grace by your
acceptance a bugle which an English yeoman has once worn, this I
will pray you to keep as a memorial of your gallant bearing—and if
ye have aught to do, and, as happeneth oft to a gallant knight, ye
chance to be hard bested in any forest between Trent and Tees, wind
three mots
42
upon the horn thus, 'Wa-sa-hoa!' and it may well chance ye shall
find helpers and rescue."
He then gave breath to the
bugle, and winded once and again the call which he described, until
the knight had caught the notes.
"Gramercy for the gift, bold
yeoman," said the Knight; "and better help than thine and thy
rangers would I never seek, were it at my utmost need." And then in
his turn he winded the call till all the greenwood rang.
"Well blown and clearly,"
said the yeoman; "beshrew me an thou knowest not as much of
woodcraft as of war!—thou hast been a striker of deer in thy day, I
warrant.—Comrades, mark these three mots—it is the call of the
Knight of the Fetterlock; and he who hears it, and hastens not to
serve him at his need, I will have him scourged out of our band with
his own bowstring."
"Long live our leader!"
shouted the yeomen, "and long live the Black Knight of the
Fetterlock!—May he soon use our service, to prove how readily it
will be paid."
Locksley now proceeded to
the distribution of the spoil, which he performed with the most
laudable impartiality. A tenth part of the whole was set apart for
the church, and for pious uses; a portion was next allotted to a
sort of public treasury; a part was assigned to the widows and
children of those who had fallen, or to be expended in masses for
the souls of such as had left no surviving family. The rest was
divided amongst the outlaws, according to their rank and merit, and
the judgment of the Chief, on all such doubtful questions as
occurred, was delivered with great shrewdness, and received with
absolute submission. The Black Knight was not a little surprised to
find that men, in a state so lawless, were nevertheless among
themselves so regularly and equitably governed, and all that he
observed added to his opinion of the justice and judgment of their
leader.
When each had taken his own
proportion of the booty, and while the treasurer, accompanied by
four tall yeomen, was transporting that belonging to the state to
some place of concealment or of security, the portion devoted to the
church still remained unappropriated.
"I would," said the leader,
"we could hear tidings of our joyous chaplain—he was never wont to
be absent when meat was to be blessed, or spoil to be parted; and it
is his duty to take care of these the tithes of our successful
enterprise. It may be the office has helped to cover some of his
canonical irregularities. Also, I have a holy brother of his a
prisoner at no great distance, and I would fain have the Friar to
help me to deal with him in due sort—I greatly misdoubt the safety
of the bluff priest."
"I were right sorry for
that," said the Knight of the Fetterlock, "for I stand indebted to
him for the joyous hospitality of a merry night in his cell. Let us
to the ruins of the castle; it may be we shall there learn some
tidings of him."
While they thus spoke, a
loud shout among the yeomen announced the arrival of him for whom
they feared, as they learned from the stentorian voice of the Friar
himself, long before they saw his burly person.
"Make room, my merry-men!"
he exclaimed; "room for your godly father and his prisoner—Cry
welcome once more.—I come, noble leader, like an eagle with my prey
in my clutch."—And making his way through the ring, amidst the
laughter of all around, he appeared in majestic triumph, his huge
partisan in one hand, and in the other a halter, one end of which
was fastened to the neck of the unfortunate Isaac of York, who, bent
down by sorrow and terror, was dragged on by the victorious priest,
who shouted aloud, "Where is Allan-a-Dale, to chronicle me in a
ballad, or if it were but a lay?—By Saint Hermangild, the jingling
crowder is ever out of the way where there is an apt theme for
exalting valour!"
"Curtal Priest," said the
Captain, "thou hast been at a wet mass this morning, as early as it
is. In the name of Saint Nicholas, whom hast thou got here?"
"A captive to my sword and
to my lance, noble Captain," replied the Clerk of Copmanhurst; "to
my bow and to my halberd, I should rather say; and yet I have
redeemed him by my divinity from a worse captivity. Speak, Jew—have
I not ransomed thee from Sathanas?—have I not taught thee thy
'credo', thy 'pater', and thine 'Ave Maria'?—Did I not spend the
whole night in drinking to thee, and in expounding of mysteries?"
"For the love of God!"
ejaculated the poor Jew, "will no one take me out of the keeping of
this mad—I mean this holy man?"
"How's this, Jew?" said the
Friar, with a menacing aspect; "dost thou recant, Jew?—Bethink thee,
if thou dost relapse into thine infidelity, though thou are not so
tender as a suckling pig—I would I had one to break my fast
upon—thou art not too tough to be roasted! Be conformable, Isaac,
and repeat the words after me. 'Ave Maria'!—"
"Nay, we will have no
profanation, mad Priest," said Locksley; "let us rather hear where
you found this prisoner of thine."
"By Saint Dunstan," said the
Friar, "I found him where I sought for better ware! I did step into
the cellarage to see what might be rescued there; for though a cup
of burnt wine, with spice, be an evening's drought for an emperor,
it were waste, methought, to let so much good liquor be mulled at
once; and I had caught up one runlet of sack, and was coming to call
more aid among these lazy knaves, who are ever to seek when a good
deed is to be done, when I was avised of a strong door—Aha! thought
I, here is the choicest juice of all in this secret crypt; and the
knave butler, being disturbed in his vocation, hath left the key in
the door—In therefore I went, and found just nought besides a
commodity of rusted chains and this dog of a Jew, who presently
rendered himself my prisoner, rescue or no rescue. I did but refresh
myself after the fatigue of the action, with the unbeliever, with
one humming cup of sack, and was proceeding to lead forth my
captive, when, crash after crash, as with wild thunder-dint and
levin-fire, down toppled the masonry of an outer tower, (marry
beshrew their hands that built it not the firmer!) and blocked up
the passage. The roar of one falling tower followed another—I gave
up thought of life; and deeming it a dishonour to one of my
profession to pass out of this world in company with a Jew, I heaved
up my halberd to beat his brains out; but I took pity on his grey
hairs, and judged it better to lay down the partisan, and take up my
spiritual weapon for his conversion. And truly, by the blessing of
Saint Dunstan, the seed has been sown in good soil; only that, with
speaking to him of mysteries through the whole night, and being in a
manner fasting, (for the few droughts of sack which I sharpened my
wits with were not worth marking,) my head is well-nigh dizzied, I
trow.—But I was clean exhausted.—Gilbert and Wibbald know in what
state they found me—quite and clean exhausted."
"We can bear witness," said
Gilbert; "for when we had cleared away the ruin, and by Saint
Dunstan's help lighted upon the dungeon stair, we found the runlet
of sack half empty, the Jew half dead, and the Friar more than
half—exhausted, as he calls it."
"Ye be knaves! ye lie!"
retorted the offended Friar; "it was you and your gormandizing
companions that drank up the sack, and called it your morning
draught—I am a pagan, an I kept it not for the Captain's own throat.
But what recks it? The Jew is converted, and understands all I have
told him, very nearly, if not altogether, as well as myself."
"Jew," said the Captain, "is
this true? hast thou renounced thine unbelief?"
"May I so find mercy in your
eyes," said the Jew, "as I know not one word which the reverend
prelate spake to me all this fearful night. Alas! I was so
distraught with agony, and fear, and grief, that had our holy father
Abraham come to preach to me, he had found but a deaf listener."
"Thou liest, Jew, and thou
knowest thou dost." said the Friar; "I will remind thee of but one
word of our conference—thou didst promise to give all thy substance
to our holy Order."
"So help me the Promise,
fair sirs," said Isaac, even more alarmed than before, "as no such
sounds ever crossed my lips! Alas! I am an aged beggar'd man—I fear
me a childless—have ruth on me, and let me go!"
"Nay," said the Friar, "if
thou dost retract vows made in favour of holy Church, thou must do
penance."
Accordingly, he raised his
halberd, and would have laid the staff of it lustily on the Jew's
shoulders, had not the Black Knight stopped the blow, and thereby
transferred the Holy Clerk's resentment to himself.
"By Saint Thomas of Kent,"
said he, "an I buckle to my gear, I will teach thee, sir lazy lover,
to mell with thine own matters, maugre thine iron case there!"
"Nay, be not wroth with me,"
said the Knight; "thou knowest I am thy sworn friend and comrade."
"I know no such thing,"
answered the Friar; "and defy thee for a meddling coxcomb!"
"Nay, but," said the Knight,
who seemed to take a pleasure in provoking his quondam host, "hast
thou forgotten how, that for my sake (for I say nothing of the
temptation of the flagon and the pasty) thou didst break thy vow of
fast and vigil?"
"Truly, friend," said the
Friar, clenching his huge fist, "I will bestow a buffet on thee."
"I accept of no such
presents," said the Knight; "I am content to take thy cuff
421 as a loan, but I will
repay thee with usury as deep as ever thy prisoner there exacted in
his traffic."
"I will prove that
presently," said the Friar.
"Hola!" cried the Captain,
"what art thou after, mad Friar? brawling beneath our
Trysting-tree?"
"No brawling," said the
Knight, "it is but a friendly interchange of courtesy.—Friar, strike
an thou darest—I will stand thy blow, if thou wilt stand mine."
"Thou hast the advantage
with that iron pot on thy head," said the churchman; "but have at
thee—Down thou goest, an thou wert Goliath of Gath in his brazen
helmet."
The Friar bared his brawny
arm up to the elbow, and putting his full strength to the blow, gave
the Knight a buffet that might have felled an ox. But his adversary
stood firm as a rock. A loud shout was uttered by all the yeomen
around; for the Clerk's cuff was proverbial amongst them, and there
were few who, in jest or earnest, had not had the occasion to know
its vigour.
"Now, Priest," said, the
Knight, pulling off his gauntlet, "if I had vantage on my head, I
will have none on my hand—stand fast as a true man."
"'Genam meam dedi
vapulatori'—I have given my cheek to the smiter," said the Priest;
"an thou canst stir me from the spot, fellow, I will freely bestow
on thee the Jew's ransom."
So spoke the burly Priest,
assuming, on his part, high defiance. But who may resist his fate?
The buffet of the Knight was given with such strength and good-will,
that the Friar rolled head over heels upon the plain, to the great
amazement of all the spectators. But he arose neither angry nor
crestfallen.
"Brother," said he to the
Knight, "thou shouldst have used thy strength with more discretion.
I had mumbled but a lame mass an thou hadst broken my jaw, for the
piper plays ill that wants the nether chops. Nevertheless, there is
my hand, in friendly witness, that I will exchange no more cuffs
with thee, having been a loser by the barter. End now all
unkindness. Let us put the Jew to ransom, since the leopard will not
change his spots, and a Jew he will continue to be."
"The Priest," said Clement,
"is not half so confident of the Jew's conversion, since he received
that buffet on the ear."
"Go to, knave, what pratest
thou of conversions?—what, is there no respect?—all masters and no
men?—I tell thee, fellow, I was somewhat totty when I received the
good knight's blow, or I had kept my ground under it. But an thou
gibest more of it, thou shalt learn I can give as well as take."
"Peace all!" said the
Captain. "And thou, Jew, think of thy ransom; thou needest not to be
told that thy race are held to be accursed in all Christian
communities, and trust me that we cannot endure thy presence among
us. Think, therefore, of an offer, while I examine a prisoner of
another cast."
"Were many of
Front-de-Boeuf's men taken?" demanded the Black Knight.
"None of note enough to be
put to ransom," answered the Captain; "a set of hilding fellows
there were, whom we dismissed to find them a new master—enough had
been done for revenge and profit; the bunch of them were not worth a
cardecu. The prisoner I speak of is better booty—a jolly monk riding
to visit his leman, an I may judge by his horse-gear and wearing
apparel.—Here cometh the worthy prelate, as pert as a pyet." And,
between two yeomen, was brought before the silvan throne of the
outlaw Chief, our old friend, Prior Aymer of Jorvaulx.
CHAPTER XXXIII
—-Flower of warriors,
How is't with Titus Lartius?
MARCIUS.—As with a man busied about decrees,
Condemning some to death and some to exile,
Ransoming him or pitying, threatening the other.
—Coriolanus
The captive Abbot's features
and manners exhibited a whimsical mixture of offended pride, and
deranged foppery and bodily terror.
"Why, how now, my masters?"
said he, with a voice in which all three emotions were blended.
"What order is this among ye? Be ye Turks or Christians, that handle
a churchman?—Know ye what it is, 'manus imponere in servos Domini'?
Ye have plundered my mails—torn my cope of curious cut lace, which
might have served a cardinal!—Another in my place would have been at
his 'excommunicabo vos'; but I am placible, and if ye order forth my
palfreys, release my brethren, and restore my mails, tell down with
all speed an hundred crowns to be expended in masses at the high
altar of Jorvaulx Abbey, and make your vow to eat no venison until
next Pentecost, it may be you shall hear little more of this mad
frolic."
"Holy Father," said the
chief Outlaw, "it grieves me to think that you have met with such
usage from any of my followers, as calls for your fatherly
reprehension."
"Usage!" echoed the priest,
encouraged by the mild tone of the silvan leader; "it were usage fit
for no hound of good race—much less for a Christian—far less for a
priest—and least of all for the Prior of the holy community of
Jorvaulx. Here is a profane and drunken minstrel, called
Allan-a-Dale—'nebulo quidam'—who has menaced me with corporal
punishment—nay, with death itself, an I pay not down four hundred
crowns of ransom, to the boot of all the treasure he hath already
robbed me of—gold chains and gymmal rings to an unknown value;
besides what is broken and spoiled among their rude hands, such as
my pouncer-box and silver crisping-tongs."
"It is impossible that
Allan-a-Dale can have thus treated a man of your reverend bearing,"
replied the Captain.
"It is true as the gospel of
Saint Nicodemus," said the Prior; "he swore, with many a cruel
north-country oath, that he would hang me up on the highest tree in
the greenwood."
"Did he so in very
deed? Nay, then, reverend father, I think you had better comply with
his demands—for Allan-a-Dale is the very man to abide by his word
when he has so pledged it."
43
"You do but jest with me,"
said the astounded Prior, with a forced laugh; "and I love a good
jest with all my heart. But, ha! ha! ha! when the mirth has lasted
the livelong night, it is time to be grave in the morning."
"And I am as grave as a
father confessor," replied the Outlaw; "you must pay a round ransom,
Sir Prior, or your convent is likely to be called to a new election;
for your place will know you no more."
"Are ye Christians," said
the Prior, "and hold this language to a churchman?"
"Christians! ay, marry are
we, and have divinity among us to boot," answered the Outlaw. "Let
our buxom chaplain stand forth, and expound to this reverend father
the texts which concern this matter."
The Friar, half-drunk,
half-sober, had huddled a friar's frock over his green cassock, and
now summoning together whatever scraps of learning he had acquired
by rote in former days, "Holy father," said he, "'Deus faciat salvam
benignitatem vestram'—You are welcome to the greenwood."
"What profane mummery is
this?" said the Prior. "Friend, if thou be'st indeed of the church,
it were a better deed to show me how I may escape from these men's
hands, than to stand ducking and grinning here like a
morris-dancer."
"Truly, reverend father,"
said the Friar, "I know but one mode in which thou mayst escape.
This is Saint Andrew's day with us, we are taking our tithes."
"But not of the church,
then, I trust, my good brother?" said the Prior.
"Of church and lay," said
the Friar; "and therefore, Sir Prior 'facite vobis amicos de Mammone
iniquitatis'—make yourselves friends of the Mammon of
unrighteousness, for no other friendship is like to serve your
turn."
"I love a jolly woodsman at
heart," said the Prior, softening his tone; "come, ye must not deal
too hard with me—I can well of woodcraft, and can wind a horn clear
and lustily, and hollo till every oak rings again—Come, ye must not
deal too hard with me."
"Give him a horn," said the
Outlaw; "we will prove the skill he boasts of."
The Prior Aymer winded a
blast accordingly. The Captain shook his head.
"Sir Prior," he said, "thou
blowest a merry note, but it may not ransom thee—we cannot afford,
as the legend on a good knight's shield hath it, to set thee free
for a blast. Moreover, I have found thee—thou art one of those, who,
with new French graces and Tra-li-ras, disturb the ancient English
bugle notes.—Prior, that last flourish on the recheat hath added
fifty crowns to thy ransom, for corrupting the true old manly blasts
of venerie."
"Well, friend," said the
Abbot, peevishly, "thou art ill to please with thy woodcraft. I pray
thee be more conformable in this matter of my ransom. At a
word—since I must needs, for once, hold a candle to the devil—what
ransom am I to pay for walking on Watling-street, without having
fifty men at my back?"
"Were it not well," said the
Lieutenant of the gang apart to the Captain, "that the Prior should
name the Jew's ransom, and the Jew name the Prior's?"
"Thou art a mad knave," said
the Captain, "but thy plan transcends!—Here, Jew, step forth—Look at
that holy Father Aymer, Prior of the rich Abbey of Jorvaulx, and
tell us at what ransom we should hold him?—Thou knowest the income
of his convent, I warrant thee."
"O, assuredly," said Isaac.
"I have trafficked with the good fathers, and bought wheat and
barley, and fruits of the earth, and also much wool. O, it is a rich
abbey-stede, and they do live upon the fat, and drink the sweet
wines upon the lees, these good fathers of Jorvaulx. Ah, if an
outcast like me had such a home to go to, and such incomings by the
year and by the month, I would pay much gold and silver to redeem my
captivity."
"Hound of a Jew!" exclaimed
the Prior, "no one knows better than thy own cursed self, that our
holy house of God is indebted for the finishing of our chancel—"
"And for the storing of your
cellars in the last season with the due allowance of Gascon wine,"
interrupted the Jew; "but that—that is small matters."
"Hear the infidel dog!" said
the churchman; "he jangles as if our holy community did come under
debts for the wines we have a license to drink, 'propter
necessitatem, et ad frigus depellendum'. The circumcised villain
blasphemeth the holy church, and Christian men listen and rebuke him
not!"
"All this helps nothing,"
said the leader.—"Isaac, pronounce what he may pay, without flaying
both hide and hair."
"An six hundred crowns,"
said Isaac, "the good Prior might well pay to your honoured valours,
and never sit less soft in his stall."
"Six hundred crowns," said
the leader, gravely; "I am contented—thou hast well spoken,
Isaac—six hundred crowns.—It is a sentence, Sir Prior."
"A sentence!—a sentence!"
exclaimed the band; "Solomon had not done it better."
"Thou hearest thy doom,
Prior," said the leader.
"Ye are mad, my
masters," said the Prior; "where am I to find such a sum? If I sell
the very pyx and candlesticks on the altar at Jorvaulx, I shall
scarce raise the half; and it will be necessary for that purpose
that I go to Jorvaulx myself; ye may retain as borrows
44
my two priests."
"That will be but blind
trust," said the Outlaw; "we will retain thee, Prior, and send them
to fetch thy ransom. Thou shalt not want a cup of wine and a collop
of venison the while; and if thou lovest woodcraft, thou shalt see
such as your north country never witnessed."
"Or, if so please you," said
Isaac, willing to curry favour with the outlaws, "I can send to York
for the six hundred crowns, out of certain monies in my hands, if so
be that the most reverend Prior present will grant me a quittance."
"He shall grant thee
whatever thou dost list, Isaac," said the Captain; "and thou shalt
lay down the redemption money for Prior Aymer as well as for
thyself."
"For myself! ah, courageous
sirs," said the Jew, "I am a broken and impoverished man; a beggar's
staff must be my portion through life, supposing I were to pay you
fifty crowns."
"The Prior shall judge of
that matter," replied the Captain.—"How say you, Father Aymer? Can
the Jew afford a good ransom?"
"Can he afford a ransom?"
answered the Prior "Is he not Isaac of York, rich enough to redeem
the captivity of the ten tribes of Israel, who were led into
Assyrian bondage?—I have seen but little of him myself, but our
cellarer and treasurer have dealt largely with him, and report says
that his house at York is so full of gold and silver as is a shame
in any Christian land. Marvel it is to all living Christian hearts
that such gnawing adders should be suffered to eat into the bowels
of the state, and even of the holy church herself, with foul usuries
and extortions."
"Hold, father," said the
Jew, "mitigate and assuage your choler. I pray of your reverence to
remember that I force my monies upon no one. But when churchman and
layman, prince and prior, knight and priest, come knocking to
Isaac's door, they borrow not his shekels with these uncivil terms.
It is then, Friend Isaac, will you pleasure us in this matter, and
our day shall be truly kept, so God sa' me?—and Kind Isaac, if ever
you served man, show yourself a friend in this need! And when the
day comes, and I ask my own, then what hear I but Damned Jew, and
The curse of Egypt on your tribe, and all that may stir up the rude
and uncivil populace against poor strangers!"
"Prior," said the Captain,
"Jew though he be, he hath in this spoken well. Do thou, therefore,
name his ransom, as he named thine, without farther rude terms."
"None but 'latro
famosus'—the interpretation whereof," said the Prior, "will I give
at some other time and tide—would place a Christian prelate and an
unbaptized Jew upon the same bench. But since ye require me to put a
price upon this caitiff, I tell you openly that ye will wrong
yourselves if you take from him a penny under a thousand crowns."
"A sentence!—a sentence!"
exclaimed the chief Outlaw.
"A sentence!—a sentence!"
shouted his assessors; "the Christian has shown his good nurture,
and dealt with us more generously than the Jew."
"The God of my fathers help
me!" said the Jew; "will ye bear to the ground an impoverished
creature?—I am this day childless, and will ye deprive me of the
means of livelihood?"
"Thou wilt have the less to
provide for, Jew, if thou art childless," said Aymer.
"Alas! my lord," said Isaac,
"your law permits you not to know how the child of our bosom is
entwined with the strings of our heart—O Rebecca! laughter of my
beloved Rachel! were each leaf on that tree a zecchin, and each
zecchin mine own, all that mass of wealth would I give to know
whether thou art alive, and escaped the hands of the Nazarene!"
"Was not thy daughter
dark-haired?" said one of the outlaws; "and wore she not a veil of
twisted sendal, broidered with silver?"
"She did!—she did!" said the
old man, trembling with eagerness, as formerly with fear. "The
blessing of Jacob be upon thee! canst thou tell me aught of her
safety?"
"It was she, then," said the
yeoman, "who was carried off by the proud Templar, when he broke
through our ranks on yester-even. I had drawn my bow to send a shaft
after him, but spared him even for the sake of the damsel, who I
feared might take harm from the arrow."
"Oh!" answered the Jew, "I
would to God thou hadst shot, though the arrow had pierced her
bosom!—Better the tomb of her fathers than the dishonourable couch
of the licentious and savage Templar. Ichabod! Ichabod! the glory
hath departed from my house!"
"Friends," said the Chief,
looking round, "the old man is but a Jew, natheless his grief
touches me.—Deal uprightly with us, Isaac—will paying this ransom of
a thousand crowns leave thee altogether penniless?"
Isaac, recalled to think of
his worldly goods, the love of which, by dint of inveterate habit,
contended even with his parental affection, grew pale, stammered,
and could not deny there might be some small surplus.
"Well—go to—what though
there be," said the Outlaw, "we will not reckon with thee too
closely. Without treasure thou mayst as well hope to redeem thy
child from the clutches of Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, as to shoot a
stag-royal with a headless shaft.—We will take thee at the same
ransom with Prior Aymer, or rather at one hundred crowns lower,
which hundred crowns shall be mine own peculiar loss, and not light
upon this worshipful community; and so we shall avoid the heinous
offence of rating a Jew merchant as high as a Christian prelate, and
thou wilt have six hundred crowns remaining to treat for thy
daughter's ransom. Templars love the glitter of silver shekels as
well as the sparkle of black eyes.—Hasten to make thy crowns chink
in the ear of De Bois-Guilbert, ere worse comes of it. Thou wilt
find him, as our scouts have brought notice, at the next Preceptory
house of his Order.—Said I well, my merry mates?"
The yeomen expressed their
wonted acquiescence in their leader's opinion; and Isaac, relieved
of one half of his apprehensions, by learning that his daughter
lived, and might possibly be ransomed, threw himself at the feet of
the generous Outlaw, and, rubbing his beard against his buskins,
sought to kiss the hem of his green cassock. The Captain drew
himself back, and extricated himself from the Jew's grasp, not
without some marks of contempt.
"Nay, beshrew thee, man, up
with thee! I am English born, and love no such Eastern
prostrations—Kneel to God, and not to a poor sinner, like me."
"Ay, Jew," said Prior Aymer;
"kneel to God, as represented in the servant of his altar, and who
knows, with thy sincere repentance and due gifts to the shrine of
Saint Robert, what grace thou mayst acquire for thyself and thy
daughter Rebecca? I grieve for the maiden, for she is of fair and
comely countenance,—I beheld her in the lists of Ashby. Also Brian
de Bois-Guilbert is one with whom I may do much—bethink thee how
thou mayst deserve my good word with him."
"Alas! alas!" said the Jew,
"on every hand the spoilers arise against me—I am given as a prey
unto the Assyrian, and a prey unto him of Egypt."
"And what else should be the
lot of thy accursed race?" answered the Prior; "for what saith holy
writ, 'verbum Domini projecerunt, et sapientia est nulla in
eis'—they have cast forth the word of the Lord, and there is no
wisdom in them; 'propterea dabo mulieres eorum exteris'—I will give
their women to strangers, that is to the Templar, as in the present
matter; 'et thesauros eorum haeredibus alienis', and their treasures
to others—as in the present case to these honest gentlemen."
Isaac groaned deeply, and
began to wring his hands, and to relapse into his state of
desolation and despair. But the leader of the yeomen led him aside.
"Advise thee well, Isaac,"
said Locksley, "what thou wilt do in this matter; my counsel to thee
is to make a friend of this churchman. He is vain, Isaac, and he is
covetous; at least he needs money to supply his profusion. Thou
canst easily gratify his greed; for think not that I am blinded by
thy pretexts of poverty. I am intimately acquainted, Isaac, with the
very iron chest in which thou dost keep thy money-bags—What! know I
not the great stone beneath the apple-tree, that leads into the
vaulted chamber under thy garden at York?" The Jew grew as pale as
death—"But fear nothing from me," continued the yeoman, "for we are
of old acquainted. Dost thou not remember the sick yeoman whom thy
fair daughter Rebecca redeemed from the gyves at York, and kept him
in thy house till his health was restored, when thou didst dismiss
him recovered, and with a piece of money?—Usurer as thou art, thou
didst never place coin at better interest than that poor silver
mark, for it has this day saved thee five hundred crowns."
"And thou art he whom we
called Diccon Bend-the-Bow?" said Isaac; "I thought ever I knew the
accent of thy voice."
"I am Bend-the-Bow," said
the Captain, "and Locksley, and have a good name besides all these."
"But thou art mistaken, good
Bend-the-Bow, concerning that same vaulted apartment. So help me
Heaven, as there is nought in it but some merchandises which I will
gladly part with to you—one hundred yards of Lincoln green to make
doublets to thy men, and a hundred staves of Spanish yew to make
bows, and a hundred silken bowstrings, tough, round, and sound—these
will I send thee for thy good-will, honest Diccon, an thou wilt keep
silence about the vault, my good Diccon."
"Silent as a dormouse," said
the Outlaw; "and never trust me but I am grieved for thy daughter.
But I may not help it—The Templars lances are too strong for my
archery in the open field—they would scatter us like dust. Had I but
known it was Rebecca when she was borne off, something might have
been done; but now thou must needs proceed by policy. Come, shall I
treat for thee with the Prior?"
"In God's name, Diccon, an
thou canst, aid me to recover the child of my bosom!"
"Do not thou interrupt me
with thine ill-timed avarice," said the Outlaw, "and I will deal
with him in thy behalf."
He then turned from the Jew,
who followed him, however, as closely as his shadow.
"Prior Aymer," said the
Captain, "come apart with me under this tree. Men say thou dost love
wine, and a lady's smile, better than beseems thy Order, Sir Priest;
but with that I have nought to do. I have heard, too, thou dost love
a brace of good dogs and a fleet horse, and it may well be that,
loving things which are costly to come by, thou hatest not a purse
of gold. But I have never heard that thou didst love oppression or
cruelty.—Now, here is Isaac willing to give thee the means of
pleasure and pastime in a bag containing one hundred marks of
silver, if thy intercession with thine ally the Templar shall avail
to procure the freedom of his daughter."
"In safety and honour, as
when taken from me," said the Jew, "otherwise it is no bargain."
"Peace, Isaac," said the
Outlaw, "or I give up thine interest.—What say you to this my
purpose, Prior Aymer?"
"The matter," quoth
the Prior, "is of a mixed condition; for, if I do a good deal on the
one hand, yet, on the other, it goeth to the vantage of a Jew, and
in so much is against my conscience. Yet, if the Israelite will
advantage the Church by giving me somewhat over to the building of
our dortour,
45 I
will take it on my conscience to aid him in the matter of his
daughter."
"For a score of marks to the
dortour," said the Outlaw,—"Be still, I say, Isaac!—or for a brace
of silver candlesticks to the altar, we will not stand with you."
"Nay, but, good Diccon
Bend-the-Bow"—said Isaac, endeavouring to interpose.
"Good Jew—good beast—good
earthworm!" said the yeoman, losing patience; "an thou dost go on to
put thy filthy lucre in the balance with thy daughter's life and
honour, by Heaven, I will strip thee of every maravedi thou hast in
the world, before three days are out!"
Isaac shrunk together, and
was silent.
"And what pledge am I to
have for all this?" said the Prior.
"When Isaac returns
successful through your mediation," said the Outlaw, "I swear by
Saint Hubert, I will see that he pays thee the money in good silver,
or I will reckon with him for it in such sort, he had better have
paid twenty such sums."
"Well then, Jew," said
Aymer, "since I must needs meddle in this matter, let me have the
use of thy writing-tablets—though, hold—rather than use thy pen, I
would fast for twenty-four hours, and where shall I find one?"
"If your holy scruples can
dispense with using the Jew's tablets, for the pen I can find a
remedy," said the yeoman; and, bending his bow, he aimed his shaft
at a wild-goose which was soaring over their heads, the
advanced-guard of a phalanx of his tribe, which were winging their
way to the distant and solitary fens of Holderness. The bird came
fluttering down, transfixed with the arrow.
"There, Prior," said the
Captain, "are quills enow to supply all the monks of Jorvaulx for
the next hundred years, an they take not to writing chronicles."
The Prior sat down, and at
great leisure indited an epistle to Brian de Bois-Guilbert, and
having carefully sealed up the tablets, delivered them to the Jew,
saying, "This will be thy safe-conduct to the Preceptory of
Templestowe, and, as I think, is most likely to accomplish the
delivery of thy daughter, if it be well backed with proffers of
advantage and commodity at thine own hand; for, trust me well, the
good Knight Bois-Guilbert is of their confraternity that do nought
for nought."
"Well, Prior," said the
Outlaw, "I will detain thee no longer here than to give the Jew a
quittance for the six hundred crowns at which thy ransom is fixed—I
accept of him for my pay-master; and if I hear that ye boggle at
allowing him in his accompts the sum so paid by him, Saint Mary
refuse me, an I burn not the abbey over thine head, though I hang
ten years the sooner!"
With a much worse grace than
that wherewith he had penned the letter to Bois-Guilbert, the Prior
wrote an acquittance, discharging Isaac of York of six hundred
crowns, advanced to him in his need for acquittal of his ransom, and
faithfully promising to hold true compt with him for that sum.
"And now," said Prior Aymer,
"I will pray you of restitution of my mules and palfreys, and the
freedom of the reverend brethren attending upon me, and also of the
gymmal rings, jewels, and fair vestures, of which I have been
despoiled, having now satisfied you for my ransom as a true
prisoner."
"Touching your brethren, Sir
Prior," said Locksley, "they shall have present freedom, it were
unjust to detain them; touching your horses and mules, they shall
also be restored, with such spending-money as may enable you to
reach York, for it were cruel to deprive you of the means of
journeying.—But as concerning rings, jewels, chains, and what else,
you must understand that we are men of tender consciences, and will
not yield to a venerable man like yourself, who should be dead to
the vanities of this life, the strong temptation to break the rule
of his foundation, by wearing rings, chains, or other vain gauds."
"Think what you do, my
masters," said the Prior, "ere you put your hand on the Church's
patrimony—These things are 'inter res sacras', and I wot not what
judgment might ensue were they to be handled by laical hands."
"I will take care of that,
reverend Prior," said the Hermit of Copmanhurst; "for I will wear
them myself."
"Friend, or brother," said
the Prior, in answer to this solution of his doubts, "if thou hast
really taken religious orders, I pray thee to look how thou wilt
answer to thine official for the share thou hast taken in this day's
work."
"Friend Prior," returned the
Hermit, "you are to know that I belong to a little diocese, where I
am my own diocesan, and care as little for the Bishop of York as I
do for the Abbot of Jorvaulx, the Prior, and all the convent."
"Thou art utterly
irregular," said the Prior; "one of those disorderly men, who,
taking on them the sacred character without due cause, profane the
holy rites, and endanger the souls of those who take counsel at
their hands; 'lapides pro pane condonantes iis', giving them stones
instead of bread as the Vulgate hath it."
"Nay," said the Friar, "an
my brain-pan could have been broken by Latin, it had not held so
long together.—I say, that easing a world of such misproud priests
as thou art of their jewels and their gimcracks, is a lawful
spoiling of the Egyptians."
"Thou be'st a
hedge-priest,"
46
said the Prior, in great wrath, "'excommunicabo vos'."
"Thou be'st thyself more
like a thief and a heretic," said the Friar, equally indignant; "I
will pouch up no such affront before my parishioners, as thou
thinkest it not shame to put upon me, although I be a reverend
brother to thee. 'Ossa ejus perfringam', I will break your bones, as
the Vulgate hath it."
"Hola!" cried the Captain,
"come the reverend brethren to such terms?—Keep thine assurance of
peace, Friar.—Prior, an thou hast not made thy peace perfect with
God, provoke the Friar no further.—Hermit, let the reverend father
depart in peace, as a ransomed man."
The yeomen separated the
incensed priests, who continued to raise their voices, vituperating
each other in bad Latin, which the Prior delivered the more
fluently, and the Hermit with the greater vehemence. The Prior at
length recollected himself sufficiently to be aware that he was
compromising his dignity, by squabbling with such a hedge-priest as
the Outlaw's chaplain, and being joined by his attendants, rode off
with considerably less pomp, and in a much more apostolical
condition, so far as worldly matters were concerned, than he had
exhibited before this rencounter.
It remained that the Jew
should produce some security for the ransom which he was to pay on
the Prior's account, as well as upon his own. He gave, accordingly,
an order sealed with his signet, to a brother of his tribe at York,
requiring him to pay to the bearer the sum of a thousand crowns, and
to deliver certain merchandises specified in the note.
"My brother Sheva," he said,
groaning deeply, "hath the key of my warehouses."
"And of the vaulted
chamber," whispered Locksley.
"No, no—may Heaven
forefend!" said Isaac; "evil is the hour that let any one whomsoever
into that secret!"
"It is safe with me," said
the Outlaw, "so be that this thy scroll produce the sum therein
nominated and set down.—But what now, Isaac? art dead? art
stupefied? hath the payment of a thousand crowns put thy daughter's
peril out of thy mind?"
The Jew started to his
feet—"No, Diccon, no—I will presently set forth.—Farewell, thou whom
I may not call good, and dare not and will not call evil."
Yet ere Isaac departed, the
Outlaw Chief bestowed on him this parting advice:—"Be liberal of
thine offers, Isaac, and spare not thy purse for thy daughter's
safety. Credit me, that the gold thou shalt spare in her cause, will
hereafter give thee as much agony as if it were poured molten down
thy throat."
Isaac acquiesced with a deep
groan, and set forth on his journey, accompanied by two tall
foresters, who were to be his guides, and at the same time his
guards, through the wood.
The Black Knight, who had
seen with no small interest these various proceedings, now took his
leave of the Outlaw in turn; nor could he avoid expressing his
surprise at having witnessed so much of civil policy amongst persons
cast out from all the ordinary protection and influence of the laws.
"Good fruit, Sir Knight,"
said the yeoman, "will sometimes grow on a sorry tree; and evil
times are not always productive of evil alone and unmixed. Amongst
those who are drawn into this lawless state, there are, doubtless,
numbers who wish to exercise its license with some moderation, and
some who regret, it may be, that they are obliged to follow such a
trade at all."
"And to one of those," said
the Knight, "I am now, I presume, speaking?"
"Sir Knight," said the
Outlaw, "we have each our secret. You are welcome to form your
judgment of me, and I may use my conjectures touching you, though
neither of our shafts may hit the mark they are shot at. But as I do
not pray to be admitted into your mystery, be not offended that I
preserve my own."
"I crave pardon, brave
Outlaw," said the Knight, "your reproof is just. But it may be we
shall meet hereafter with less of concealment on either
side.—Meanwhile we part friends, do we not?"
"There is my hand upon it,"
said Locksley; "and I will call it the hand of a true Englishman,
though an outlaw for the present."
"And there is mine in
return," said the Knight, "and I hold it honoured by being clasped
with yours. For he that does good, having the unlimited power to do
evil, deserves praise not only for the good which he performs, but
for the evil which he forbears. Fare thee well, gallant Outlaw!"
Thus parted that fair fellowship; and He of the Fetterlock, mounting
upon his strong war-horse, rode off through the forest.
CHAPTER XXXIV
KING JOHN.—I'll tell thee what, my friend,
He is a very serpent in my way;
And wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread,
He lies before me.—Dost thou understand me?
—King John
There was brave feasting in
the Castle of York, to which Prince John had invited those nobles,
prelates, and leaders, by whose assistance he hoped to carry through
his ambitious projects upon his brother's throne. Waldemar Fitzurse,
his able and politic agent, was at secret work among them, tempering
all to that pitch of courage which was necessary in making an open
declaration of their purpose. But their enterprise was delayed by
the absence of more than one main limb of the confederacy. The
stubborn and daring, though brutal courage of Front-de-Boeuf; the
buoyant spirits and bold bearing of De Bracy; the sagacity, martial
experience, and renowned valour of Brian de Bois-Guilbert, were
important to the success of their conspiracy; and, while cursing in
secret their unnecessary and unmeaning absence, neither John nor his
adviser dared to proceed without them. Isaac the Jew also seemed to
have vanished, and with him the hope of certain sums of money,
making up the subsidy for which Prince John had contracted with that
Israelite and his brethren. This deficiency was likely to prove
perilous in an emergency so critical.
It was on the morning after
the fall of Torquilstone, that a confused report began to spread
abroad in the city of York, that De Bracy and Bois-Guilbert, with
their confederate Front-de-Boeuf, had been taken or slain. Waldemar
brought the rumour to Prince John, announcing, that he feared its
truth the more that they had set out with a small attendance, for
the purpose of committing an assault on the Saxon Cedric and his
attendants. At another time the Prince would have treated this deed
of violence as a good jest; but now, that it interfered with and
impeded his own plans, he exclaimed against the perpetrators, and
spoke of the broken laws, and the infringement of public order and
of private property, in a tone which might have become King Alfred.
"The unprincipled
marauders," he said—"were I ever to become monarch of England, I
would hang such transgressors over the drawbridges of their own
castles."
"But to become monarch of
England," said his Ahithophel coolly, "it is necessary not only that
your Grace should endure the transgressions of these unprincipled
marauders, but that you should afford them your protection,
notwithstanding your laudable zeal for the laws they are in the
habit of infringing. We shall be finely helped, if the churl Saxons
should have realized your Grace's vision, of converting feudal
drawbridges into gibbets; and yonder bold-spirited Cedric seemeth
one to whom such an imagination might occur. Your Grace is well
aware, it will be dangerous to stir without Front-de-Boeuf, De
Bracy, and the Templar; and yet we have gone too far to recede with
safety."
Prince John struck his
forehead with impatience, and then began to stride up and down the
apartment.
"The villains," he said,
"the base treacherous villains, to desert me at this pinch!"
"Nay, say rather the
feather-pated giddy madmen," said Waldemar, "who must be toying with
follies when such business was in hand."
"What is to be done?" said
the Prince, stopping short before Waldemar.
"I know nothing which can be
done," answered his counsellor, "save that which I have already
taken order for.—I came not to bewail this evil chance with your
Grace, until I had done my best to remedy it."
"Thou art ever my better
angel, Waldemar," said the Prince; "and when I have such a
chancellor to advise withal, the reign of John will be renowned in
our annals.—What hast thou commanded?"
"I have ordered Louis
Winkelbrand, De Bracy's lieutenant, to cause his trumpet sound to
horse, and to display his banner, and to set presently forth towards
the castle of Front-de-Boeuf, to do what yet may be done for the
succour of our friends."
Prince John's face flushed
with the pride of a spoilt child, who has undergone what it
conceives to be an insult. "By the face of God!" he said, "Waldemar
Fitzurse, much hast thou taken upon thee! and over malapert thou
wert to cause trumpet to blow, or banner to be raised, in a town
where ourselves were in presence, without our express command."
"I crave your Grace's
pardon," said Fitzurse, internally cursing the idle vanity of his
patron; "but when time pressed, and even the loss of minutes might
be fatal, I judged it best to take this much burden upon me, in a
matter of such importance to your Grace's interest."
"Thou art pardoned,
Fitzurse," said the prince, gravely; "thy purpose hath atoned for
thy hasty rashness.—But whom have we here?—De Bracy himself, by the
rood!—and in strange guise doth he come before us."
It was indeed De
Bracy—"bloody with spurring, fiery red with speed." His armour bore
all the marks of the late obstinate fray, being broken, defaced, and
stained with blood in many places, and covered with clay and dust
from the crest to the spur. Undoing his helmet, he placed it on the
table, and stood a moment as if to collect himself before he told
his news.
"De Bracy," said Prince
John, "what means this?—Speak, I charge thee!—Are the Saxons in
rebellion?"
"Speak, De Bracy," said
Fitzurse, almost in the same moment with his master, "thou wert wont
to be a man—Where is the Templar?—where Front-de-Boeuf?"
"The Templar is fled," said
De Bracy; "Front-de-Boeuf you will never see more. He has found a
red grave among the blazing rafters of his own castle and I alone am
escaped to tell you."
"Cold news," said Waldemar,
"to us, though you speak of fire and conflagration."
"The worst news is not yet
said," answered De Bracy; and, coming up to Prince John, he uttered
in a low and emphatic tone—"Richard is in England—I have seen and
spoken with him."
Prince John turned pale,
tottered, and caught at the back of an oaken bench to support
himself—much like to a man who receives an arrow in his bosom.
"Thou ravest, De Bracy,"
said Fitzurse, "it cannot be."
"It is as true as truth
itself," said De Bracy; "I was his prisoner, and spoke with him."
"With Richard Plantagenet,
sayest thou?" continued Fitzurse.
"With Richard Plantagenet,"
replied De Bracy, "with Richard Coeur-de-Lion—with Richard of
England."
"And thou wert his
prisoner?" said Waldemar; "he is then at the head of a power?"
"No—only a few outlawed
yeomen were around him, and to these his person is unknown. I heard
him say he was about to depart from them. He joined them only to
assist at the storming of Torquilstone."
"Ay," said Fitzurse, "such
is indeed the fashion of Richard—a true knight-errant he, and will
wander in wild adventure, trusting the prowess of his single arm,
like any Sir Guy or Sir Bevis, while the weighty affairs of his
kingdom slumber, and his own safety is endangered.—What dost thou
propose to do De Bracy?"
"I?—I offered Richard the
service of my Free Lances, and he refused them—I will lead them to
Hull, seize on shipping, and embark for Flanders; thanks to the
bustling times, a man of action will always find employment. And
thou, Waldemar, wilt thou take lance and shield, and lay down thy
policies, and wend along with me, and share the fate which God sends
us?"
"I am too old, Maurice, and
I have a daughter," answered Waldemar.
"Give her to me, Fitzurse,
and I will maintain her as fits her rank, with the help of lance and
stirrup," said De Bracy.
"Not so," answered Fitzurse;
"I will take sanctuary in this church of Saint Peter—the Archbishop
is my sworn brother."
During this discourse,
Prince John had gradually awakened from the stupor into which he had
been thrown by the unexpected intelligence, and had been attentive
to the conversation which passed betwixt his followers. "They fall
off from me," he said to himself, "they hold no more by me than a
withered leaf by the bough when a breeze blows on it!—Hell and
fiends! can I shape no means for myself when I am deserted by these
cravens?"—He paused, and there was an expression of diabolical
passion in the constrained laugh with which he at length broke in on
their conversation.
"Ha, ha, ha! my good lords,
by the light of Our Lady's brow, I held ye sage men, bold men,
ready-witted men; yet ye throw down wealth, honour, pleasure, all
that our noble game promised you, at the moment it might be won by
one bold cast!"
"I understand you not," said
De Bracy. "As soon as Richard's return is blown abroad, he will be
at the head of an army, and all is then over with us. I would
counsel you, my lord, either to fly to France or take the protection
of the Queen Mother."
"I seek no safety for
myself," said Prince John, haughtily; "that I could secure by a word
spoken to my brother. But although you, De Bracy, and you, Waldemar
Fitzurse, are so ready to abandon me, I should not greatly delight
to see your heads blackening on Clifford's gate yonder. Thinkest
thou, Waldemar, that the wily Archbishop will not suffer thee to be
taken from the very horns of the altar, would it make his peace with
King Richard? And forgettest thou, De Bracy, that Robert Estoteville
lies betwixt thee and Hull with all his forces, and that the Earl of
Essex is gathering his followers? If we had reason to fear these
levies even before Richard's return, trowest thou there is any doubt
now which party their leaders will take? Trust me, Estoteville alone
has strength enough to drive all thy Free Lances into the
Humber."—Waldemar Fitzurse and De Bracy looked in each other's faces
with blank dismay.—"There is but one road to safety," continued the
Prince, and his brow grew black as midnight; "this object of our
terror journeys alone—He must be met withal."
"Not by me," said De Bracy,
hastily; "I was his prisoner, and he took me to mercy. I will not
harm a feather in his crest."
"Who spoke of harming him?"
said Prince John, with a hardened laugh; "the knave will say next
that I meant he should slay him!—No—a prison were better; and
whether in Britain or Austria, what matters it?—Things will be but
as they were when we commenced our enterprise—It was founded on the
hope that Richard would remain a captive in Germany—Our uncle Robert
lived and died in the castle of Cardiffe."
"Ay, but," said Waldemar,
"your sire Henry sate more firm in his seat than your Grace can. I
say the best prison is that which is made by the sexton—no dungeon
like a church-vault! I have said my say."
"Prison or tomb," said De
Bracy, "I wash my hands of the whole matter."
"Villain!" said Prince John,
"thou wouldst not bewray our counsel?"
"Counsel was never bewrayed
by me," said De Bracy, haughtily, "nor must the name of villain be
coupled with mine!"
"Peace, Sir Knight!" said
Waldemar; "and you, good my lord, forgive the scruples of valiant De
Bracy; I trust I shall soon remove them."
"That passes your eloquence,
Fitzurse," replied the Knight.
"Why, good Sir Maurice,"
rejoined the wily politician, "start not aside like a scared steed,
without, at least, considering the object of your terror.—This
Richard—but a day since, and it would have been thy dearest wish to
have met him hand to hand in the ranks of battle—a hundred times I
have heard thee wish it."
"Ay," said De Bracy, "but
that was as thou sayest, hand to hand, and in the ranks of battle!
Thou never heardest me breathe a thought of assaulting him alone,
and in a forest."
"Thou art no good knight if
thou dost scruple at it," said Waldemar. "Was it in battle that
Lancelot de Lac and Sir Tristram won renown? or was it not by
encountering gigantic knights under the shade of deep and unknown
forests?"
"Ay, but I promise you,"
said De Bracy, "that neither Tristram nor Lancelot would have been
match, hand to hand, for Richard Plantagenet, and I think it was not
their wont to take odds against a single man."
"Thou art mad, De Bracy—what
is it we propose to thee, a hired and retained captain of Free
Companions, whose swords are purchased for Prince John's service?
Thou art apprized of our enemy, and then thou scruplest, though thy
patron's fortunes, those of thy comrades, thine own, and the life
and honour of every one amongst us, be at stake!"
"I tell you," said De Bracy,
sullenly, "that he gave me my life. True, he sent me from his
presence, and refused my homage—so far I owe him neither favour nor
allegiance—but I will not lift hand against him."
"It needs not—send Louis
Winkelbrand and a score of thy lances."
"Ye have sufficient ruffians
of your own," said De Bracy; "not one of mine shall budge on such an
errand."
"Art thou so obstinate, De
Bracy?" said Prince John; "and wilt thou forsake me, after so many
protestations of zeal for my service?"
"I mean it not," said De
Bracy; "I will abide by you in aught that becomes a knight, whether
in the lists or in the camp; but this highway practice comes not
within my vow."
"Come hither,
Waldemar," said Prince John. "An unhappy prince am I. My father,
King Henry, had faithful servants—He had but to say that he was
plagued with a factious priest, and the blood of Thomas-a-Becket,
saint though he was, stained the steps of his own altar.—Tracy,
Morville, Brito
47
loyal and daring subjects, your names, your spirit, are extinct! and
although Reginald Fitzurse hath left a son, he hath fallen off from
his father's fidelity and courage."
"He has fallen off from
neither," said Waldemar Fitzurse; "and since it may not better be, I
will take on me the conduct of this perilous enterprise. Dearly,
however, did my father purchase the praise of a zealous friend; and
yet did his proof of loyalty to Henry fall far short of what I am
about to afford; for rather would I assail a whole calendar of
saints, than put spear in rest against Coeur-de-Lion.—De Bracy, to
thee I must trust to keep up the spirits of the doubtful, and to
guard Prince John's person. If you receive such news as I trust to
send you, our enterprise will no longer wear a doubtful
aspect.—Page," he said, "hie to my lodgings, and tell my armourer to
be there in readiness; and bid Stephen Wetheral, Broad Thoresby, and
the Three Spears of Spyinghow, come to me instantly; and let the
scout-master, Hugh Bardon, attend me also.—Adieu, my Prince, till
better times." Thus speaking, he left the apartment. "He goes to
make my brother prisoner," said Prince John to De Bracy, "with as
little touch of compunction, as if it but concerned the liberty of a
Saxon franklin. I trust he will observe our orders, and use our dear
Richard's person with all due respect."
De Bracy only answered by a
smile.
"By the light of Our Lady's
brow," said Prince John, "our orders to him were most precise—though
it may be you heard them not, as we stood together in the oriel
window—Most clear and positive was our charge that Richard's safety
should be cared for, and woe to Waldemar's head if he transgress
it!"
"I had better pass to his
lodgings," said De Bracy, "and make him fully aware of your Grace's
pleasure; for, as it quite escaped my ear, it may not perchance have
reached that of Waldemar."
"Nay, nay," said Prince
John, impatiently, "I promise thee he heard me; and, besides, I have
farther occupation for thee. Maurice, come hither; let me lean on
thy shoulder."
They walked a turn through
the hall in this familiar posture, and Prince John, with an air of
the most confidential intimacy, proceeded to say, "What thinkest
thou of this Waldemar Fitzurse, my De Bracy?—He trusts to be our
Chancellor. Surely we will pause ere we give an office so high to
one who shows evidently how little he reverences our blood, by his
so readily undertaking this enterprise against Richard. Thou dost
think, I warrant, that thou hast lost somewhat of our regard, by thy
boldly declining this unpleasing task—But no, Maurice! I rather
honour thee for thy virtuous constancy. There are things most
necessary to be done, the perpetrator of which we neither love nor
honour; and there may be refusals to serve us, which shall rather
exalt in our estimation those who deny our request. The arrest of my
unfortunate brother forms no such good title to the high office of
Chancellor, as thy chivalrous and courageous denial establishes in
thee to the truncheon of High Marshal. Think of this, De Bracy, and
begone to thy charge."
"Fickle tyrant!" muttered De
Bracy, as he left the presence of the Prince; "evil luck have they
who trust thee. Thy Chancellor, indeed!—He who hath the keeping of
thy conscience shall have an easy charge, I trow. But High Marshal
of England! that," he said, extending his arm, as if to grasp the
baton of office, and assuming a loftier stride along the
antechamber, "that is indeed a prize worth playing for!"
De Bracy had no sooner left
the apartment than Prince John summoned an attendant.
"Bid Hugh Bardon, our
scout-master, come hither, as soon as he shall have spoken with
Waldemar Fitzurse."
The scout-master arrived
after a brief delay, during which John traversed the apartment with,
unequal and disordered steps.
"Bardon," said he, "what did
Waldemar desire of thee?"
"Two resolute men, well
acquainted with these northern wilds, and skilful in tracking the
tread of man and horse."
"And thou hast fitted him?"
"Let your grace never trust
me else," answered the master of the spies. "One is from Hexamshire;
he is wont to trace the Tynedale and Teviotdale thieves, as a
bloodhound follows the slot of a hurt deer. The other is Yorkshire
bred, and has twanged his bowstring right oft in merry Sherwood; he
knows each glade and dingle, copse and high-wood, betwixt this and
Richmond."
"'Tis well," said the
Prince.—"Goes Waldemar forth with them?"
"Instantly," said Bardon.
"With what attendance?"
asked John, carelessly.
"Broad Thoresby goes with
him, and Wetheral, whom they call, for his cruelty, Stephen
Steel-heart; and three northern men-at-arms that belonged to Ralph
Middleton's gang—they are called the Spears of Spyinghow."
"'Tis well," said Prince
John; then added, after a moment's pause, "Bardon, it imports our
service that thou keep a strict watch on Maurice De Bracy—so that he
shall not observe it, however—And let us know of his motions from
time to time—with whom he converses, what he proposeth. Fail not in
this, as thou wilt be answerable."
Hugh Bardon bowed, and
retired.
"If Maurice betrays me,"
said Prince John—"if he betrays me, as his bearing leads me to fear,
I will have his head, were Richard thundering at the gates of York."
CHAPTER XXXV
Arouse the tiger of Hyrcanian deserts,
Strive with the half-starved lion for his prey;
Lesser the risk, than rouse the slumbering fire
Of wild Fanaticism.
—Anonymus
Our tale now returns to
Isaac of York.—Mounted upon a mule, the gift of the Outlaw, with two
tall yeomen to act as his guard and guides, the Jew had set out for
the Preceptory of Templestowe, for the purpose of negotiating his
daughter's redemption. The Preceptory was but a day's journey from
the demolished castle of Torquilstone, and the Jew had hoped to
reach it before nightfall; accordingly, having dismissed his guides
at the verge of the forest, and rewarded them with a piece of
silver, he began to press on with such speed as his weariness
permitted him to exert. But his strength failed him totally ere he
had reached within four miles of the Temple-Court; racking pains
shot along his back and through his limbs, and the excessive anguish
which he felt at heart being now augmented by bodily suffering, he
was rendered altogether incapable of proceeding farther than a small
market-town, were dwelt a Jewish Rabbi of his tribe, eminent in the
medical profession, and to whom Isaac was well known. Nathan Ben
Israel received his suffering countryman with that kindness which
the law prescribed, and which the Jews practised to each other. He
insisted on his betaking himself to repose, and used such remedies
as were then in most repute to check the progress of the fever,
which terror, fatigue, ill usage, and sorrow, had brought upon the
poor old Jew.
On the morrow, when Isaac
proposed to arise and pursue his journey, Nathan remonstrated
against his purpose, both as his host and as his physician. It might
cost him, he said, his life. But Isaac replied, that more than life
and death depended upon his going that morning to Templestowe.
"To Templestowe!" said his
host with surprise again felt his pulse, and then muttered to
himself, "His fever is abated, yet seems his mind somewhat alienated
and disturbed."
"And why not to
Templestowe?" answered his patient. "I grant thee, Nathan, that it
is a dwelling of those to whom the despised Children of the Promise
are a stumbling-block and an abomination; yet thou knowest that
pressing affairs of traffic sometimes carry us among these
bloodthirsty Nazarene soldiers, and that we visit the Preceptories
of the Templars, as well as the Commanderies of the Knights
Hospitallers, as they are called."
48
"I know it well," said
Nathan; "but wottest thou that Lucas de Beaumanoir, the chief of
their Order, and whom they term Grand Master, is now himself at
Templestowe?"
"I know it not," said Isaac;
"our last letters from our brethren at Paris advised us that he was
at that city, beseeching Philip for aid against the Sultan
Saladine."
"He hath since come to
England, unexpected by his brethren," said Ben Israel; "and he
cometh among them with a strong and outstretched arm to correct and
to punish. His countenance is kindled in anger against those who
have departed from the vow which they have made, and great is the
fear of those sons of Belial. Thou must have heard of his name?"
"It is well known unto me,"
said Isaac; "the Gentiles deliver this Lucas Beaumanoir as a man
zealous to slaying for every point of the Nazarene law; and our
brethren have termed him a fierce destroyer of the Saracens, and a
cruel tyrant to the Children of the Promise."
"And truly have they termed
him," said Nathan the physician. "Other Templars may be moved from
the purpose of their heart by pleasure, or bribed by promise of gold
and silver; but Beaumanoir is of a different stamp—hating
sensuality, despising treasure, and pressing forward to that which
they call the crown of martyrdom—The God of Jacob speedily send it
unto him, and unto them all! Specially hath this proud man extended
his glove over the children of Judah, as holy David over Edom,
holding the murder of a Jew to be an offering of as sweet savour as
the death of a Saracen. Impious and false things has he said even of
the virtues of our medicines, as if they were the devices of
Satan—The Lord rebuke him!"
"Nevertheless," said Isaac,
"I must present myself at Templestowe, though he hath made his face
like unto a fiery furnace seven times heated."
He then explained to Nathan
the pressing cause of his journey. The Rabbi listened with interest,
and testified his sympathy after the fashion of his people, rending
his clothes, and saying, "Ah, my daughter!—ah, my daughter!—Alas!
for the beauty of Zion!—Alas! for the captivity of Israel!"
"Thou seest," said Isaac,
"how it stands with me, and that I may not tarry. Peradventure, the
presence of this Lucas Beaumanoir, being the chief man over them,
may turn Brian de Bois-Guilbert from the ill which he doth meditate,
and that he may deliver to me my beloved daughter Rebecca."
"Go thou," said Nathan Ben
Israel, "and be wise, for wisdom availed Daniel in the den of lions
into which he was cast; and may it go well with thee, even as thine
heart wisheth. Yet, if thou canst, keep thee from the presence of
the Grand Master, for to do foul scorn to our people is his morning
and evening delight. It may be if thou couldst speak with
Bois-Guilbert in private, thou shalt the better prevail with him;
for men say that these accursed Nazarenes are not of one mind in the
Preceptory—May their counsels be confounded and brought to shame!
But do thou, brother, return to me as if it were to the house of thy
father, and bring me word how it has sped with thee; and well do I
hope thou wilt bring with thee Rebecca, even the scholar of the wise
Miriam, whose cures the Gentiles slandered as if they had been
wrought by necromancy."
Isaac accordingly bade his
friend farewell, and about an hour's riding brought him before the
Preceptory of Templestowe.
This establishment of the
Templars was seated amidst fair meadows and pastures, which the
devotion of the former Preceptor had bestowed upon their Order. It
was strong and well fortified, a point never neglected by these
knights, and which the disordered state of England rendered
peculiarly necessary. Two halberdiers, clad in black, guarded the
drawbridge, and others, in the same sad livery, glided to and fro
upon the walls with a funereal pace, resembling spectres more than
soldiers. The inferior officers of the Order were thus dressed, ever
since their use of white garments, similar to those of the knights
and esquires, had given rise to a combination of certain false
brethren in the mountains of Palestine, terming themselves Templars,
and bringing great dishonour on the Order. A knight was now and then
seen to cross the court in his long white cloak, his head depressed
on his breast, and his arms folded. They passed each other, if they
chanced to meet, with a slow, solemn, and mute greeting; for such
was the rule of their Order, quoting thereupon the holy texts, "In
many words thou shalt not avoid sin," and "Life and death are in the
power of the tongue." In a word, the stern ascetic rigour of the
Temple discipline, which had been so long exchanged for prodigal and
licentious indulgence, seemed at once to have revived at Templestowe
under the severe eye of Lucas Beaumanoir.
Isaac paused at the gate, to
consider how he might seek entrance in the manner most likely to
bespeak favour; for he was well aware, that to his unhappy race the
reviving fanaticism of the Order was not less dangerous than their
unprincipled licentiousness; and that his religion would be the
object of hate and persecution in the one case, as his wealth would
have exposed him in the other to the extortions of unrelenting
oppression.
Meantime Lucas Beaumanoir
walked in a small garden belonging to the Preceptory, included
within the precincts of its exterior fortification, and held sad and
confidential communication with a brother of his Order, who had come
in his company from Palestine.
The Grand Master was a man
advanced in age, as was testified by his long grey beard, and the
shaggy grey eyebrows overhanging eyes, of which, however, years had
been unable to quench the fire. A formidable warrior, his thin and
severe features retained the soldier's fierceness of expression; an
ascetic bigot, they were no less marked by the emaciation of
abstinence, and the spiritual pride of the self-satisfied devotee.
Yet with these severer traits of physiognomy, there was mixed
somewhat striking and noble, arising, doubtless, from the great part
which his high office called upon him to act among monarchs and
princes, and from the habitual exercise of supreme authority over
the valiant and high-born knights, who were united by the rules of
the Order. His stature was tall, and his gait, undepressed by age
and toil, was erect and stately. His white mantle was shaped with
severe regularity, according to the rule of Saint Bernard himself,
being composed of what was then called Burrel clo
