[Illustration]




Ivanhoe

A Romance

by Sir Walter Scott


Contents

 INTRODUCTION TO IVANHOE.
 DEDICATORY EPISTLE

 CHAPTER I.
 CHAPTER II.
 CHAPTER III.
 CHAPTER IV.
 CHAPTER V.
 CHAPTER VI.
 CHAPTER VII.
 CHAPTER VIII.
 CHAPTER IX.
 CHAPTER X.
 CHAPTER XI.
 CHAPTER XII.
 CHAPTER XIII.
 CHAPTER XIV.
 CHAPTER XV.
 CHAPTER XVI.
 CHAPTER XVII.
 CHAPTER XVIII.
 CHAPTER XIX.
 CHAPTER XX.
 CHAPTER XXI.
 CHAPTER XXII.
 CHAPTER XXIII.
 CHAPTER XXIV.
 CHAPTER XXV.
 CHAPTER XXVI.
 CHAPTER XXVII.
 CHAPTER XXVIII.
 CHAPTER XXIX.
 CHAPTER XXX.
 CHAPTER XXXI.
 CHAPTER XXXII.
 CHAPTER XXXIII.
 CHAPTER XXXIV.
 CHAPTER XXXV.
 CHAPTER XXXVI.
 CHAPTER XXXVII.
 CHAPTER XXXVIII.
 CHAPTER XXXIX.
 CHAPTER XL.
 CHAPTER XLI.
 CHAPTER XLII.
 CHAPTER XLIII.
 CHAPTER XLIV.

 NOTE TO CHAPTER I.
 NOTE TO CHAPTER II.
 NOTE TO CHAPTER XVII.
 NOTE TO CHAPTER XXI.
 NOTE TO CHAPTER XXII.
 NOTE TO CHAPTER XXIX.
 NOTE TO CHAPTER XXXI.
 NOTE TO CHAPTER XXXII.
 NOTE TO CHAPTER XXXIII.
 NOTE TO CHAPTER XLI..
 FOOTNOTES

[Illustration]




Now fitted the halter, now traversed the cart,
And often took leave,—but seemed loath to depart! 1
—Prior.




INTRODUCTION TO IVANHOE.


The Author of the Waverley Novels had hitherto proceeded in an unabated
course of popularity, and might, in his peculiar district of
literature, have been termed _L’Enfant Gâté_ of success. It was plain,
however, that frequent publication must finally wear out the public
favour, unless some mode could be devised to give an appearance of
novelty to subsequent productions. Scottish manners, Scottish dialect,
and Scottish characters of note, being those with which the author was
most intimately, and familiarly acquainted, were the groundwork upon
which he had hitherto relied for giving effect to his narrative. It
was, however, obvious, that this kind of interest must in the end
occasion a degree of sameness and repetition, if exclusively resorted
to, and that the reader was likely at length to adopt the language of
Edwin, in Parnell’s Tale:

“‘Reverse the spell,’ he cries,
‘And let it fairly now suffice.
The gambol has been shown.’”


Nothing can be more dangerous for the fame of a professor of the fine
arts, than to permit (if he can possibly prevent it) the character of a
mannerist to be attached to him, or that he should be supposed capable
of success only in a particular and limited style. The public are, in
general, very ready to adopt the opinion, that he who has pleased them
in one peculiar mode of composition, is, by means of that very talent,
rendered incapable of venturing upon other subjects. The effect of this
disinclination, on the part of the public, towards the artificers of
their pleasures, when they attempt to enlarge their means of amusing,
may be seen in the censures usually passed by vulgar criticism upon
actors or artists who venture to change the character of their efforts,
that, in so doing, they may enlarge the scale of their art.

There is some justice in this opinion, as there always is in such as
attain general currency. It may often happen on the stage, that an
actor, by possessing in a preeminent degree the external qualities
necessary to give effect to comedy, may be deprived of the right to
aspire to tragic excellence; and in painting or literary composition,
an artist or poet may be master exclusively of modes of thought, and
powers of expression, which confine him to a single course of subjects.
But much more frequently the same capacity which carries a man to
popularity in one department will obtain for him success in another,
and that must be more particularly the case in literary composition,
than either in acting or painting, because the adventurer in that
department is not impeded in his exertions by any peculiarity of
features, or conformation of person, proper for particular parts, or,
by any peculiar mechanical habits of using the pencil, limited to a
particular class of subjects.

Whether this reasoning be correct or otherwise, the present author
felt, that, in confining himself to subjects purely Scottish, he was
not only likely to weary out the indulgence of his readers, but also
greatly to limit his own power of affording them pleasure. In a highly
polished country, where so much genius is monthly employed in catering
for public amusement, a fresh topic, such as he had himself had the
happiness to light upon, is the untasted spring of the desert;—

“Men bless their stars and call it luxury.”


But when men and horses, cattle, camels, and dromedaries, have poached
the spring into mud, it becomes loathsome to those who at first drank
of it with rapture; and he who had the merit of discovering it, if he
would preserve his reputation with the tribe, must display his talent
by a fresh discovery of untasted fountains.

If the author, who finds himself limited to a particular class of
subjects, endeavours to sustain his reputation by striving to add a
novelty of attraction to themes of the same character which have been
formerly successful under his management, there are manifest reasons
why, after a certain point, he is likely to fail. If the mine be not
wrought out, the strength and capacity of the miner become necessarily
exhausted. If he closely imitates the narratives which he has before
rendered successful, he is doomed to “wonder that they please no more.”
If he struggles to take a different view of the same class of subjects,
he speedily discovers that what is obvious, graceful, and natural, has
been exhausted; and, in order to obtain the indispensable charm of
novelty, he is forced upon caricature, and, to avoid being trite, must
become extravagant.

It is not, perhaps, necessary to enumerate so many reasons why the
author of the Scottish Novels, as they were then exclusively termed,
should be desirous to make an experiment on a subject purely English.
It was his purpose, at the same time, to have rendered the experiment
as complete as possible, by bringing the intended work before the
public as the effort of a new candidate for their favour, in order that
no degree of prejudice, whether favourable or the reverse, might attach
to it, as a new production of the Author of Waverley; but this
intention was afterwards departed from, for reasons to be hereafter
mentioned.

The period of the narrative adopted was the reign of Richard I., not
only as abounding with characters whose very names were sure to attract
general attention, but as affording a striking contrast betwixt the
Saxons, by whom the soil was cultivated, and the Normans, who still
reigned in it as conquerors, reluctant to mix with the vanquished, or
acknowledge themselves of the same stock. The idea of this contrast was
taken from the ingenious and unfortunate Logan’s tragedy of Runnamede,
in which, about the same period of history, the author had seen the
Saxon and Norman barons opposed to each other on different sides of the
stage. He does not recollect that there was any attempt to contrast the
two races in their habits and sentiments; and indeed it was obvious,
that history was violated by introducing the Saxons still existing as a
high-minded and martial race of nobles.

They did, however, survive as a people, and some of the ancient Saxon
families possessed wealth and power, although they were exceptions to
the humble condition of the race in general. It seemed to the author,
that the existence of the two races in the same country, the vanquished
distinguished by their plain, homely, blunt manners, and the free
spirit infused by their ancient institutions and laws; the victors, by
the high spirit of military fame, personal adventure, and whatever
could distinguish them as the Flower of Chivalry, might, intermixed
with other characters belonging to the same time and country, interest
the reader by the contrast, if the author should not fail on his part.

Scotland, however, had been of late used so exclusively as the scene of
what is called Historical Romance, that the preliminary letter of Mr
Laurence Templeton became in some measure necessary. To this, as to an
Introduction, the reader is referred, as expressing the author’s
purpose and opinions in undertaking this species of composition, under
the necessary reservation, that he is far from thinking he has attained
the point at which he aimed.

It is scarcely necessary to add, that there was no idea or wish to pass
off the supposed Mr Templeton as a real person. But a kind of
continuation of the Tales of my Landlord had been recently attempted by
a stranger, and it was supposed this Dedicatory Epistle might pass for
some imitation of the same kind, and thus putting enquirers upon a
false scent, induce them to believe they had before them the work of
some new candidate for their favour.

After a considerable part of the work had been finished and printed,
the Publishers, who pretended to discern in it a germ of popularity,
remonstrated strenuously against its appearing as an absolutely
anonymous production, and contended that it should have the advantage
of being announced as by the Author of Waverley. The author did not
make any obstinate opposition, for he began to be of opinion with Dr
Wheeler, in Miss Edgeworth’s excellent tale of “Maneuvering,” that
“Trick upon Trick” might be too much for the patience of an indulgent
public, and might be reasonably considered as trifling with their
favour.

The book, therefore, appeared as an avowed continuation of the Waverley
Novels; and it would be ungrateful not to acknowledge, that it met with
the same favourable reception as its predecessors.

Such annotations as may be useful to assist the reader in comprehending
the characters of the Jew, the Templar, the Captain of the mercenaries,
or Free Companions, as they were called, and others proper to the
period, are added, but with a sparing hand, since sufficient
information on these subjects is to be found in general history.

An incident in the tale, which had the good fortune to find favour in
the eyes of many readers, is more directly borrowed from the stores of
old romance. I mean the meeting of the King with Friar Tuck at the cell
of that buxom hermit. The general tone of the story belongs to all
ranks and all countries, which emulate each other in describing the
rambles of a disguised sovereign, who, going in search of information
or amusement, into the lower ranks of life, meets with adventures
diverting to the reader or hearer, from the contrast betwixt the
monarch’s outward appearance, and his real character. The Eastern
tale-teller has for his theme the disguised expeditions of Haroun
Alraschid with his faithful attendants, Mesrour and Giafar, through the
midnight streets of Bagdad; and Scottish tradition dwells upon the
similar exploits of James V., distinguished during such excursions by
the travelling name of the Goodman of Ballengeigh, as the Commander of
the Faithful, when he desired to be incognito, was known by that of Il
Bondocani. The French minstrels are not silent on so popular a theme.
There must have been a Norman original of the Scottish metrical romance
of Rauf Colziar, in which Charlemagne is introduced as the unknown
guest of a charcoal-man. 2

It seems to have been the original of other poems of the kind.

In merry England there is no end of popular ballads on this theme. The
poem of John the Reeve, or Steward, mentioned by Bishop Percy, in the
Reliques of English Poetry, 3 is said to have turned on such an
incident; and we have besides, the King and the Tanner of Tamworth, the
King and the Miller of Mansfield, and others on the same topic. But the
peculiar tale of this nature to which the author of Ivanhoe has to
acknowledge an obligation, is more ancient by two centuries than any of
these last mentioned.

It was first communicated to the public in that curious record of
ancient literature, which has been accumulated by the combined
exertions of Sir Egerton Brydges and Mr Hazlewood, in the periodical
work entitled the British Bibliographer. From thence it has been
transferred by the Reverend Charles Henry Hartshorne, M.A., editor of a
very curious volume, entitled “Ancient Metrical Tales, printed chiefly
from original sources, 1829.” Mr Hartshorne gives no other authority
for the present fragment, except the article in the Bibliographer,
where it is entitled the Kyng and the Hermite. A short abstract of its
contents will show its similarity to the meeting of King Richard and
Friar Tuck.

King Edward (we are not told which among the monarchs of that name,
but, from his temper and habits, we may suppose Edward IV.) sets forth
with his court to a gallant hunting-match in Sherwood Forest, in which,
as is not unusual for princes in romance, he falls in with a deer of
extraordinary size and swiftness, and pursues it closely, till he has
outstripped his whole retinue, tired out hounds and horse, and finds
himself alone under the gloom of an extensive forest, upon which night
is descending. Under the apprehensions natural to a situation so
uncomfortable, the king recollects that he has heard how poor men, when
apprehensive of a bad nights lodging, pray to Saint Julian, who, in the
Romish calendar, stands Quarter-Master-General to all forlorn
travellers that render him due homage. Edward puts up his orisons
accordingly, and by the guidance, doubtless, of the good Saint, reaches
a small path, conducting him to a chapel in the forest, having a
hermit’s cell in its close vicinity. The King hears the reverend man,
with a companion of his solitude, telling his beads within, and meekly
requests of him quarters for the night. “I have no accommodation for
such a lord as ye be,” said the Hermit. “I live here in the wilderness
upon roots and rinds, and may not receive into my dwelling even the
poorest wretch that lives, unless it were to save his life.” The King
enquires the way to the next town, and, understanding it is by a road
which he cannot find without difficulty, even if he had daylight to
befriend him, he declares, that with or without the Hermit’s consent,
he is determined to be his guest that night. He is admitted
accordingly, not without a hint from the Recluse, that were he himself
out of his priestly weeds, he would care little for his threats of
using violence, and that he gives way to him not out of intimidation,
but simply to avoid scandal.

The King is admitted into the cell—two bundles of straw are shaken down
for his accommodation, and he comforts himself that he is now under
shelter, and that

“A night will soon be gone.”


Other wants, however, arise. The guest becomes clamorous for supper,
observing,

“For certainly, as I you say,
I ne had never so sorry a day,
    That I ne had a merry night.”


But this indication of his taste for good cheer, joined to the
annunciation of his being a follower of the Court, who had lost himself
at the great hunting-match, cannot induce the niggard Hermit to produce
better fare than bread and cheese, for which his guest showed little
appetite; and “thin drink,” which was even less acceptable. At length
the King presses his host on a point to which he had more than once
alluded, without obtaining a satisfactory reply:

“Then said the King, ‘by God’s grace,
Thou wert in a merry place,
    To shoot should thou here
When the foresters go to rest,
Sometyme thou might have of the best,
    All of the wild deer;
I wold hold it for no scathe,
Though thou hadst bow and arrows baith,
    Althoff thou best a Frere.’”


The Hermit, in return, expresses his apprehension that his guest means
to drag him into some confession of offence against the forest laws,
which, being betrayed to the King, might cost him his life. Edward
answers by fresh assurances of secrecy, and again urges on him the
necessity of procuring some venison. The Hermit replies, by once more
insisting on the duties incumbent upon him as a churchman, and
continues to affirm himself free from all such breaches of order:

“Many day I have here been,
And flesh-meat I eat never,
    But milk of the kye;
Warm thee well, and go to sleep,
And I will lap thee with my cope,
    Softly to lye.”


It would seem that the manuscript is here imperfect, for we do not find
the reasons which finally induce the curtal Friar to amend the King’s
cheer. But acknowledging his guest to be such a “good fellow” as has
seldom graced his board, the holy man at length produces the best his
cell affords. Two candles are placed on a table, white bread and baked
pasties are displayed by the light, besides choice of venison, both
salt and fresh, from which they select collops. “I might have eaten my
bread dry,” said the King, “had I not pressed thee on the score of
archery, but now have I dined like a prince—if we had but drink enow.”

This too is afforded by the hospitable anchorite, who dispatches an
assistant to fetch a pot of four gallons from a secret corner near his
bed, and the whole three set in to serious drinking. This amusement is
superintended by the Friar, according to the recurrence of certain
fustian words, to be repeated by every compotator in turn before he
drank—a species of High Jinks, as it were, by which they regulated
their potations, as toasts were given in latter times. The one toper
says “fusty bandias”, to which the other is obliged to reply, “strike
pantnere”, and the Friar passes many jests on the King’s want of
memory, who sometimes forgets the words of action. The night is spent
in this jolly pastime. Before his departure in the morning, the King
invites his reverend host to Court, promises, at least, to requite his
hospitality, and expresses himself much pleased with his entertainment.
The jolly Hermit at length agrees to venture thither, and to enquire
for Jack Fletcher, which is the name assumed by the King. After the
Hermit has shown Edward some feats of archery, the joyous pair
separate. The King rides home, and rejoins his retinue. As the romance
is imperfect, we are not acquainted how the discovery takes place; but
it is probably much in the same manner as in other narratives turning
on the same subject, where the host, apprehensive of death for having
trespassed on the respect due to his Sovereign, while incognito, is
agreeably surprised by receiving honours and reward.

In Mr Hartshorne’s collection, there is a romance on the same
foundation, called King Edward and the Shepherd,4 which, considered as
illustrating manners, is still more curious than the King and the
Hermit; but it is foreign to the present purpose. The reader has here
the original legend from which the incident in the romance is derived;
and the identifying the irregular Eremite with the Friar Tuck of Robin
Hood’s story, was an obvious expedient.

The name of Ivanhoe was suggested by an old rhyme. All novelists have
had occasion at some time or other to wish with Falstaff, that they
knew where a commodity of good names was to be had. On such an occasion
the author chanced to call to memory a rhyme recording three names of
the manors forfeited by the ancestor of the celebrated Hampden, for
striking the Black Prince a blow with his racket, when they quarrelled
at tennis:

“Tring, Wing, and Ivanhoe,
For striking of a blow,
Hampden did forego,
And glad he could escape so.”


The word suited the author’s purpose in two material respects,—for,
first, it had an ancient English sound; and secondly, it conveyed no
indication whatever of the nature of the story. He presumes to hold
this last quality to be of no small importance. What is called a taking
title, serves the direct interest of the bookseller or publisher, who
by this means sometimes sells an edition while it is yet passing the
press. But if the author permits an over degree of attention to be
drawn to his work ere it has appeared, he places himself in the
embarrassing condition of having excited a degree of expectation which,
if he proves unable to satisfy, is an error fatal to his literary
reputation. Besides, when we meet such a title as the Gunpowder Plot,
or any other connected with general history, each reader, before he has
seen the book, has formed to himself some particular idea of the sort
of manner in which the story is to be conducted, and the nature of the
amusement which he is to derive from it. In this he is probably
disappointed, and in that case may be naturally disposed to visit upon
the author or the work, the unpleasant feelings thus excited. In such a
case the literary adventurer is censured, not for having missed the
mark at which he himself aimed, but for not having shot off his shaft
in a direction he never thought of.

On the footing of unreserved communication which the Author has
established with the reader, he may here add the trifling circumstance,
that a roll of Norman warriors, occurring in the Auchinleck Manuscript,
gave him the formidable name of Front-de-Bœuf.

Ivanhoe was highly successful upon its appearance, and may be said to
have procured for its author the freedom of the Rules, since he has
ever since been permitted to exercise his powers of fictitious
composition in England, as well as Scotland.

The character of the fair Jewess found so much favour in the eyes of
some fair readers, that the writer was censured, because, when
arranging the fates of the characters of the drama, he had not assigned
the hand of Wilfred to Rebecca, rather than the less interesting
Rowena. But, not to mention that the prejudices of the age rendered
such an union almost impossible, the author may, in passing, observe,
that he thinks a character of a highly virtuous and lofty stamp, is
degraded rather than exalted by an attempt to reward virtue with
temporal prosperity. Such is not the recompense which Providence has
deemed worthy of suffering merit, and it is a dangerous and fatal
doctrine to teach young persons, the most common readers of romance,
that rectitude of conduct and of principle are either naturally allied
with, or adequately rewarded by, the gratification of our passions, or
attainment of our wishes. In a word, if a virtuous and self-denied
character is dismissed with temporal wealth, greatness, rank, or the
indulgence of such a rashly formed or ill assorted passion as that of
Rebecca for Ivanhoe, the reader will be apt to say, verily Virtue has
had its reward. But a glance on the great picture of life will show,
that the duties of self-denial, and the sacrifice of passion to
principle, are seldom thus remunerated; and that the internal
consciousness of their high-minded discharge of duty, produces on their
own reflections a more adequate recompense, in the form of that peace
which the world cannot give or take away.

Abbotsford, 1_st September_, 1830.




DEDICATORY EPISTLE


TO
THE REV. DR DRYASDUST, F.A.S.
Residing in the Castle-Gate, York.

Much esteemed and dear Sir,

It is scarcely necessary to mention the various and concurring reasons
which induce me to place your name at the head of the following work.
Yet the chief of these reasons may perhaps be refuted by the
imperfections of the performance. Could I have hoped to render it
worthy of your patronage, the public would at once have seen the
propriety of inscribing a work designed to illustrate the domestic
antiquities of England, and particularly of our Saxon forefathers, to
the learned author of the Essays upon the Horn of King Ulphus, and on
the Lands bestowed by him upon the patrimony of St Peter. I am
conscious, however, that the slight, unsatisfactory, and trivial
manner, in which the result of my antiquarian researches has been
recorded in the following pages, takes the work from under that class
which bears the proud motto, “Detur digniori”. On the contrary, I fear
I shall incur the censure of presumption in placing the venerable name
of Dr Jonas Dryasdust at the head of a publication, which the more
grave antiquary will perhaps class with the idle novels and romances of
the day. I am anxious to vindicate myself from such a charge; for
although I might trust to your friendship for an apology in your eyes,
yet I would not willingly stand conviction in those of the public of so
grave a crime, as my fears lead me to anticipate my being charged with.

I must therefore remind you, that when we first talked over together
that class of productions, in one of which the private and family
affairs of your learned northern friend, Mr Oldbuck of Monkbarns, were
so unjustifiably exposed to the public, some discussion occurred
between us concerning the cause of the popularity these works have
attained in this idle age, which, whatever other merit they possess,
must be admitted to be hastily written, and in violation of every rule
assigned to the epopeia. It seemed then to be your opinion, that the
charm lay entirely in the art with which the unknown author had availed
himself, like a second M’Pherson, of the antiquarian stores which lay
scattered around him, supplying his own indolence or poverty of
invention, by the incidents which had actually taken place in his
country at no distant period, by introducing real characters, and
scarcely suppressing real names. It was not above sixty or seventy
years, you observed, since the whole north of Scotland was under a
state of government nearly as simple and as patriarchal as those of our
good allies the Mohawks and Iroquois. Admitting that the author cannot
himself be supposed to have witnessed those times, he must have lived,
you observed, among persons who had acted and suffered in them; and
even within these thirty years, such an infinite change has taken place
in the manners of Scotland, that men look back upon the habits of
society proper to their immediate ancestors, as we do on those of the
reign of Queen Anne, or even the period of the Revolution. Having thus
materials of every kind lying strewed around him, there was little, you
observed, to embarrass the author, but the difficulty of choice. It was
no wonder, therefore, that, having begun to work a mine so plentiful,
he should have derived from his works fully more credit and profit than
the facility of his labours merited.

Admitting (as I could not deny) the general truth of these conclusions,
I cannot but think it strange that no attempt has been made to excite
an interest for the traditions and manners of Old England, similiar to
that which has been obtained in behalf of those of our poorer and less
celebrated neighbours. The Kendal green, though its date is more
ancient, ought surely to be as dear to our feelings, as the variegated
tartans of the north. The name of Robin Hood, if duly conjured with,
should raise a spirit as soon as that of Rob Roy; and the patriots of
England deserve no less their renown in our modern circles, than the
Bruces and Wallaces of Caledonia. If the scenery of the south be less
romantic and sublime than that of the northern mountains, it must be
allowed to possess in the same proportion superior softness and beauty;
and upon the whole, we feel ourselves entitled to exclaim with the
patriotic Syrian—“Are not Pharphar and Abana, rivers of Damascus,
better than all the rivers of Israel?”

Your objections to such an attempt, my dear Doctor, were, you may
remember, two-fold. You insisted upon the advantages which the Scotsman
possessed, from the very recent existence of that state of society in
which his scene was to be laid. Many now alive, you remarked, well
remembered persons who had not only seen the celebrated Roy M’Gregor,
but had feasted, and even fought with him. All those minute
circumstances belonging to private life and domestic character, all
that gives verisimilitude to a narrative, and individuality to the
persons introduced, is still known and remembered in Scotland; whereas
in England, civilisation has been so long complete, that our ideas of
our ancestors are only to be gleaned from musty records and chronicles,
the authors of which seem perversely to have conspired to suppress in
their narratives all interesting details, in order to find room for
flowers of monkish eloquence, or trite reflections upon morals. To
match an English and a Scottish author in the rival task of embodying
and reviving the traditions of their respective countries, would be,
you alleged, in the highest degree unequal and unjust. The Scottish
magician, you said, was, like Lucan’s witch, at liberty to walk over
the recent field of battle, and to select for the subject of
resuscitation by his sorceries, a body whose limbs had recently
quivered with existence, and whose throat had but just uttered the last
note of agony. Such a subject even the powerful Erictho was compelled
to select, as alone capable of being reanimated even by “her” potent
magic—

——gelidas leto scrutata medullas,
Pulmonis rigidi stantes sine vulnere fibras
Invenit, et vocem defuncto in corpore quaerit.


The English author, on the other hand, without supposing him less of a
conjuror than the Northern Warlock, can, you observed, only have the
liberty of selecting his subject amidst the dust of antiquity, where
nothing was to be found but dry, sapless, mouldering, and disjointed
bones, such as those which filled the valley of Jehoshaphat. You
expressed, besides, your apprehension, that the unpatriotic prejudices
of my countrymen would not allow fair play to such a work as that of
which I endeavoured to demonstrate the probable success. And this, you
said, was not entirely owing to the more general prejudice in favour of
that which is foreign, but that it rested partly upon improbabilities,
arising out of the circumstances in which the English reader is placed.
If you describe to him a set of wild manners, and a state of primitive
society existing in the Highlands of Scotland, he is much disposed to
acquiesce in the truth of what is asserted. And reason good. If he be
of the ordinary class of readers, he has either never seen those remote
districts at all, or he has wandered through those desolate regions in
the course of a summer tour, eating bad dinners, sleeping on truckle
beds, stalking from desolation to desolation, and fully prepared to
believe the strangest things that could be told him of a people, wild
and extravagant enough to be attached to scenery so extraordinary. But
the same worthy person, when placed in his own snug parlour, and
surrounded by all the comforts of an Englishman’s fireside, is not half
so much disposed to believe that his own ancestors led a very different
life from himself; that the shattered tower, which now forms a vista
from his window, once held a baron who would have hung him up at his
own door without any form of trial; that the hinds, by whom his little
pet-farm is managed, a few centuries ago would have been his slaves;
and that the complete influence of feudal tyranny once extended over
the neighbouring village, where the attorney is now a man of more
importance than the lord of the manor.

While I own the force of these objections, I must confess, at the same
time, that they do not appear to me to be altogether insurmountable.
The scantiness of materials is indeed a formidable difficulty; but no
one knows better than Dr Dryasdust, that to those deeply read in
antiquity, hints concerning the private life of our ancestors lie
scattered through the pages of our various historians, bearing, indeed,
a slender proportion to the other matters of which they treat, but
still, when collected together, sufficient to throw considerable light
upon the _vie privée_ of our forefathers; indeed, I am convinced, that
however I myself may fail in the ensuing attempt, yet, with more labour
in collecting, or more skill in using, the materials within his reach,
illustrated as they have been by the labours of Dr Henry, of the late
Mr Strutt, and, above all, of Mr Sharon Turner, an abler hand would
have been successful; and therefore I protest, beforehand, against any
argument which may be founded on the failure of the present experiment.

On the other hand, I have already said, that if any thing like a true
picture of old English manners could be drawn, I would trust to the
good-nature and good sense of my countrymen for insuring its favourable
reception.

Having thus replied, to the best of my power, to the first class of
your objections, or at least having shown my resolution to overleap the
barriers which your prudence has raised, I will be brief in noticing
that which is more peculiar to myself. It seems to be your opinion,
that the very office of an antiquary, employed in grave, and, as the
vulgar will sometimes allege, in toilsome and minute research, must be
considered as incapacitating him from successfully compounding a tale
of this sort. But permit me to say, my dear Doctor, that this objection
is rather formal than substantial. It is true, that such slight
compositions might not suit the severer genius of our friend Mr
Oldbuck. Yet Horace Walpole wrote a goblin tale which has thrilled
through many a bosom; and George Ellis could transfer all the playful
fascination of a humour, as delightful as it was uncommon, into his
Abridgement of the Ancient Metrical Romances. So that, however I may
have occasion to rue my present audacity, I have at least the most
respectable precedents in my favour.

Still the severer antiquary may think, that, by thus intermingling
fiction with truth, I am polluting the well of history with modern
inventions, and impressing upon the rising generation false ideas of
the age which I describe. I cannot but in some sense admit the force of
this reasoning, which I yet hope to traverse by the following
considerations.

It is true, that I neither can, nor do pretend, to the observation of
complete accuracy, even in matters of outward costume, much less in the
more important points of language and manners. But the same motive
which prevents my writing the dialogue of the piece in Anglo-Saxon or
in Norman-French, and which prohibits my sending forth to the public
this essay printed with the types of Caxton or Wynken de Worde,
prevents my attempting to confine myself within the limits of the
period in which my story is laid. It is necessary, for exciting
interest of any kind, that the subject assumed should be, as it were,
translated into the manners, as well as the language, of the age we
live in. No fascination has ever been attached to Oriental literature,
equal to that produced by Mr Galland’s first translation of the Arabian
Tales; in which, retaining on the one hand the splendour of Eastern
costume, and on the other the wildness of Eastern fiction, he mixed
these with just so much ordinary feeling and expression, as rendered
them interesting and intelligible, while he abridged the long-winded
narratives, curtailed the monotonous reflections, and rejected the
endless repetitions of the Arabian original. The tales, therefore,
though less purely Oriental than in their first concoction, were
eminently better fitted for the European market, and obtained an
unrivalled degree of public favour, which they certainly would never
have gained had not the manners and style been in some degree
familiarized to the feelings and habits of the western reader.

In point of justice, therefore, to the multitudes who will, I trust,
devour this book with avidity, I have so far explained our ancient
manners in modern language, and so far detailed the characters and
sentiments of my persons, that the modern reader will not find himself,
I should hope, much trammelled by the repulsive dryness of mere
antiquity. In this, I respectfully contend, I have in no respect
exceeded the fair license due to the author of a fictitious
composition. The late ingenious Mr Strutt, in his romance of
Queen-Hoo-Hall, 5 acted upon another principle; and in distinguishing
between what was ancient and modern, forgot, as it appears to me, that
extensive neutral ground, the large proportion, that is, of manners and
sentiments which are common to us and to our ancestors, having been
handed down unaltered from them to us, or which, arising out of the
principles of our common nature, must have existed alike in either
state of society. In this manner, a man of talent, and of great
antiquarian erudition, limited the popularity of his work, by excluding
from it every thing which was not sufficiently obsolete to be
altogether forgotten and unintelligible.

The license which I would here vindicate, is so necessary to the
execution of my plan, that I will crave your patience while I
illustrate my argument a little farther.

He who first opens Chaucer, or any other ancient poet, is so much
struck with the obsolete spelling, multiplied consonants, and
antiquated appearance of the language, that he is apt to lay the work
down in despair, as encrusted too deep with the rust of antiquity, to
permit his judging of its merits or tasting its beauties. But if some
intelligent and accomplished friend points out to him, that the
difficulties by which he is startled are more in appearance than
reality, if, by reading aloud to him, or by reducing the ordinary words
to the modern orthography, he satisfies his proselyte that only about
one-tenth part of the words employed are in fact obsolete, the novice
may be easily persuaded to approach the “well of English undefiled,”
with the certainty that a slender degree of patience will enable him to
to enjoy both the humour and the pathos with which old Geoffrey
delighted the age of Cressy and of Poictiers.

To pursue this a little farther. If our neophyte, strong in the
new-born love of antiquity, were to undertake to imitate what he had
learnt to admire, it must be allowed he would act very injudiciously,
if he were to select from the Glossary the obsolete words which it
contains, and employ those exclusively of all phrases and vocables
retained in modern days. This was the error of the unfortunate
Chatterton. In order to give his language the appearance of antiquity,
he rejected every word that was modern, and produced a dialect entirely
different from any that had ever been spoken in Great Britain. He who
would imitate an ancient language with success, must attend rather to
its grammatical character, turn of expression, and mode of arrangement,
than labour to collect extraordinary and antiquated terms, which, as I
have already averred, do not in ancient authors approach the number of
words still in use, though perhaps somewhat altered in sense and
spelling, in the proportion of one to ten.

What I have applied to language, is still more justly applicable to
sentiments and manners. The passions, the sources from which these must
spring in all their modifications, are generally the same in all ranks
and conditions, all countries and ages; and it follows, as a matter of
course, that the opinions, habits of thinking, and actions, however
influenced by the peculiar state of society, must still, upon the
whole, bear a strong resemblance to each other. Our ancestors were not
more distinct from us, surely, than Jews are from Christians; they had
“eyes, hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions;” were
“fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the
same diseases, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer,” as
ourselves. The tenor, therefore, of their affections and feelings, must
have borne the same general proportion to our own.

It follows, therefore, that of the materials which an author has to use
in a romance, or fictitious composition, such as I have ventured to
attempt, he will find that a great proportion, both of language and
manners, is as proper to the present time as to those in which he has
laid his time of action. The freedom of choice which this allows him,
is therefore much greater, and the difficulty of his task much more
diminished, than at first appears. To take an illustration from a
sister art, the antiquarian details may be said to represent the
peculiar features of a landscape under delineation of the pencil. His
feudal tower must arise in due majesty; the figures which he introduces
must have the costume and character of their age; the piece must
represent the peculiar features of the scene which he has chosen for
his subject, with all its appropriate elevation of rock, or precipitate
descent of cataract. His general colouring, too, must be copied from
Nature: The sky must be clouded or serene, according to the climate,
and the general tints must be those which prevail in a natural
landscape. So far the painter is bound down by the rules of his art, to
a precise imitation of the features of Nature; but it is not required
that he should descend to copy all her more minute features, or
represent with absolute exactness the very herbs, flowers, and trees,
with which the spot is decorated. These, as well as all the more minute
points of light and shadow, are attributes proper to scenery in
general, natural to each situation, and subject to the artist’s
disposal, as his taste or pleasure may dictate.

It is true, that this license is confined in either case within
legitimate bounds. The painter must introduce no ornament inconsistent
with the climate or country of his landscape; he must not plant cypress
trees upon Inch-Merrin, or Scottish firs among the ruins of Persepolis;
and the author lies under a corresponding restraint. However far he may
venture in a more full detail of passions and feelings, than is to be
found in the ancient compositions which he imitates, he must introduce
nothing inconsistent with the manners of the age; his knights, squires,
grooms, and yeomen, may be more fully drawn than in the hard, dry
delineations of an ancient illuminated manuscript, but the character
and costume of the age must remain inviolate; they must be the same
figures, drawn by a better pencil, or, to speak more modestly, executed
in an age when the principles of art were better understood. His
language must not be exclusively obsolete and unintelligible; but he
should admit, if possible, no word or turn of phraseology betraying an
origin directly modern. It is one thing to make use of the language and
sentiments which are common to ourselves and our forefathers, and it is
another to invest them with the sentiments and dialect exclusively
proper to their descendants.

This, my dear friend, I have found the most difficult part of my task;
and, to speak frankly, I hardly expect to satisfy your less partial
judgment, and more extensive knowledge of such subjects, since I have
hardly been able to please my own.

I am conscious that I shall be found still more faulty in the tone of
keeping and costume, by those who may be disposed rigidly to examine my
Tale, with reference to the manners of the exact period in which my
actors flourished: It may be, that I have introduced little which can
positively be termed modern; but, on the other hand, it is extremely
probable that I may have confused the manners of two or three
centuries, and introduced, during the reign of Richard the First,
circumstances appropriated to a period either considerably earlier, or
a good deal later than that era. It is my comfort, that errors of this
kind will escape the general class of readers, and that I may share in
the ill-deserved applause of those architects, who, in their modern
Gothic, do not hesitate to introduce, without rule or method, ornaments
proper to different styles and to different periods of the art. Those
whose extensive researches have given them the means of judging my
backslidings with more severity, will probably be lenient in proportion
to their knowledge of the difficulty of my task. My honest and
neglected friend, Ingulphus, has furnished me with many a valuable
hint; but the light afforded by the Monk of Croydon, and Geoffrey de
Vinsauff, is dimmed by such a conglomeration of uninteresting and
unintelligible matter, that we gladly fly for relief to the delightful
pages of the gallant Froissart, although he flourished at a period so
much more remote from the date of my history. If, therefore, my dear
friend, you have generosity enough to pardon the presumptuous attempt,
to frame for myself a minstrel coronet, partly out of the pearls of
pure antiquity, and partly from the Bristol stones and paste, with
which I have endeavoured to imitate them, I am convinced your opinion
of the difficulty of the task will reconcile you to the imperfect
manner of its execution.

Of my materials I have but little to say. They may be chiefly found in
the singular Anglo-Norman MS., which Sir Arthur Wardour preserves with
such jealous care in the third drawer of his oaken cabinet, scarcely
allowing any one to touch it, and being himself not able to read one
syllable of its contents. I should never have got his consent, on my
visit to Scotland, to read in those precious pages for so many hours,
had I not promised to designate it by some emphatic mode of printing,
as {The Wardour Manuscript}; giving it, thereby, an individuality as
important as the Bannatyne MS., the Auchinleck MS., and any other
monument of the patience of a Gothic scrivener. I have sent, for your
private consideration, a list of the contents of this curious piece,
which I shall perhaps subjoin, with your approbation, to the third
volume of my Tale, in case the printer’s devil should continue
impatient for copy, when the whole of my narrative has been imposed.

Adieu, my dear friend; I have said enough to explain, if not to
vindicate, the attempt which I have made, and which, in spite of your
doubts, and my own incapacity, I am still willing to believe has not
been altogether made in vain.

I hope you are now well recovered from your spring fit of the gout, and
shall be happy if the advice of your learned physician should recommend
a tour to these parts. Several curiosities have been lately dug up near
the wall, as well as at the ancient station of Habitancum. Talking of
the latter, I suppose you have long since heard the news, that a sulky
churlish boor has destroyed the ancient statue, or rather bas-relief,
popularly called Robin of Redesdale. It seems Robin’s fame attracted
more visitants than was consistent with the growth of the heather, upon
a moor worth a shilling an acre. Reverend as you write yourself, be
revengeful for once, and pray with me that he may be visited with such
a fit of the stone, as if he had all the fragments of poor Robin in
that region of his viscera where the disease holds its seat. Tell this
not in Gath, lest the Scots rejoice that they have at length found a
parallel instance among their neighbours, to that barbarous deed which
demolished Arthur’s Oven. But there is no end to lamentation, when we
betake ourselves to such subjects. My respectful compliments attend
Miss Dryasdust; I endeavoured to match the spectacles agreeable to her
commission, during my late journey to London, and hope she has received
them safe, and found them satisfactory. I send this by the blind
carrier, so that probably it may be some time upon its journey. 6

The last news which I hear from Edinburgh is, that the gentleman who
fills the situation of Secretary to the Society of Antiquaries of
Scotland, 7 is the best amateur draftsman in that kingdom, and that
much is expected from his skill and zeal in delineating those specimens
of national antiquity, which are either mouldering under the slow touch
of time, or swept away by modern taste, with the same besom of
destruction which John Knox used at the Reformation. Once more adieu;
“vale tandem, non immemor mei”. Believe me to be,

Reverend, and very dear Sir,

Your most faithful humble Servant.

Laurence Templeton.

Toppingwold, near Egremont, Cumberland, Nov. 17, 1817.




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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf, 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.”

[Illustration]

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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf 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.

[Illustration]

“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 Cœur-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-Bœuf.”

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-Bœuf—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-Bœuf 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, Cœur-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-Bœuf 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 corner, 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 somewhat 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf 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.

[Illustration]

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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf, 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 Cœur-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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf 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!”

[Illustration]

“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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf. 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf, 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.

[Illustration]

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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf.”

“Front-de-Bœuf,” 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-Bœuf 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.

[Illustration]

“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
Shakespeare’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-Bœuf,” 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf’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

[Illustration]

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-Bœuf. 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?—I 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-Bœuf.”

“What! is it Front-de-Bœuf,” 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-Bœuf’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 check 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf. 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf’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-Bœuf,
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-Bœuf,” 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf, followed by the two Saracen slaves of the Templar,
entered the prison.

Front-de-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf, “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.”

[Illustration]

“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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf; “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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf; “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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf.

“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-Bœuf; “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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf; “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-Bœuf.
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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf, 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 Cœur
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-Bœuf, whose jealousy will be more
fatal than mine.”

“Wilfred here?” said Rowena, in disdain; “that is as true as that
Front-de-Bœuf 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-Bœuf? 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf,
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-Bœuf and that which
Front-de-Bœuf 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf’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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf? 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf—“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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf; “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-Bœuf; “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-Bœuf. “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-Bœuf!”

“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-Bœuf; “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-Bœuf; “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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf; “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-Bœuf aside “Knowest thou the priest?”

“He is a stranger from a distant convent,” said Front-de-Bœuf; “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-Bœuf. 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf
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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf
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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf; “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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf.

“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-Bœuf—“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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf; “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-Bœuf; “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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf; “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-Bœuf,
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-Bœuf; “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-Bœuf 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 Bœuf, “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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf
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-Bœuf, in the lists at Ashby.”

“So much the better,” said Front-de-Bœuf, “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 Cœur-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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf—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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf. 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf with blow on blow—The
giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of the woodman—he
falls—he falls!”

“Front-de-Bœuf?” exclaimed Ivanhoe.

“Front-de-Bœuf!” 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf?” 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf’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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf’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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf,” 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf,” 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-Bœuf,” 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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf,
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-Bœuf; “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-Bœuf—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-Bœuf; “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-Bœuf,” 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-Bœuf!—Think of my wrongs, Front-de-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf, “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-Bœuf’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-Bœuf; “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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf!—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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf
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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf.

“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!”

[Illustration]

“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-Bœuf. 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-Bœuf’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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf 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-Bœuf’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-Bœuf; 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf, 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-Bœuf?”

“The Templar is fled,” said De Bracy; “Front-de-Bœuf 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
Cœur-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 Cœur-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 cloth, exactly fitted to the
size of the wearer, and bearing on the left shoulder the octangular
cross peculiar to the Order, formed of red cloth. No vair or ermine
decked this garment; but in respect of his age, the Grand Master, as
permitted by the rules, wore his doublet lined and trimmed with the
softest lambskin, dressed with the wool outwards, which was the nearest
approach he could regularly make to the use of fur, then the greatest
luxury of dress. In his hand he bore that singular “abacus”, or staff
of office, with which Templars are usually represented, having at the
upper end a round plate, on which was engraved the cross of the Order,
inscribed within a circle or orle, as heralds term it. His companion,
who attended on this great personage, had nearly the same dress in all
respects, but his extreme deference towards his Superior showed that no
other equality subsisted between them. The Preceptor, for such he was
in rank, walked not in a line with the Grand Master, but just so far
behind that Beaumanoir could speak to him without turning round his
head.

“Conrade,” said the Grand Master, “dear companion of my battles and my
toils, to thy faithful bosom alone I can confide my sorrows. To thee
alone can I tell how oft, since I came to this kingdom, I have desired
to be dissolved and to be with the just. Not one object in England hath
met mine eye which it could rest upon with pleasure, save the tombs of
our brethren, beneath the massive roof of our Temple Church in yonder
proud capital. O, valiant Robert de Ros! did I exclaim internally, as I
gazed upon these good soldiers of the cross, where they lie sculptured
on their sepulchres,—O, worthy William de Mareschal! open your marble
cells, and take to your repose a weary brother, who would rather strive
with a hundred thousand pagans than witness the decay of our Holy
Order!”

“It is but true,” answered Conrade Mont-Fitchet; “it is but too true;
and the irregularities of our brethren in England are even more gross
than those in France.”

“Because they are more wealthy,” answered the Grand Master. “Bear with
me, brother, although I should something vaunt myself. Thou knowest the
life I have led, keeping each point of my Order, striving with devils
embodied and disembodied, striking down the roaring lion, who goeth
about seeking whom he may devour, like a good knight and devout priest,
wheresoever I met with him—even as blessed Saint Bernard hath
prescribed to us in the forty-fifth capital of our rule, ‘Ut Leo semper
feriatur’. 49

“But by the Holy Temple! the zeal which hath devoured my substance and
my life, yea, the very nerves and marrow of my bones; by that very Holy
Temple I swear to thee, that save thyself and some few that still
retain the ancient severity of our Order, I look upon no brethren whom
I can bring my soul to embrace under that holy name. What say our
statutes, and how do our brethren observe them? They should wear no
vain or worldly ornament, no crest upon their helmet, no gold upon
stirrup or bridle-bit; yet who now go pranked out so proudly and so
gaily as the poor soldiers of the Temple? They are forbidden by our
statutes to take one bird by means of another, to shoot beasts with bow
or arblast, to halloo to a hunting-horn, or to spur the horse after
game. But now, at hunting and hawking, and each idle sport of wood and
river, who so prompt as the Templars in all these fond vanities? They
are forbidden to read, save what their Superior permitted, or listen to
what is read, save such holy things as may be recited aloud during the
hours of refaction; but lo! their ears are at the command of idle
minstrels, and their eyes study empty romaunts. They were commanded to
extirpate magic and heresy. Lo! they are charged with studying the
accursed cabalistical secrets of the Jews, and the magic of the Paynim
Saracens. Simpleness of diet was prescribed to them, roots, pottage,
gruels, eating flesh but thrice a-week, because the accustomed feeding
on flesh is a dishonourable corruption of the body; and behold, their
tables groan under delicate fare! Their drink was to be water, and now,
to drink like a Templar, is the boast of each jolly boon companion!
This very garden, filled as it is with curious herbs and trees sent
from the Eastern climes, better becomes the harem of an unbelieving
Emir, than the plot which Christian Monks should devote to raise their
homely pot-herbs.—And O, Conrade! well it were that the relaxation of
discipline stopped even here!—Well thou knowest that we were forbidden
to receive those devout women, who at the beginning were associated as
sisters of our Order, because, saith the forty-sixth chapter, the
Ancient Enemy hath, by female society, withdrawn many from the right
path to paradise. Nay, in the last capital, being, as it were, the
cope-stone which our blessed founder placed on the pure and undefiled
doctrine which he had enjoined, we are prohibited from offering, even
to our sisters and our mothers, the kiss of affection—‘ut omnium
mulierum fugiantur oscula’.—I shame to speak—I shame to think—of the
corruptions which have rushed in upon us even like a flood. The souls
of our pure founders, the spirits of Hugh de Payen and Godfrey de Saint
Omer, and of the blessed Seven who first joined in dedicating their
lives to the service of the Temple, are disturbed even in the enjoyment
of paradise itself. I have seen them, Conrade, in the visions of the
night—their sainted eyes shed tears for the sins and follies of their
brethren, and for the foul and shameful luxury in which they wallow.
Beaumanoir, they say, thou slumberest—awake! There is a stain in the
fabric of the Temple, deep and foul as that left by the streaks of
leprosy on the walls of the infected houses of old. 50

“The soldiers of the Cross, who should shun the glance of a woman as
the eye of a basilisk, live in open sin, not with the females of their
own race only, but with the daughters of the accursed heathen, and more
accursed Jew. Beaumanoir, thou sleepest; up, and avenge our cause!—Slay
the sinners, male and female!—Take to thee the brand of Phineas!—The
vision fled, Conrade, but as I awaked I could still hear the clank of
their mail, and see the waving of their white mantles.—And I will do
according to their word, I WILL purify the fabric of the Temple! and
the unclean stones in which the plague is, I will remove and cast out
of the building.”

“Yet bethink thee, reverend father,” said Mont-Fitchet, “the stain hath
become engrained by time and consuetude; let thy reformation be
cautious, as it is just and wise.”

“No, Mont-Fitchet,” answered the stern old man—“it must be sharp and
sudden—the Order is on the crisis of its fate. The sobriety,
self-devotion, and piety of our predecessors, made us powerful
friends—our presumption, our wealth, our luxury, have raised up against
us mighty enemies.—We must cast away these riches, which are a
temptation to princes—we must lay down that presumption, which is an
offence to them—we must reform that license of manners, which is a
scandal to the whole Christian world! Or—mark my words—the Order of the
Temple will be utterly demolished—and the Place thereof shall no more
be known among the nations.”

“Now may God avert such a calamity!” said the Preceptor.

“Amen,” said the Grand Master, with solemnity, “but we must deserve his
aid. I tell thee, Conrade, that neither the powers in Heaven, nor the
powers on earth, will longer endure the wickedness of this
generation—My intelligence is sure—the ground on which our fabric is
reared is already undermined, and each addition we make to the
structure of our greatness will only sink it the sooner in the abyss.
We must retrace our steps, and show ourselves the faithful Champions of
the Cross, sacrificing to our calling, not alone our blood and our
lives—not alone our lusts and our vices—but our ease, our comforts, and
our natural affections, and act as men convinced that many a pleasure
which may be lawful to others, is forbidden to the vowed soldier of the
Temple.”

At this moment a squire, clothed in a threadbare vestment, (for the
aspirants after this holy Order wore during their noviciate the
cast-off garments of the knights,) entered the garden, and, bowing
profoundly before the Grand Master, stood silent, awaiting his
permission ere he presumed to tell his errand.

“Is it not more seemly,” said the Grand Master, “to see this Damian,
clothed in the garments of Christian humility, thus appear with
reverend silence before his Superior, than but two days since, when the
fond fool was decked in a painted coat, and jangling as pert and as
proud as any popinjay?—Speak, Damian, we permit thee—What is thine
errand?”

“A Jew stands without the gate, noble and reverend father,” said the
Squire, “who prays to speak with brother Brian de Bois-Guilbert.”

“Thou wert right to give me knowledge of it,” said the Grand Master;
“in our presence a Preceptor is but as a common compeer of our Order,
who may not walk according to his own will, but to that of his
Master—even according to the text, ‘In the hearing of the ear he hath
obeyed me.’—It imports us especially to know of this Bois-Guilbert’s
proceedings,” said he, turning to his companion.

“Report speaks him brave and valiant,” said Conrade.

“And truly is he so spoken of,” said the Grand Master; “in our valour
only we are not degenerated from our predecessors, the heroes of the
Cross. But brother Brian came into our Order a moody and disappointed
man, stirred, I doubt me, to take our vows and to renounce the world,
not in sincerity of soul, but as one whom some touch of light
discontent had driven into penitence. Since then, he hath become an
active and earnest agitator, a murmurer, and a machinator, and a leader
amongst those who impugn our authority; not considering that the rule
is given to the Master even by the symbol of the staff and the rod—the
staff to support the infirmities of the weak—the rod to correct the
faults of delinquents.—Damian,” he continued, “lead the Jew to our
presence.”

The squire departed with a profound reverence, and in a few minutes
returned, marshalling in Isaac of York. No naked slave, ushered into
the presence of some mighty prince, could approach his judgment-seat
with more profound reverence and terror than that with which the Jew
drew near to the presence of the Grand Master. When he had approached
within the distance of three yards, Beaumanoir made a sign with his
staff that he should come no farther. The Jew kneeled down on the earth
which he kissed in token of reverence; then rising, stood before the
Templars, his hands folded on his bosom, his head bowed on his breast,
in all the submission of Oriental slavery.

“Damian,” said the Grand Master, “retire, and have a guard ready to
await our sudden call; and suffer no one to enter the garden until we
shall leave it.”—The squire bowed and retreated.—“Jew,” continued the
haughty old man, “mark me. It suits not our condition to hold with thee
long communication, nor do we waste words or time upon any one.
Wherefore be brief in thy answers to what questions I shall ask thee,
and let thy words be of truth; for if thy tongue doubles with me, I
will have it torn from thy misbelieving jaws.”

The Jew was about to reply, but the Grand Master went on.

“Peace, unbeliever!—not a word in our presence, save in answer to our
questions.—What is thy business with our brother Brian de
Bois-Guilbert?”

Isaac gasped with terror and uncertainty. To tell his tale might be
interpreted into scandalizing the Order; yet, unless he told it, what
hope could he have of achieving his daughter’s deliverance? Beaumanoir
saw his mortal apprehension, and condescended to give him some
assurance.

“Fear nothing,” he said, “for thy wretched person, Jew, so thou dealest
uprightly in this matter. I demand again to know from thee thy business
with Brian de Bois-Guilbert?”

“I am bearer of a letter,” stammered out the Jew, “so please your
reverend valour, to that good knight, from Prior Aymer of the Abbey of
Jorvaulx.”

“Said I not these were evil times, Conrade?” said the Master. “A
Cistertian Prior sends a letter to a soldier of the Temple, and can
find no more fitting messenger than an unbelieving Jew.—Give me the
letter.”

The Jew, with trembling hands, undid the folds of his Armenian cap, in
which he had deposited the Prior’s tablets for the greater security,
and was about to approach, with hand extended and body crouched, to
place it within the reach of his grim interrogator.

“Back, dog!” said the Grand Master; “I touch not misbelievers, save
with the sword.—Conrade, take thou the letter from the Jew, and give it
to me.”

Beaumanoir, being thus possessed of the tablets, inspected the outside
carefully, and then proceeded to undo the packthread which secured its
folds. “Reverend father,” said Conrade, interposing, though with much
deference, “wilt thou break the seal?”

“And will I not?” said Beaumanoir, with a frown. “Is it not written in
the forty-second capital, ‘De Lectione Literarum’ that a Templar shall
not receive a letter, no not from his father, without communicating the
same to the Grand Master, and reading it in his presence?”

He then perused the letter in haste, with an expression of surprise and
horror; read it over again more slowly; then holding it out to Conrade
with one hand, and slightly striking it with the other, exclaimed—“Here
is goodly stuff for one Christian man to write to another, and both
members, and no inconsiderable members, of religious professions!
When,” said he solemnly, and looking upward, “wilt thou come with thy
fanners to purge the thrashing-floor?”

Mont-Fitchet took the letter from his Superior, and was about to peruse
it.

“Read it aloud, Conrade,” said the Grand Master,—“and do thou” (to
Isaac) “attend to the purport of it, for we will question thee
concerning it.”

Conrade read the letter, which was in these words: “Aymer, by divine
grace, Prior of the Cistertian house of Saint Mary’s of Jorvaulx, to
Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, a Knight of the holy Order of the Temple,
wisheth health, with the bounties of King Bacchus and of my Lady Venus.
Touching our present condition, dear Brother, we are a captive in the
hands of certain lawless and godless men, who have not feared to detain
our person, and put us to ransom; whereby we have also learned of
Front-de-Bœuf’s misfortune, and that thou hast escaped with that fair
Jewish sorceress, whose black eyes have bewitched thee. We are heartily
rejoiced of thy safety; nevertheless, we pray thee to be on thy guard
in the matter of this second Witch of Endor; for we are privately
assured that your Great Master, who careth not a bean for cherry cheeks
and black eyes, comes from Normandy to diminish your mirth, and amend
your misdoings. Wherefore we pray you heartily to beware, and to be
found watching, even as the Holy Text hath it, ‘Invenientur
vigilantes’. And the wealthy Jew her father, Isaac of York, having
prayed of me letters in his behalf, I gave him these, earnestly
advising, and in a sort entreating, that you do hold the damsel to
ransom, seeing he will pay you from his bags as much as may find fifty
damsels upon safer terms, whereof I trust to have my part when we make
merry together, as true brothers, not forgetting the wine-cup. For what
saith the text, ‘Vinum laetificat cor hominis’; and again, ‘Rex
delectabitur pulchritudine tua’.

“Till which merry meeting, we wish you farewell. Given from this den of
thieves, about the hour of matins,

“Aymer Pr. S. M. Jorvolciencis.

“‘Postscriptum.’ Truly your golden chain hath not long abidden with me,
and will now sustain, around the neck of an outlaw deer-stealer, the
whistle wherewith he calleth on his hounds.”

“What sayest thou to this, Conrade?” said the Grand Master—“Den of
thieves! and a fit residence is a den of thieves for such a Prior. No
wonder that the hand of God is upon us, and that in the Holy Land we
lose place by place, foot by foot, before the infidels, when we have
such churchmen as this Aymer.—And what meaneth he, I trow, by this
second Witch of Endor?” said he to his confident, something apart.
Conrade was better acquainted (perhaps by practice) with the jargon of
gallantry, than was his Superior; and he expounded the passage which
embarrassed the Grand Master, to be a sort of language used by worldly
men towards those whom they loved ‘par amours’; but the explanation did
not satisfy the bigoted Beaumanoir.

“There is more in it than thou dost guess, Conrade; thy simplicity is
no match for this deep abyss of wickedness. This Rebecca of York was a
pupil of that Miriam of whom thou hast heard. Thou shalt hear the Jew
own it even now.” Then turning to Isaac, he said aloud, “Thy daughter,
then, is prisoner with Brian de Bois-Guilbert?”

“Ay, reverend valorous sir,” stammered poor Isaac, “and whatsoever
ransom a poor man may pay for her deliverance—-”

“Peace!” said the Grand Master. “This thy daughter hath practised the
art of healing, hath she not?”

“Ay, gracious sir,” answered the Jew, with more confidence; “and knight
and yeoman, squire and vassal, may bless the goodly gift which Heaven
hath assigned to her. Many a one can testify that she hath recovered
them by her art, when every other human aid hath proved vain; but the
blessing of the God of Jacob was upon her.”

Beaumanoir turned to Mont-Fitchet with a grim smile. “See, brother,” he
said, “the deceptions of the devouring Enemy! Behold the baits with
which he fishes for souls, giving a poor space of earthly life in
exchange for eternal happiness hereafter. Well said our blessed rule,
‘Semper percutiatur leo vorans’.—Up on the lion! Down with the
destroyer!” said he, shaking aloft his mystic abacus, as if in defiance
of the powers of darkness—“Thy daughter worketh the cures, I doubt
not,” thus he went on to address the Jew, “by words and sighs, and
periapts, and other cabalistical mysteries.”

“Nay, reverend and brave Knight,” answered Isaac, “but in chief measure
by a balsam of marvellous virtue.”

“Where had she that secret?” said Beaumanoir.

“It was delivered to her,” answered Isaac, reluctantly, “by Miriam, a
sage matron of our tribe.”

“Ah, false Jew!” said the Grand Master; “was it not from that same
witch Miriam, the abomination of whose enchantments have been heard of
throughout every Christian land?” exclaimed the Grand Master, crossing
himself. “Her body was burnt at a stake, and her ashes were scattered
to the four winds; and so be it with me and mine Order, if I do not as
much to her pupil, and more also! I will teach her to throw spell and
incantation over the soldiers of the blessed Temple.—There, Damian,
spurn this Jew from the gate—shoot him dead if he oppose or turn again.
With his daughter we will deal as the Christian law and our own high
office warrant.”

Poor Isaac was hurried off accordingly, and expelled from the
preceptory; all his entreaties, and even his offers, unheard and
disregarded. He could do not better than return to the house of the
Rabbi, and endeavour, through his means, to learn how his daughter was
to be disposed of. He had hitherto feared for her honour, he was now to
tremble for her life. Meanwhile, the Grand Master ordered to his
presence the Preceptor of Templestowe.




CHAPTER XXXVI


Say not my art is fraud—all live by seeming.
The beggar begs with it, and the gay courtier
Gains land and title, rank and rule, by seeming;
The clergy scorn it not, and the bold soldier
Will eke with it his service.—All admit it,
All practise it; and he who is content
With showing what he is, shall have small credit
In church, or camp, or state—So wags the world.


OLD PLAY


Albert Malvoisin, President, or, in the language of the Order,
Preceptor of the establishment of Templestowe, was brother to that
Philip Malvoisin who has been already occasionally mentioned in this
history, and was, like that baron, in close league with Brian de
Bois-Guilbert.

Amongst dissolute and unprincipled men, of whom the Temple Order
included but too many, Albert of Templestowe might be distinguished;
but with this difference from the audacious Bois-Guilbert, that he knew
how to throw over his vices and his ambition the veil of hypocrisy, and
to assume in his exterior the fanaticism which he internally despised.
Had not the arrival of the Grand Master been so unexpectedly sudden, he
would have seen nothing at Templestowe which might have appeared to
argue any relaxation of discipline. And, even although surprised, and,
to a certain extent, detected, Albert Malvoisin listened with such
respect and apparent contrition to the rebuke of his Superior, and made
such haste to reform the particulars he censured,—succeeded, in fine,
so well in giving an air of ascetic devotion to a family which had been
lately devoted to license and pleasure, that Lucas Beaumanoir began to
entertain a higher opinion of the Preceptor’s morals, than the first
appearance of the establishment had inclined him to adopt.

But these favourable sentiments on the part of the Grand Master were
greatly shaken by the intelligence that Albert had received within a
house of religion the Jewish captive, and, as was to be feared, the
paramour of a brother of the Order; and when Albert appeared before
him, he was regarded with unwonted sternness.

“There is in this mansion, dedicated to the purposes of the holy Order
of the Temple,” said the Grand Master, in a severe tone, “a Jewish
woman, brought hither by a brother of religion, by your connivance, Sir
Preceptor.”

Albert Malvoisin was overwhelmed with confusion; for the unfortunate
Rebecca had been confined in a remote and secret part of the building,
and every precaution used to prevent her residence there from being
known. He read in the looks of Beaumanoir ruin to Bois-Guilbert and to
himself, unless he should be able to avert the impending storm.

“Why are you mute?” continued the Grand Master.

“Is it permitted to me to reply?” answered the Preceptor, in a tone of
the deepest humility, although by the question he only meant to gain an
instant’s space for arranging his ideas.

“Speak, you are permitted,” said the Grand Master—“speak, and say,
knowest thou the capital of our holy rule,—‘De commilitonibus Templi in
sancta civitate, qui cum miserrimis mulieribus versantur, propter
oblectationem carnis?’” 51

“Surely, most reverend father,” answered the Preceptor, “I have not
risen to this office in the Order, being ignorant of one of its most
important prohibitions.”

“How comes it, then, I demand of thee once more, that thou hast
suffered a brother to bring a paramour, and that paramour a Jewish
sorceress, into this holy place, to the stain and pollution thereof?”

“A Jewish sorceress!” echoed Albert Malvoisin; “good angels guard us!”

“Ay, brother, a Jewish sorceress!” said the Grand Master, sternly. “I
have said it. Darest thou deny that this Rebecca, the daughter of that
wretched usurer Isaac of York, and the pupil of the foul witch Miriam,
is now—shame to be thought or spoken!—lodged within this thy
Preceptory?”

“Your wisdom, reverend father,” answered the Preceptor, “hath rolled
away the darkness from my understanding. Much did I wonder that so good
a knight as Brian de Bois-Guilbert seemed so fondly besotted on the
charms of this female, whom I received into this house merely to place
a bar betwixt their growing intimacy, which else might have been
cemented at the expense of the fall of our valiant and religious
brother.”

“Hath nothing, then, as yet passed betwixt them in breach of his vow?”
demanded the Grand Master.

“What! under this roof?” said the Preceptor, crossing himself; “Saint
Magdalene and the ten thousand virgins forbid!—No! if I have sinned in
receiving her here, it was in the erring thought that I might thus
break off our brother’s besotted devotion to this Jewess, which seemed
to me so wild and unnatural, that I could not but ascribe it to some
touch of insanity, more to be cured by pity than reproof. But since
your reverend wisdom hath discovered this Jewish queen to be a
sorceress, perchance it may account fully for his enamoured folly.”

“It doth!—it doth!” said Beaumanoir. “See, brother Conrade, the peril
of yielding to the first devices and blandishments of Satan! We look
upon woman only to gratify the lust of the eye, and to take pleasure in
what men call her beauty; and the Ancient Enemy, the devouring Lion,
obtains power over us, to complete, by talisman and spell, a work which
was begun by idleness and folly. It may be that our brother
Bois-Guilbert does in this matter deserve rather pity than severe
chastisement; rather the support of the staff, than the strokes of the
rod; and that our admonitions and prayers may turn him from his folly,
and restore him to his brethren.”

“It were deep pity,” said Conrade Mont-Fitchet, “to lose to the Order
one of its best lances, when the Holy Community most requires the aid
of its sons. Three hundred Saracens hath this Brian de Bois-Guilbert
slain with his own hand.”

“The blood of these accursed dogs,” said the Grand Master, “shall be a
sweet and acceptable offering to the saints and angels whom they
despise and blaspheme; and with their aid will we counteract the spells
and charms with which our brother is entwined as in a net. He shall
burst the bands of this Delilah, as Sampson burst the two new cords
with which the Philistines had bound him, and shall slaughter the
infidels, even heaps upon heaps. But concerning this foul witch, who
hath flung her enchantments over a brother of the Holy Temple,
assuredly she shall die the death.”

“But the laws of England,”—said the Preceptor, who, though delighted
that the Grand Master’s resentment, thus fortunately averted from
himself and Bois-Guilbert, had taken another direction, began now to
fear he was carrying it too far.

“The laws of England,” interrupted Beaumanoir, “permit and enjoin each
judge to execute justice within his own jurisdiction. The most petty
baron may arrest, try, and condemn a witch found within his own domain.
And shall that power be denied to the Grand Master of the Temple within
a preceptory of his Order?—No!—we will judge and condemn. The witch
shall be taken out of the land, and the wickedness thereof shall be
forgiven. Prepare the Castle-hall for the trial of the sorceress.”

Albert Malvoisin bowed and retired,—not to give directions for
preparing the hall, but to seek out Brian de Bois-Guilbert, and
communicate to him how matters were likely to terminate. It was not
long ere he found him, foaming with indignation at a repulse he had
anew sustained from the fair Jewess. “The unthinking,” he said, “the
ungrateful, to scorn him who, amidst blood and flames, would have saved
her life at the risk of his own! By Heaven, Malvoisin! I abode until
roof and rafters crackled and crashed around me. I was the butt of a
hundred arrows; they rattled on mine armour like hailstones against a
latticed casement, and the only use I made of my shield was for her
protection. This did I endure for her; and now the self-willed girl
upbraids me that I did not leave her to perish, and refuses me not only
the slightest proof of gratitude, but even the most distant hope that
ever she will be brought to grant any. The devil, that possessed her
race with obstinacy, has concentrated its full force in her single
person!”

“The devil,” said the Preceptor, “I think, possessed you both. How oft
have I preached to you caution, if not continence? Did I not tell you
that there were enough willing Christian damsels to be met with, who
would think it sin to refuse so brave a knight ‘le don d’amoureux
merci’, and you must needs anchor your affection on a wilful, obstinate
Jewess! By the mass, I think old Lucas Beaumanoir guesses right, when
he maintains she hath cast a spell over you.”

“Lucas Beaumanoir!”—said Bois-Guilbert reproachfully—“Are these your
precautions, Malvoisin? Hast thou suffered the dotard to learn that
Rebecca is in the Preceptory?”

“How could I help it?” said the Preceptor. “I neglected nothing that
could keep secret your mystery; but it is betrayed, and whether by the
devil or no, the devil only can tell. But I have turned the matter as I
could; you are safe if you renounce Rebecca. You are pitied—the victim
of magical delusion. She is a sorceress, and must suffer as such.”

“She shall not, by Heaven!” said Bois-Guilbert.

“By Heaven, she must and will!” said Malvoisin. “Neither you nor any
one else can save her. Lucas Beaumanoir hath settled that the death of
a Jewess will be a sin-offering sufficient to atone for all the amorous
indulgences of the Knights Templars; and thou knowest he hath both the
power and will to execute so reasonable and pious a purpose.”

“Will future ages believe that such stupid bigotry ever existed!” said
Bois-Guilbert, striding up and down the apartment.

“What they may believe, I know not,” said Malvoisin, calmly; “but I
know well, that in this our day, clergy and laymen, take ninety-nine to
the hundred, will cry ‘amen’ to the Grand Master’s sentence.”

“I have it,” said Bois-Guilbert. “Albert, thou art my friend. Thou must
connive at her escape, Malvoisin, and I will transport her to some
place of greater security and secrecy.”

“I cannot, if I would,” replied the Preceptor; “the mansion is filled
with the attendants of the Grand Master, and others who are devoted to
him. And, to be frank with you, brother, I would not embark with you in
this matter, even if I could hope to bring my bark to haven. I have
risked enough already for your sake. I have no mind to encounter a
sentence of degradation, or even to lose my Preceptory, for the sake of
a painted piece of Jewish flesh and blood. And you, if you will be
guided by my counsel, will give up this wild-goose chase, and fly your
hawk at some other game. Think, Bois-Guilbert,—thy present rank, thy
future honours, all depend on thy place in the Order. Shouldst thou
adhere perversely to thy passion for this Rebecca, thou wilt give
Beaumanoir the power of expelling thee, and he will not neglect it. He
is jealous of the truncheon which he holds in his trembling gripe, and
he knows thou stretchest thy bold hand towards it. Doubt not he will
ruin thee, if thou affordest him a pretext so fair as thy protection of
a Jewish sorceress. Give him his scope in this matter, for thou canst
not control him. When the staff is in thine own firm grasp, thou mayest
caress the daughters of Judah, or burn them, as may best suit thine own
humour.”

“Malvoisin,” said Bois-Guilbert, “thou art a cold-blooded—”

“Friend,” said the Preceptor, hastening to fill up the blank, in which
Bois-Guilbert would probably have placed a worse word,—“a cold-blooded
friend I am, and therefore more fit to give thee advice. I tell thee
once more, that thou canst not save Rebecca. I tell thee once more,
thou canst but perish with her. Go hie thee to the Grand Master—throw
thyself at his feet and tell him—”

“Not at his feet, by Heaven! but to the dotard’s very beard will I
say—”

“Say to him, then, to his beard,” continued Malvoisin, coolly, “that
you love this captive Jewess to distraction; and the more thou dost
enlarge on thy passion, the greater will be his haste to end it by the
death of the fair enchantress; while thou, taken in flagrant delict by
the avowal of a crime contrary to thine oath, canst hope no aid of thy
brethren, and must exchange all thy brilliant visions of ambition and
power, to lift perhaps a mercenary spear in some of the petty quarrels
between Flanders and Burgundy.”

“Thou speakest the truth, Malvoisin,” said Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
after a moment’s reflection. “I will give the hoary bigot no advantage
over me; and for Rebecca, she hath not merited at my hand that I should
expose rank and honour for her sake. I will cast her off—yes, I will
leave her to her fate, unless—”

“Qualify not thy wise and necessary resolution,” said Malvoisin; “women
are but the toys which amuse our lighter hours—ambition is the serious
business of life. Perish a thousand such frail baubles as this Jewess,
before thy manly step pause in the brilliant career that lies stretched
before thee! For the present we part, nor must we be seen to hold close
conversation—I must order the hall for his judgment-seat.”

“What!” said Bois-Guilbert, “so soon?”

“Ay,” replied the Preceptor, “trial moves rapidly on when the judge has
determined the sentence beforehand.”

“Rebecca,” said Bois-Guilbert, when he was left alone, “thou art like
to cost me dear—Why cannot I abandon thee to thy fate, as this calm
hypocrite recommends?—One effort will I make to save thee—but beware of
ingratitude! for if I am again repulsed, my vengeance shall equal my
love. The life and honour of Bois-Guilbert must not be hazarded, where
contempt and reproaches are his only reward.”

The Preceptor had hardly given the necessary orders, when he was joined
by Conrade Mont-Fitchet, who acquainted him with the Grand Master’s
resolution to bring the Jewess to instant trial for sorcery.

“It is surely a dream,” said the Preceptor; “we have many Jewish
physicians, and we call them not wizards though they work wonderful
cures.”

“The Grand Master thinks otherwise,” said Mont-Fitchet; “and, Albert, I
will be upright with thee—wizard or not, it were better that this
miserable damsel die, than that Brian de Bois-Guilbert should be lost
to the Order, or the Order divided by internal dissension. Thou knowest
his high rank, his fame in arms—thou knowest the zeal with which many
of our brethren regard him—but all this will not avail him with our
Grand Master, should he consider Brian as the accomplice, not the
victim, of this Jewess. Were the souls of the twelve tribes in her
single body, it were better she suffered alone, than that Bois-Guilbert
were partner in her destruction.”

“I have been working him even now to abandon her,” said Malvoisin; “but
still, are there grounds enough to condemn this Rebecca for
sorcery?—Will not the Grand Master change his mind when he sees that
the proofs are so weak?”

“They must be strengthened, Albert,” replied Mont-Fitchet, “they must
be strengthened. Dost thou understand me?”

“I do,” said the Preceptor, “nor do I scruple to do aught for
advancement of the Order—but there is little time to find engines
fitting.”

“Malvoisin, they MUST be found,” said Conrade; “well will it advantage
both the Order and thee. This Templestowe is a poor Preceptory—that of
Maison-Dieu is worth double its value—thou knowest my interest with our
old Chief—find those who can carry this matter through, and thou art
Preceptor of Maison-Dieu in the fertile Kent—How sayst thou?”

“There is,” replied Malvoisin, “among those who came hither with
Bois-Guilbert, two fellows whom I well know; servants they were to my
brother Philip de Malvoisin, and passed from his service to that of
Front-de-Bœuf—It may be they know something of the witcheries of this
woman.”

“Away, seek them out instantly—and hark thee, if a byzant or two will
sharpen their memory, let them not be wanting.”

“They would swear the mother that bore them a sorceress for a zecchin,”
said the Preceptor.

“Away, then,” said Mont-Fitchet; “at noon the affair will proceed. I
have not seen our senior in such earnest preparation since he condemned
to the stake Hamet Alfagi, a convert who relapsed to the Moslem faith.”

The ponderous castle-bell had tolled the point of noon, when Rebecca
heard a trampling of feet upon the private stair which led to her place
of confinement. The noise announced the arrival of several persons, and
the circumstance rather gave her joy; for she was more afraid of the
solitary visits of the fierce and passionate Bois-Guilbert than of any
evil that could befall her besides. The door of the chamber was
unlocked, and Conrade and the Preceptor Malvoisin entered, attended by
four warders clothed in black, and bearing halberds.

“Daughter of an accursed race!” said the Preceptor, “arise and follow
us.”

“Whither,” said Rebecca, “and for what purpose?”

“Damsel,” answered Conrade, “it is not for thee to question, but to
obey. Nevertheless, be it known to thee, that thou art to be brought
before the tribunal of the Grand Master of our holy Order, there to
answer for thine offences.”

“May the God of Abraham be praised!” said Rebecca, folding her hands
devoutly; “the name of a judge, though an enemy to my people, is to me
as the name of a protector. Most willingly do I follow thee—permit me
only to wrap my veil around my head.”

They descended the stair with slow and solemn step, traversed a long
gallery, and, by a pair of folding doors placed at the end, entered the
great hall in which the Grand Master had for the time established his
court of justice.

The lower part of this ample apartment was filled with squires and
yeomen, who made way not without some difficulty for Rebecca, attended
by the Preceptor and Mont-Fitchet, and followed by the guard of
halberdiers, to move forward to the seat appointed for her. As she
passed through the crowd, her arms folded and her head depressed, a
scrap of paper was thrust into her hand, which she received almost
unconsciously, and continued to hold without examining its contents.
The assurance that she possessed some friend in this awful assembly
gave her courage to look around, and to mark into whose presence she
had been conducted. She gazed, accordingly, upon the scene, which we
shall endeavour to describe in the next chapter.




CHAPTER XXXVII


Stern was the law which bade its vot’ries leave
At human woes with human hearts to grieve;
Stern was the law, which at the winning wile
Of frank and harmless mirth forbade to smile;
But sterner still, when high the iron-rod
Of tyrant power she shook, and call’d that power of God.


THE MIDDLE AGES


The Tribunal, erected for the trial of the innocent and unhappy
Rebecca, occupied the dais or elevated part of the upper end of the
great hall—a platform, which we have already described as the place of
honour, destined to be occupied by the most distinguished inhabitants
or guests of an ancient mansion.

On an elevated seat, directly before the accused, sat the Grand Master
of the Temple, in full and ample robes of flowing white, holding in his
hand the mystic staff, which bore the symbol of the Order. At his feet
was placed a table, occupied by two scribes, chaplains of the Order,
whose duty it was to reduce to formal record the proceedings of the
day. The black dresses, bare scalps, and demure looks of these
church-men, formed a strong contrast to the warlike appearance of the
knights who attended, either as residing in the Preceptory, or as come
thither to attend upon their Grand Master. The Preceptors, of whom
there were four present, occupied seats lower in height, and somewhat
drawn back behind that of their superior; and the knights, who enjoyed
no such rank in the Order, were placed on benches still lower, and
preserving the same distance from the Preceptors as these from the
Grand Master. Behind them, but still upon the dais or elevated portion
of the hall, stood the esquires of the Order, in white dresses of an
inferior quality.

The whole assembly wore an aspect of the most profound gravity; and in
the faces of the knights might be perceived traces of military daring,
united with the solemn carriage becoming men of a religious profession,
and which, in the presence of their Grand Master, failed not to sit
upon every brow.

The remaining and lower part of the hall was filled with guards,
holding partisans, and with other attendants whom curiosity had drawn
thither, to see at once a Grand Master and a Jewish sorceress. By far
the greater part of those inferior persons were, in one rank or other,
connected with the Order, and were accordingly distinguished by their
black dresses. But peasants from the neighbouring country were not
refused admittance; for it was the pride of Beaumanoir to render the
edifying spectacle of the justice which he administered as public as
possible. His large blue eyes seemed to expand as he gazed around the
assembly, and his countenance appeared elated by the conscious dignity,
and imaginary merit, of the part which he was about to perform. A
psalm, which he himself accompanied with a deep mellow voice, which age
had not deprived of its powers, commenced the proceedings of the day;
and the solemn sounds, “Venite exultemus Domino”, so often sung by the
Templars before engaging with earthly adversaries, was judged by Lucas
most appropriate to introduce the approaching triumph, for such he
deemed it, over the powers of darkness. The deep prolonged notes,
raised by a hundred masculine voices accustomed to combine in the
choral chant, arose to the vaulted roof of the hall, and rolled on
amongst its arches with the pleasing yet solemn sound of the rushing of
mighty waters.

When the sounds ceased, the Grand Master glanced his eye slowly around
the circle, and observed that the seat of one of the Preceptors was
vacant. Brian de Bois-Guilbert, by whom it had been occupied, had left
his place, and was now standing near the extreme corner of one of the
benches occupied by the Knights Companions of the Temple, one hand
extending his long mantle, so as in some degree to hide his face; while
the other held his cross-handled sword, with the point of which,
sheathed as it was, he was slowly drawing lines upon the oaken floor.

“Unhappy man!” said the Grand Master, after favouring him with a glance
of compassion. “Thou seest, Conrade, how this holy work distresses him.
To this can the light look of woman, aided by the Prince of the Powers
of this world, bring a valiant and worthy knight!—Seest thou he cannot
look upon us; he cannot look upon her; and who knows by what impulse
from his tormentor his hand forms these cabalistic lines upon the
floor?—It may be our life and safety are thus aimed at; but we spit at
and defy the foul enemy. ‘Semper Leo percutiatur!’”

This was communicated apart to his confidential follower, Conrade
Mont-Fitchet. The Grand Master then raised his voice, and addressed the
assembly.

“Reverend and valiant men, Knights, Preceptors, and Companions of this
Holy Order, my brethren and my children!—you also, well-born and pious
Esquires, who aspire to wear this holy Cross!—and you also, Christian
brethren, of every degree!—Be it known to you, that it is not defect of
power in us which hath occasioned the assembling of this congregation;
for, however unworthy in our person, yet to us is committed, with this
batoon, full power to judge and to try all that regards the weal of
this our Holy Order. Holy Saint Bernard, in the rule of our knightly
and religious profession, hath said, in the fifty-ninth capital, 53
that he would not that brethren be called together in council, save at
the will and command of the Master; leaving it free to us, as to those
more worthy fathers who have preceded us in this our office, to judge,
as well of the occasion as of the time and place in which a chapter of
the whole Order, or of any part thereof, may be convoked. Also, in all
such chapters, it is our duty to hear the advice of our brethren, and
to proceed according to our own pleasure. But when the raging wolf hath
made an inroad upon the flock, and carried off one member thereof, it
is the duty of the kind shepherd to call his comrades together, that
with bows and slings they may quell the invader, according to our
well-known rule, that the lion is ever to be beaten down. We have
therefore summoned to our presence a Jewish woman, by name Rebecca,
daughter of Isaac of York—a woman infamous for sortileges and for
witcheries; whereby she hath maddened the blood, and besotted the
brain, not of a churl, but of a Knight—not of a secular Knight, but of
one devoted to the service of the Holy Temple—not of a Knight
Companion, but of a Preceptor of our Order, first in honour as in
place. Our brother, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, is well known to ourselves,
and to all degrees who now hear me, as a true and zealous champion of
the Cross, by whose arm many deeds of valour have been wrought in the
Holy Land, and the holy places purified from pollution by the blood of
those infidels who defiled them. Neither have our brother’s sagacity
and prudence been less in repute among his brethren than his valour and
discipline; in so much, that knights, both in eastern and western
lands, have named De Bois-Guilbert as one who may well be put in
nomination as successor to this batoon, when it shall please Heaven to
release us from the toil of bearing it. If we were told that such a
man, so honoured, and so honourable, suddenly casting away regard for
his character, his vows, his brethren, and his prospects, had
associated to himself a Jewish damsel, wandered in this lewd company,
through solitary places, defended her person in preference to his own,
and, finally, was so utterly blinded and besotted by his folly, as to
bring her even to one of our own Preceptories, what should we say but
that the noble knight was possessed by some evil demon, or influenced
by some wicked spell?—If we could suppose it otherwise, think not rank,
valour, high repute, or any earthly consideration, should prevent us
from visiting him with punishment, that the evil thing might be
removed, even according to the text, ‘Auferte malum ex vobis’. For
various and heinous are the acts of transgression against the rule of
our blessed Order in this lamentable history.—1st, He hath walked
according to his proper will, contrary to capital 33, ‘Quod nullus
juxta propriam voluntatem incedat’.—2d, He hath held communication with
an excommunicated person, capital 57, ‘Ut fratres non participent cum
excommunicatis’, and therefore hath a portion in ‘Anathema
Maranatha’.—3d, He hath conversed with strange women, contrary to the
capital, ‘Ut fratres non conversantur cum extraneis mulieribus’.—4th,
He hath not avoided, nay, he hath, it is to be feared, solicited the
kiss of woman; by which, saith the last rule of our renowned Order, ‘Ut
fugiantur oscula’, the soldiers of the Cross are brought into a snare.
For which heinous and multiplied guilt, Brian de Bois-Guilbert should
be cut off and cast out from our congregation, were he the right hand
and right eye thereof.”

He paused. A low murmur went through the assembly. Some of the younger
part, who had been inclined to smile at the statute ‘De osculis
fugiendis’, became now grave enough, and anxiously waited what the
Grand Master was next to propose.

“Such,” he said, “and so great should indeed be the punishment of a
Knight Templar, who wilfully offended against the rules of his Order in
such weighty points. But if, by means of charms and of spells, Satan
had obtained dominion over the Knight, perchance because he cast his
eyes too lightly upon a damsel’s beauty, we are then rather to lament
than chastise his backsliding; and, imposing on him only such penance
as may purify him from his iniquity, we are to turn the full edge of
our indignation upon the accursed instrument, which had so well-nigh
occasioned his utter falling away.—Stand forth, therefore, and bear
witness, ye who have witnessed these unhappy doings, that we may judge
of the sum and bearing thereof; and judge whether our justice may be
satisfied with the punishment of this infidel woman, or if we must go
on, with a bleeding heart, to the further proceeding against our
brother.”

Several witnesses were called upon to prove the risks to which
Bois-Guilbert exposed himself in endeavouring to save Rebecca from the
blazing castle, and his neglect of his personal defence in attending to
her safety. The men gave these details with the exaggerations common to
vulgar minds which have been strongly excited by any remarkable event,
and their natural disposition to the marvellous was greatly increased
by the satisfaction which their evidence seemed to afford to the
eminent person for whose information it had been delivered. Thus the
dangers which Bois-Guilbert surmounted, in themselves sufficiently
great, became portentous in their narrative. The devotion of the Knight
to Rebecca’s defence was exaggerated beyond the bounds, not only of
discretion, but even of the most frantic excess of chivalrous zeal; and
his deference to what she said, even although her language was often
severe and upbraiding, was painted as carried to an excess, which, in a
man of his haughty temper, seemed almost preternatural.

The Preceptor of Templestowe was then called on to describe the manner
in which Bois-Guilbert and the Jewess arrived at the Preceptory. The
evidence of Malvoisin was skilfully guarded. But while he apparently
studied to spare the feelings of Bois-Guilbert, he threw in, from time
to time, such hints, as seemed to infer that he laboured under some
temporary alienation of mind, so deeply did he appear to be enamoured
of the damsel whom he brought along with him. With sighs of penitence,
the Preceptor avowed his own contrition for having admitted Rebecca and
her lover within the walls of the Preceptory—“But my defence,” he
concluded, “has been made in my confession to our most reverend father
the Grand Master; he knows my motives were not evil, though my conduct
may have been irregular. Joyfully will I submit to any penance he shall
assign me.”

“Thou hast spoken well, Brother Albert,” said Beaumanoir; “thy motives
were good, since thou didst judge it right to arrest thine erring
brother in his career of precipitate folly. But thy conduct was wrong;
as he that would stop a runaway steed, and seizing by the stirrup
instead of the bridle, receiveth injury himself, instead of
accomplishing his purpose. Thirteen paternosters are assigned by our
pious founder for matins, and nine for vespers; be those services
doubled by thee. Thrice a-week are Templars permitted the use of flesh;
but do thou keep fast for all the seven days. This do for six weeks to
come, and thy penance is accomplished.”

With a hypocritical look of the deepest submission, the Preceptor of
Templestowe bowed to the ground before his Superior, and resumed his
seat.

“Were it not well, brethren,” said the Grand Master, “that we examine
something into the former life and conversation of this woman,
specially that we may discover whether she be one likely to use magical
charms and spells, since the truths which we have heard may well
incline us to suppose, that in this unhappy course our erring brother
has been acted upon by some infernal enticement and delusion?”

Herman of Goodalricke was the Fourth Preceptor present; the other three
were Conrade, Malvoisin, and Bois-Guilbert himself. Herman was an
ancient warrior, whose face was marked with scars inflicted by the
sabre of the Moslemah, and had great rank and consideration among his
brethren. He arose and bowed to the Grand Master, who instantly granted
him license of speech. “I would crave to know, most Reverend Father, of
our valiant brother, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, what he says to these
wondrous accusations, and with what eye he himself now regards his
unhappy intercourse with this Jewish maiden?”

“Brian de Bois-Guilbert,” said the Grand Master, “thou hearest the
question which our Brother of Goodalricke desirest thou shouldst
answer. I command thee to reply to him.”

Bois-Guilbert turned his head towards the Grand Master when thus
addressed, and remained silent.

“He is possessed by a dumb devil,” said the Grand Master. “Avoid thee,
Sathanus!—Speak, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, I conjure thee, by this symbol
of our Holy Order.”

Bois-Guilbert made an effort to suppress his rising scorn and
indignation, the expression of which, he was well aware, would have
little availed him. “Brian de Bois-Guilbert,” he answered, “replies
not, most Reverend Father, to such wild and vague charges. If his
honour be impeached, he will defend it with his body, and with that
sword which has often fought for Christendom.”

“We forgive thee, Brother Brian,” said the Grand Master; “though that
thou hast boasted thy warlike achievements before us, is a glorifying
of thine own deeds, and cometh of the Enemy, who tempteth us to exalt
our own worship. But thou hast our pardon, judging thou speakest less
of thine own suggestion than from the impulse of him whom by Heaven’s
leave, we will quell and drive forth from our assembly.” A glance of
disdain flashed from the dark fierce eyes of Bois-Guilbert, but he made
no reply.—“And now,” pursued the Grand Master, “since our Brother of
Goodalricke’s question has been thus imperfectly answered, pursue we
our quest, brethren, and with our patron’s assistance, we will search
to the bottom this mystery of iniquity.—Let those who have aught to
witness of the life and conversation of this Jewish woman, stand forth
before us.” There was a bustle in the lower part of the hall, and when
the Grand Master enquired the reason, it was replied, there was in the
crowd a bedridden man, whom the prisoner had restored to the perfect
use of his limbs, by a miraculous balsam.

The poor peasant, a Saxon by birth, was dragged forward to the bar,
terrified at the penal consequences which he might have incurred by the
guilt of having been cured of the palsy by a Jewish damsel. Perfectly
cured he certainly was not, for he supported himself forward on
crutches to give evidence. Most unwilling was his testimony, and given
with many tears; but he admitted that two years since, when residing at
York, he was suddenly afflicted with a sore disease, while labouring
for Isaac the rich Jew, in his vocation of a joiner; that he had been
unable to stir from his bed until the remedies applied by Rebecca’s
directions, and especially a warming and spicy-smelling balsam, had in
some degree restored him to the use of his limbs. Moreover, he said,
she had given him a pot of that precious ointment, and furnished him
with a piece of money withal, to return to the house of his father,
near to Templestowe. “And may it please your gracious Reverence,” said
the man, “I cannot think the damsel meant harm by me, though she hath
the ill hap to be a Jewess; for even when I used her remedy, I said the
Pater and the Creed, and it never operated a whit less kindly—”

“Peace, slave,” said the Grand Master, “and begone! It well suits
brutes like thee to be tampering and trinketing with hellish cures, and
to be giving your labour to the sons of mischief. I tell thee, the
fiend can impose diseases for the very purpose of removing them, in
order to bring into credit some diabolical fashion of cure. Hast thou
that unguent of which thou speakest?”

The peasant, fumbling in his bosom with a trembling hand, produced a
small box, bearing some Hebrew characters on the lid, which was, with
most of the audience, a sure proof that the devil had stood apothecary.
Beaumanoir, after crossing himself, took the box into his hand, and,
learned in most of the Eastern tongues, read with ease the motto on the
lid,—“The Lion of the tribe of Judah hath conquered.”

“Strange powers of Sathanas.” said he, “which can convert Scripture
into blasphemy, mingling poison with our necessary food!—Is there no
leech here who can tell us the ingredients of this mystic unguent?”

Two mediciners, as they called themselves, the one a monk, the other a
barber, appeared, and avouched they knew nothing of the materials,
excepting that they savoured of myrrh and camphire, which they took to
be Oriental herbs. But with the true professional hatred to a
successful practitioner of their art, they insinuated that, since the
medicine was beyond their own knowledge, it must necessarily have been
compounded from an unlawful and magical pharmacopeia; since they
themselves, though no conjurors, fully understood every branch of their
art, so far as it might be exercised with the good faith of a
Christian. When this medical research was ended, the Saxon peasant
desired humbly to have back the medicine which he had found so
salutary; but the Grand Master frowned severely at the request. “What
is thy name, fellow?” said he to the cripple.

“Higg, the son of Snell,” answered the peasant.

“Then Higg, son of Snell,” said the Grand Master, “I tell thee it is
better to be bedridden, than to accept the benefit of unbelievers’
medicine that thou mayest arise and walk; better to despoil infidels of
their treasure by the strong hand, than to accept of them benevolent
gifts, or do them service for wages. Go thou, and do as I have said.”

“Alack,” said the peasant, “an it shall not displease your Reverence,
the lesson comes too late for me, for I am but a maimed man; but I will
tell my two brethren, who serve the rich Rabbi Nathan Ben Samuel, that
your mastership says it is more lawful to rob him than to render him
faithful service.”

“Out with the prating villain!” said Beaumanoir, who was not prepared
to refute this practical application of his general maxim.

Higg, the son of Snell, withdrew into the crowd, but, interested in the
fate of his benefactress, lingered until he should learn her doom, even
at the risk of again encountering the frown of that severe judge, the
terror of which withered his very heart within him.

At this period of the trial, the Grand Master commanded Rebecca to
unveil herself. Opening her lips for the first time, she replied
patiently, but with dignity,—“That it was not the wont of the daughters
of her people to uncover their faces when alone in an assembly of
strangers.” The sweet tones of her voice, and the softness of her
reply, impressed on the audience a sentiment of pity and sympathy. But
Beaumanoir, in whose mind the suppression of each feeling of humanity
which could interfere with his imagined duty, was a virtue of itself,
repeated his commands that his victim should be unveiled. The guards
were about to remove her veil accordingly, when she stood up before the
Grand Master and said, “Nay, but for the love of your own
daughters—Alas,” she said, recollecting herself, “ye have no
daughters!—yet for the remembrance of your mothers—for the love of your
sisters, and of female decency, let me not be thus handled in your
presence; it suits not a maiden to be disrobed by such rude grooms. I
will obey you,” she added, with an expression of patient sorrow in her
voice, which had almost melted the heart of Beaumanoir himself; “ye are
elders among your people, and at your command I will show the features
of an ill-fated maiden.”

She withdrew her veil, and looked on them with a countenance in which
bashfulness contended with dignity. Her exceeding beauty excited a
murmur of surprise, and the younger knights told each other with their
eyes, in silent correspondence, that Brian’s best apology was in the
power of her real charms, rather than of her imaginary witchcraft. But
Higg, the son of Snell, felt most deeply the effect produced by the
sight of the countenance of his benefactress.

“Let me go forth,” he said to the warders at the door of the hall,—“let
me go forth!—To look at her again will kill me, for I have had a share
in murdering her.”

“Peace, poor man,” said Rebecca, when she heard his exclamation; “thou
hast done me no harm by speaking the truth—thou canst not aid me by thy
complaints or lamentations. Peace, I pray thee—go home and save
thyself.”

Higg was about to be thrust out by the compassion of the warders, who
were apprehensive lest his clamorous grief should draw upon them
reprehension, and upon himself punishment. But he promised to be
silent, and was permitted to remain. The two men-at-arms, with whom
Albert Malvoisin had not failed to communicate upon the import of their
testimony, were now called forward. Though both were hardened and
inflexible villains, the sight of the captive maiden, as well as her
excelling beauty, at first appeared to stagger them; but an expressive
glance from the Preceptor of Templestowe restored them to their dogged
composure; and they delivered, with a precision which would have seemed
suspicious to more impartial judges, circumstances either altogether
fictitious or trivial, and natural in themselves, but rendered pregnant
with suspicion by the exaggerated manner in which they were told, and
the sinister commentary which the witnesses added to the facts. The
circumstances of their evidence would have been, in modern days,
divided into two classes—those which were immaterial, and those which
were actually and physically impossible. But both were, in those
ignorant and superstitions times, easily credited as proofs of
guilt.—The first class set forth, that Rebecca was heard to mutter to
herself in an unknown tongue—that the songs she sung by fits were of a
strangely sweet sound, which made the ears of the hearer tingle, and
his heart throb—that she spoke at times to herself, and seemed to look
upward for a reply—that her garments were of a strange and mystic form,
unlike those of women of good repute—that she had rings impressed with
cabalistical devices, and that strange characters were broidered on her
veil.

All these circumstances, so natural and so trivial, were gravely
listened to as proofs, or, at least, as affording strong suspicions
that Rebecca had unlawful correspondence with mystical powers.

But there was less equivocal testimony, which the credulity of the
assembly, or of the greater part, greedily swallowed, however
incredible. One of the soldiers had seen her work a cure upon a wounded
man, brought with them to the castle of Torquilstone. She did, he said,
make certain signs upon the wound, and repeated certain mysterious
words, which he blessed God he understood not, when the iron head of a
square cross-bow bolt disengaged itself from the wound, the bleeding
was stanched, the wound was closed, and the dying man was, within a
quarter of an hour, walking upon the ramparts, and assisting the
witness in managing a mangonel, or machine for hurling stones. This
legend was probably founded upon the fact, that Rebecca had attended on
the wounded Ivanhoe when in the castle of Torquilstone. But it was the
more difficult to dispute the accuracy of the witness, as, in order to
produce real evidence in support of his verbal testimony, he drew from
his pouch the very bolt-head, which, according to his story, had been
miraculously extracted from the wound; and as the iron weighed a full
ounce, it completely confirmed the tale, however marvellous.

His comrade had been a witness from a neighbouring battlement of the
scene betwixt Rebecca and Bois-Guilbert, when she was upon the point of
precipitating herself from the top of the tower. Not to be behind his
companion, this fellow stated, that he had seen Rebecca perch herself
upon the parapet of the turret, and there take the form of a milk-white
swan, under which appearance she flitted three times round the castle
of Torquilstone; then again settle on the turret, and once more assume
the female form.

Less than one half of this weighty evidence would have been sufficient
to convict any old woman, poor and ugly, even though she had not been a
Jewess. United with that fatal circumstance, the body of proof was too
weighty for Rebecca’s youth, though combined with the most exquisite
beauty.

The Grand Master had collected the suffrages, and now in a solemn tone
demanded of Rebecca what she had to say against the sentence of
condemnation, which he was about to pronounce.

“To invoke your pity,” said the lovely Jewess, with a voice somewhat
tremulous with emotion, “would, I am aware, be as useless as I should
hold it mean. To state that to relieve the sick and wounded of another
religion, cannot be displeasing to the acknowledged Founder of both our
faiths, were also unavailing; to plead that many things which these men
(whom may Heaven pardon!) have spoken against me are impossible, would
avail me but little, since you believe in their possibility; and still
less would it advantage me to explain, that the peculiarities of my
dress, language, and manners, are those of my people—I had well-nigh
said of my country, but alas! we have no country. Nor will I even
vindicate myself at the expense of my oppressor, who stands there
listening to the fictions and surmises which seem to convert the tyrant
into the victim.—God be judge between him and me! but rather would I
submit to ten such deaths as your pleasure may denounce against me,
than listen to the suit which that man of Belial has urged upon
me—friendless, defenceless, and his prisoner. But he is of your own
faith, and his lightest affirmance would weigh down the most solemn
protestations of the distressed Jewess. I will not therefore return to
himself the charge brought against me—but to himself—Yes, Brian de
Bois-Guilbert, to thyself I appeal, whether these accusations are not
false? as monstrous and calumnious as they are deadly?”

There was a pause; all eyes turned to Brain de Bois-Guilbert. He was
silent.

“Speak,” she said, “if thou art a man—if thou art a Christian, speak!—I
conjure thee, by the habit which thou dost wear, by the name thou dost
inherit—by the knighthood thou dost vaunt—by the honour of thy
mother—by the tomb and the bones of thy father—I conjure thee to say,
are these things true?”

“Answer her, brother,” said the Grand Master, “if the Enemy with whom
thou dost wrestle will give thee power.”

In fact, Bois-Guilbert seemed agitated by contending passions, which
almost convulsed his features, and it was with a constrained voice that
at last he replied, looking to Rebecca,—“The scroll!—the scroll!”

“Ay,” said Beaumanoir, “this is indeed testimony! The victim of her
witcheries can only name the fatal scroll, the spell inscribed on which
is, doubtless, the cause of his silence.”

But Rebecca put another interpretation on the words extorted as it were
from Bois-Guilbert, and glancing her eye upon the slip of parchment
which she continued to hold in her hand, she read written thereupon in
the Arabian character, “Demand a Champion!” The murmuring commentary
which ran through the assembly at the strange reply of Bois-Guilbert,
gave Rebecca leisure to examine and instantly to destroy the scroll
unobserved. When the whisper had ceased, the Grand Master spoke.

“Rebecca, thou canst derive no benefit from the evidence of this
unhappy knight, for whom, as we well perceive, the Enemy is yet too
powerful. Hast thou aught else to say?”

“There is yet one chance of life left to me,” said Rebecca, “even by
your own fierce laws. Life has been miserable—miserable, at least, of
late—but I will not cast away the gift of God, while he affords me the
means of defending it. I deny this charge—I maintain my innocence, and
I declare the falsehood of this accusation—I challenge the privilege of
trial by combat, and will appear by my champion.”

“And who, Rebecca,” replied the Grand Master, “will lay lance in rest
for a sorceress? who will be the champion of a Jewess?”

“God will raise me up a champion,” said Rebecca—“It cannot be that in
merry England—the hospitable, the generous, the free, where so many are
ready to peril their lives for honour, there will not be found one to
fight for justice. But it is enough that I challenge the trial by
combat—there lies my gage.”

She took her embroidered glove from her hand, and flung it down before
the Grand Master with an air of mingled simplicity and dignity, which
excited universal surprise and admiration.




CHAPTER XXXVIII


—There I throw my gage,
To prove it on thee to the extremest point
Of martial daring.


RICHARD II


Even Lucas Beaumanoir himself was affected by the mien and appearance
of Rebecca. He was not originally a cruel or even a severe man; but
with passions by nature cold, and with a high, though mistaken, sense
of duty, his heart had been gradually hardened by the ascetic life
which he pursued, the supreme power which he enjoyed, and the supposed
necessity of subduing infidelity and eradicating heresy, which he
conceived peculiarly incumbent on him. His features relaxed in their
usual severity as he gazed upon the beautiful creature before him,
alone, unfriended, and defending herself with so much spirit and
courage. He crossed himself twice, as doubting whence arose the
unwonted softening of a heart, which on such occasions used to resemble
in hardness the steel of his sword. At length he spoke.

“Damsel,” he said, “if the pity I feel for thee arise from any practice
thine evil arts have made on me, great is thy guilt. But I rather judge
it the kinder feelings of nature, which grieves that so goodly a form
should be a vessel of perdition. Repent, my daughter—confess thy
witchcrafts—turn thee from thine evil faith—embrace this holy emblem,
and all shall yet be well with thee here and hereafter. In some
sisterhood of the strictest order, shalt thou have time for prayer and
fitting penance, and that repentance not to be repented of. This do and
live—what has the law of Moses done for thee that thou shouldest die
for it?”

“It was the law of my fathers,” said Rebecca; “it was delivered in
thunders and in storms upon the mountain of Sinai, in cloud and in
fire. This, if ye are Christians, ye believe—it is, you say, recalled;
but so my teachers have not taught me.”

“Let our chaplain,” said Beaumanoir, “stand forth, and tell this
obstinate infidel—”

“Forgive the interruption,” said Rebecca, meekly; “I am a maiden,
unskilled to dispute for my religion, but I can die for it, if it be
God’s will.—Let me pray your answer to my demand of a champion.”

“Give me her glove,” said Beaumanoir. “This is indeed,” he continued,
as he looked at the flimsy texture and slender fingers, “a slight and
frail gage for a purpose so deadly!—Seest thou, Rebecca, as this thin
and light glove of thine is to one of our heavy steel gauntlets, so is
thy cause to that of the Temple, for it is our Order which thou hast
defied.”

“Cast my innocence into the scale,” answered Rebecca, “and the glove of
silk shall outweigh the glove of iron.”

“Then thou dost persist in thy refusal to confess thy guilt, and in
that bold challenge which thou hast made?”

“I do persist, noble sir,” answered Rebecca.

“So be it then, in the name of Heaven,” said the Grand Master; “and may
God show the right!”

“Amen,” replied the Preceptors around him, and the word was deeply
echoed by the whole assembly.

“Brethren,” said Beaumanoir, “you are aware that we might well have
refused to this woman the benefit of the trial by combat—but though a
Jewess and an unbeliever, she is also a stranger and defenceless, and
God forbid that she should ask the benefit of our mild laws, and that
it should be refused to her. Moreover, we are knights and soldiers as
well as men of religion, and shame it were to us upon any pretence, to
refuse proffered combat. Thus, therefore, stands the case. Rebecca, the
daughter of Isaac of York, is, by many frequent and suspicious
circumstances, defamed of sorcery practised on the person of a noble
knight of our holy Order, and hath challenged the combat in proof of
her innocence. To whom, reverend brethren, is it your opinion that we
should deliver the gage of battle, naming him, at the same time, to be
our champion on the field?”

“To Brian de Bois-Guilbert, whom it chiefly concerns,” said the
Preceptor of Goodalricke, “and who, moreover, best knows how the truth
stands in this matter.”

“But if,” said the Grand Master, “our brother Brian be under the
influence of a charm or a spell—we speak but for the sake of
precaution, for to the arm of none of our holy Order would we more
willingly confide this or a more weighty cause.”

“Reverend father,” answered the Preceptor of Goodalricke, “no spell can
effect the champion who comes forward to fight for the judgment of
God.”

“Thou sayest right, brother,” said the Grand Master. “Albert Malvoisin,
give this gage of battle to Brian de Bois-Guilbert.—It is our charge to
thee, brother,” he continued, addressing himself to Bois-Guilbert,
“that thou do thy battle manfully, nothing doubting that the good cause
shall triumph.—And do thou, Rebecca, attend, that we assign thee the
third day from the present to find a champion.”

“That is but brief space,” answered Rebecca, “for a stranger, who is
also of another faith, to find one who will do battle, wagering life
and honour for her cause, against a knight who is called an approved
soldier.”

“We may not extend it,” answered the Grand Master; “the field must be
foughten in our own presence, and divers weighty causes call us on the
fourth day from hence.”

“God’s will be done!” said Rebecca; “I put my trust in Him, to whom an
instant is as effectual to save as a whole age.”

“Thou hast spoken well, damsel,” said the Grand Master; “but well know
we who can array himself like an angel of light. It remains but to name
a fitting place of combat, and, if it so hap, also of execution.—Where
is the Preceptor of this house?”

Albert Malvoisin, still holding Rebecca’s glove in his hand, was
speaking to Bois-Guilbert very earnestly, but in a low voice.

“How!” said the Grand Master, “will he not receive the gage?”

“He will—he doth, most Reverend Father,” said Malvoisin, slipping the
glove under his own mantle. “And for the place of combat, I hold the
fittest to be the lists of Saint George belonging to this Preceptory,
and used by us for military exercise.”

“It is well,” said the Grand Master.—“Rebecca, in those lists shalt
thou produce thy champion; and if thou failest to do so, or if thy
champion shall be discomfited by the judgment of God, thou shalt then
die the death of a sorceress, according to doom.—Let this our judgment
be recorded, and the record read aloud, that no one may pretend
ignorance.”

One of the chaplains, who acted as clerks to the chapter, immediately
engrossed the order in a huge volume, which contained the proceedings
of the Templar Knights when solemnly assembled on such occasions; and
when he had finished writing, the other read aloud the sentence of the
Grand Master, which, when translated from the Norman-French in which it
was couched, was expressed as follows.—

“Rebecca, a Jewess, daughter of Isaac of York, being attainted of
sorcery, seduction, and other damnable practices, practised on a Knight
of the most Holy Order of the Temple of Zion, doth deny the same; and
saith, that the testimony delivered against her this day is false,
wicked, and disloyal; and that by lawful ‘essoine’ 54 of her body as
being unable to combat in her own behalf, she doth offer, by a champion
instead thereof, to avouch her case, he performing his loyal ‘devoir’
in all knightly sort, with such arms as to gage of battle do fully
appertain, and that at her peril and cost. And therewith she proffered
her gage. And the gage having been delivered to the noble Lord and
Knight, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, of the Holy Order of the Temple of
Zion, he was appointed to do this battle, in behalf of his Order and
himself, as injured and impaired by the practices of the appellant.
Wherefore the most reverend Father and puissant Lord, Lucas Marquis of
Beaumanoir, did allow of the said challenge, and of the said ‘essoine’
of the appellant’s body, and assigned the third day for the said
combat, the place being the enclosure called the lists of Saint George,
near to the Preceptory of Templestowe. And the Grand Master appoints
the appellant to appear there by her champion, on pain of doom, as a
person convicted of sorcery or seduction; and also the defendant so to
appear, under the penalty of being held and adjudged recreant in case
of default; and the noble Lord and most reverend Father aforesaid
appointed the battle to be done in his own presence, and according to
all that is commendable and profitable in such a case. And may God aid
the just cause!”

“Amen!” said the Grand Master; and the word was echoed by all around.
Rebecca spoke not, but she looked up to heaven, and, folding her hands,
remained for a minute without change of attitude. She then modestly
reminded the Grand Master, that she ought to be permitted some
opportunity of free communication with her friends, for the purpose of
making her condition known to them, and procuring, if possible, some
champion to fight in her behalf.

“It is just and lawful,” said the Grand Master; “choose what messenger
thou shalt trust, and he shall have free communication with thee in thy
prison-chamber.”

“Is there,” said Rebecca, “any one here, who, either for love of a good
cause, or for ample hire, will do the errand of a distressed being?”

All were silent; for none thought it safe, in the presence of the Grand
Master, to avow any interest in the calumniated prisoner, lest he
should be suspected of leaning towards Judaism. Not even the prospect
of reward, far less any feelings of compassion alone, could surmount
this apprehension.

Rebecca stood for a few moments in indescribable anxiety, and then
exclaimed, “Is it really thus?—And, in English land, am I to be
deprived of the poor chance of safety which remains to me, for want of
an act of charity which would not be refused to the worst criminal?”

Higg, the son of Snell, at length replied, “I am but a maimed man, but
that I can at all stir or move was owing to her charitable
assistance.—I will do thine errand,” he added, addressing Rebecca, “as
well as a crippled object can, and happy were my limbs fleet enough to
repair the mischief done by my tongue. Alas! when I boasted of thy
charity, I little thought I was leading thee into danger!”

“God,” said Rebecca, “is the disposer of all. He can turn back the
captivity of Judah, even by the weakest instrument. To execute his
message the snail is as sure a messenger as the falcon. Seek out Isaac
of York—here is that will pay for horse and man—let him have this
scroll.—I know not if it be of Heaven the spirit which inspires me, but
most truly do I judge that I am not to die this death, and that a
champion will be raised up for me. Farewell!—Life and death are in thy
haste.”

The peasant took the scroll, which contained only a few lines in
Hebrew. Many of the crowd would have dissuaded him from touching a
document so suspicious; but Higg was resolute in the service of his
benefactress. She had saved his body, he said, and he was confident she
did not mean to peril his soul.

“I will get me,” he said, “my neighbour Buthan’s good capul, 55 and I
will be at York within as brief space as man and beast may.”

But as it fortuned, he had no occasion to go so far, for within a
quarter of a mile from the gate of the Preceptory he met with two
riders, whom, by their dress and their huge yellow caps, he knew to be
Jews; and, on approaching more nearly, discovered that one of them was
his ancient employer, Isaac of York. The other was the Rabbi Ben
Samuel; and both had approached as near to the Preceptory as they
dared, on hearing that the Grand Master had summoned a chapter for the
trial of a sorceress.

“Brother Ben Samuel,” said Isaac, “my soul is disquieted, and I wot not
why. This charge of necromancy is right often used for cloaking evil
practices on our people.”

“Be of good comfort, brother,” said the physician; “thou canst deal
with the Nazarenes as one possessing the mammon of unrighteousness, and
canst therefore purchase immunity at their hands—it rules the savage
minds of those ungodly men, even as the signet of the mighty Solomon
was said to command the evil genii.—But what poor wretch comes hither
upon his crutches, desiring, as I think, some speech of me?—Friend,”
continued the physician, addressing Higg, the son of Snell, “I refuse
thee not the aid of mine art, but I relieve not with one asper those
who beg for alms upon the highway. Out upon thee!—Hast thou the palsy
in thy legs? then let thy hands work for thy livelihood; for, albeit
thou be’st unfit for a speedy post, or for a careful shepherd, or for
the warfare, or for the service of a hasty master, yet there be
occupations—How now, brother?” said he, interrupting his harangue to
look towards Isaac, who had but glanced at the scroll which Higg
offered, when, uttering a deep groan, he fell from his mule like a
dying man, and lay for a minute insensible.

The Rabbi now dismounted in great alarm, and hastily applied the
remedies which his art suggested for the recovery of his companion. He
had even taken from his pocket a cupping apparatus, and was about to
proceed to phlebotomy, when the object of his anxious solicitude
suddenly revived; but it was to dash his cap from his head, and to
throw dust on his grey hairs. The physician was at first inclined to
ascribe this sudden and violent emotion to the effects of insanity;
and, adhering to his original purpose, began once again to handle his
implements. But Isaac soon convinced him of his error.

“Child of my sorrow,” he said, “well shouldst thou be called Benoni,
instead of Rebecca! Why should thy death bring down my grey hairs to
the grave, till, in the bitterness of my heart, I curse God and die!”

“Brother,” said the Rabbi, in great surprise, “art thou a father in
Israel, and dost thou utter words like unto these?—I trust that the
child of thy house yet liveth?”

“She liveth,” answered Isaac; “but it is as Daniel, who was called
Beltheshazzar, even when within the den of the lions. She is captive
unto those men of Belial, and they will wreak their cruelty upon her,
sparing neither for her youth nor her comely favour. O! she was as a
crown of green palms to my grey locks; and she must wither in a night,
like the gourd of Jonah!—Child of my love!—child of my old age!—oh,
Rebecca, daughter of Rachel! the darkness of the shadow of death hath
encompassed thee.”

“Yet read the scroll,” said the Rabbi; “peradventure it may be that we
may yet find out a way of deliverance.”

“Do thou read, brother,” answered Isaac, “for mine eyes are as a
fountain of water.”

The physician read, but in their native language, the following words:—

“To Isaac, the son of Adonikam, whom the Gentiles call Isaac of York,
peace and the blessing of the promise be multiplied unto thee!—My
father, I am as one doomed to die for that which my soul knoweth
not—even for the crime of witchcraft. My father, if a strong man can be
found to do battle for my cause with sword and spear, according to the
custom of the Nazarenes, and that within the lists of Templestowe, on
the third day from this time, peradventure our fathers’ God will give
him strength to defend the innocent, and her who hath none to help her.
But if this may not be, let the virgins of our people mourn for me as
for one cast off, and for the hart that is stricken by the hunter, and
for the flower which is cut down by the scythe of the mower. Wherefore
look now what thou doest, and whether there be any rescue. One Nazarene
warrior might indeed bear arms in my behalf, even Wilfred, son of
Cedric, whom the Gentiles call Ivanhoe. But he may not yet endure the
weight of his armour. Nevertheless, send the tidings unto him, my
father; for he hath favour among the strong men of his people, and as
he was our companion in the house of bondage, he may find some one to
do battle for my sake. And say unto him, even unto him, even unto
Wilfred, the son of Cedric, that if Rebecca live, or if Rebecca die,
she liveth or dieth wholly free of the guilt she is charged withal. And
if it be the will of God that thou shalt be deprived of thy daughter,
do not thou tarry, old man, in this land of bloodshed and cruelty; but
betake thyself to Cordova, where thy brother liveth in safety, under
the shadow of the throne, even of the throne of Boabdil the Saracen;
for less cruel are the cruelties of the Moors unto the race of Jacob,
than the cruelties of the Nazarenes of England.”

Isaac listened with tolerable composure while Ben Samuel read the
letter, and then again resumed the gestures and exclamations of
Oriental sorrow, tearing his garments, besprinkling his head with dust,
and ejaculating, “My daughter! my daughter! flesh of my flesh, and bone
of my bone!”

“Yet,” said the Rabbi, “take courage, for this grief availeth nothing.
Gird up thy loins, and seek out this Wilfred, the son of Cedric. It may
be he will help thee with counsel or with strength; for the youth hath
favour in the eyes of Richard, called of the Nazarenes Cœur-de-Lion,
and the tidings that he hath returned are constant in the land. It may
be that he may obtain his letter, and his signet, commanding these men
of blood, who take their name from the Temple to the dishonour thereof,
that they proceed not in their purposed wickedness.”

“I will seek him out,” said Isaac, “for he is a good youth, and hath
compassion for the exile of Jacob. But he cannot bear his armour, and
what other Christian shall do battle for the oppressed of Zion?”

“Nay, but,” said the Rabbi, “thou speakest as one that knoweth not the
Gentiles. With gold shalt thou buy their valour, even as with gold thou
buyest thine own safety. Be of good courage, and do thou set forward to
find out this Wilfred of Ivanhoe. I will also up and be doing, for
great sin it were to leave thee in thy calamity. I will hie me to the
city of York, where many warriors and strong men are assembled, and
doubt not I will find among them some one who will do battle for thy
daughter; for gold is their god, and for riches will they pawn their
lives as well as their lands.—Thou wilt fulfil, my brother, such
promise as I may make unto them in thy name?”

“Assuredly, brother,” said Isaac, “and Heaven be praised that raised me
up a comforter in my misery. Howbeit, grant them not their full demand
at once, for thou shalt find it the quality of this accursed people
that they will ask pounds, and peradventure accept of
ounces—Nevertheless, be it as thou willest, for I am distracted in this
thing, and what would my gold avail me if the child of my love should
perish!”

“Farewell,” said the physician, “and may it be to thee as thy heart
desireth.”

They embraced accordingly, and departed on their several roads. The
crippled peasant remained for some time looking after them.

“These dog-Jews!” said he; “to take no more notice of a free
guild-brother, than if I were a bond slave or a Turk, or a circumcised
Hebrew like themselves! They might have flung me a mancus or two,
however. I was not obliged to bring their unhallowed scrawls, and run
the risk of being bewitched, as more folks than one told me. And what
care I for the bit of gold that the wench gave me, if I am to come to
harm from the priest next Easter at confession, and be obliged to give
him twice as much to make it up with him, and be called the Jew’s
flying post all my life, as it may hap, into the bargain? I think I was
bewitched in earnest when I was beside that girl!—But it was always so
with Jew or Gentile, whosoever came near her—none could stay when she
had an errand to go—and still, whenever I think of her, I would give
shop and tools to save her life.”




CHAPTER XXXIX


O maid, unrelenting and cold as thou art,
My bosom is proud as thine own.


SEWARD


It was in the twilight of the day when her trial, if it could be called
such, had taken place, that a low knock was heard at the door of
Rebecca’s prison-chamber. It disturbed not the inmate, who was then
engaged in the evening prayer recommended by her religion, and which
concluded with a hymn we have ventured thus to translate into English.

When Israel, of the Lord beloved,
    Out of the land of bondage came,
Her father’s God before her moved,
    An awful guide, in smoke and flame.
By day, along the astonish’d lands
    The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia’s crimson’d sands
    Return’d the fiery column’s glow.

There rose the choral hymn of praise,
    And trump and timbrel answer’d keen,
And Zion’s daughters pour’d their lays,
    With priest’s and warrior’s voice between.
No portents now our foes amaze,
    Forsaken Israel wanders lone;
Our fathers would not know THY ways,
    And THOU hast left them to their own.

But, present still, though now unseen;
    When brightly shines the prosperous day,
Be thoughts of THEE a cloudy screen
    To temper the deceitful ray.
And oh, when stoops on Judah’s path
    In shade and storm the frequent night,
Be THOU, long-suffering, slow to wrath,
    A burning, and a shining light!

Our harps we left by Babel’s streams,
    The tyrant’s jest, the Gentile’s scorn;
No censer round our altar beams,
    And mute our timbrel, trump, and horn.
But THOU hast said, the blood of goat,
    The flesh of rams, I will not prize;
A contrite heart, and humble thought,
    Are mine accepted sacrifice.


When the sounds of Rebecca’s devotional hymn had died away in silence,
the low knock at the door was again renewed. “Enter,” she said, “if
thou art a friend; and if a foe, I have not the means of refusing thy
entrance.”

“I am,” said Brian de Bois-Guilbert, entering the apartment, “friend or
foe, Rebecca, as the event of this interview shall make me.”

Alarmed at the sight of this man, whose licentious passion she
considered as the root of her misfortunes, Rebecca drew backward with a
cautious and alarmed, yet not a timorous demeanour, into the farthest
corner of the apartment, as if determined to retreat as far as she
could, but to stand her ground when retreat became no longer possible.
She drew herself into an attitude not of defiance, but of resolution,
as one that would avoid provoking assault, yet was resolute to repel
it, being offered, to the utmost of her power.

“You have no reason to fear me, Rebecca,” said the Templar; “or if I
must so qualify my speech, you have at least NOW no reason to fear me.”

“I fear you not, Sir Knight,” replied Rebecca, although her short-drawn
breath seemed to belie the heroism of her accents; “my trust is strong,
and I fear thee not.”

“You have no cause,” answered Bois-Guilbert, gravely; “my former
frantic attempts you have not now to dread. Within your call are
guards, over whom I have no authority. They are designed to conduct you
to death, Rebecca, yet would not suffer you to be insulted by any one,
even by me, were my frenzy—for frenzy it is—to urge me so far.”

“May Heaven be praised!” said the Jewess; “death is the least of my
apprehensions in this den of evil.”

“Ay,” replied the Templar, “the idea of death is easily received by the
courageous mind, when the road to it is sudden and open. A thrust with
a lance, a stroke with a sword, were to me little—To you, a spring from
a dizzy battlement, a stroke with a sharp poniard, has no terrors,
compared with what either thinks disgrace. Mark me—I say this—perhaps
mine own sentiments of honour are not less fantastic, Rebecca, than
thine are; but we know alike how to die for them.”

“Unhappy man,” said the Jewess; “and art thou condemned to expose thy
life for principles, of which thy sober judgment does not acknowledge
the solidity? Surely this is a parting with your treasure for that
which is not bread—but deem not so of me. Thy resolution may fluctuate
on the wild and changeful billows of human opinion, but mine is
anchored on the Rock of Ages.”

“Silence, maiden,” answered the Templar; “such discourse now avails but
little. Thou art condemned to die not a sudden and easy death, such as
misery chooses, and despair welcomes, but a slow, wretched, protracted
course of torture, suited to what the diabolical bigotry of these men
calls thy crime.”

“And to whom—if such my fate—to whom do I owe this?” said Rebecca
“surely only to him, who, for a most selfish and brutal cause, dragged
me hither, and who now, for some unknown purpose of his own, strives to
exaggerate the wretched fate to which he exposed me.”

“Think not,” said the Templar, “that I have so exposed thee; I would
have bucklered thee against such danger with my own bosom, as freely as
ever I exposed it to the shafts which had otherwise reached thy life.”

“Had thy purpose been the honourable protection of the innocent,” said
Rebecca, “I had thanked thee for thy care—as it is, thou hast claimed
merit for it so often, that I tell thee life is worth nothing to me,
preserved at the price which thou wouldst exact for it.”

“Truce with thine upbraidings, Rebecca,” said the Templar; “I have my
own cause of grief, and brook not that thy reproaches should add to
it.”

“What is thy purpose, then, Sir Knight?” said the Jewess; “speak it
briefly.—If thou hast aught to do, save to witness the misery thou hast
caused, let me know it; and then, if so it please you, leave me to
myself—the step between time and eternity is short but terrible, and I
have few moments to prepare for it.”

“I perceive, Rebecca,” said Bois-Guilbert, “that thou dost continue to
burden me with the charge of distresses, which most fain would I have
prevented.”

“Sir Knight,” said Rebecca, “I would avoid reproaches—But what is more
certain than that I owe my death to thine unbridled passion?”

“You err—you err,”—said the Templar, hastily, “if you impute what I
could neither foresee nor prevent to my purpose or agency.—Could I
guess the unexpected arrival of yon dotard, whom some flashes of
frantic valour, and the praises yielded by fools to the stupid
self-torments of an ascetic, have raised for the present above his own
merits, above common sense, above me, and above the hundreds of our
Order, who think and feel as men free from such silly and fantastic
prejudices as are the grounds of his opinions and actions?”

“Yet,” said Rebecca, “you sate a judge upon me, innocent—most
innocent—as you knew me to be—you concurred in my condemnation, and, if
I aright understood, are yourself to appear in arms to assert my guilt,
and assure my punishment.”

“Thy patience, maiden,” replied the Templar. “No race knows so well as
thine own tribes how to submit to the time, and so to trim their bark
as to make advantage even of an adverse wind.”

“Lamented be the hour,” said Rebecca, “that has taught such art to the
House of Israel! but adversity bends the heart as fire bends the
stubborn steel, and those who are no longer their own governors, and
the denizens of their own free independent state, must crouch before
strangers. It is our curse, Sir Knight, deserved, doubtless, by our own
misdeeds and those of our fathers; but you—you who boast your freedom
as your birthright, how much deeper is your disgrace when you stoop to
soothe the prejudices of others, and that against your own conviction?”

“Your words are bitter, Rebecca,” said Bois-Guilbert, pacing the
apartment with impatience, “but I came not hither to bandy reproaches
with you.—Know that Bois-Guilbert yields not to created man, although
circumstances may for a time induce him to alter his plan. His will is
the mountain stream, which may indeed be turned for a little space
aside by the rock, but fails not to find its course to the ocean. That
scroll which warned thee to demand a champion, from whom couldst thou
think it came, if not from Bois-Guilbert? In whom else couldst thou
have excited such interest?”

“A brief respite from instant death,” said Rebecca, “which will little
avail me—was this all thou couldst do for one, on whose head thou hast
heaped sorrow, and whom thou hast brought near even to the verge of the
tomb?”

“No maiden,” said Bois-Guilbert, “this was NOT all that I purposed. Had
it not been for the accursed interference of yon fanatical dotard, and
the fool of Goodalricke, who, being a Templar, affects to think and
judge according to the ordinary rules of humanity, the office of the
Champion Defender had devolved, not on a Preceptor, but on a Companion
of the Order. Then I myself—such was my purpose—had, on the sounding of
the trumpet, appeared in the lists as thy champion, disguised indeed in
the fashion of a roving knight, who seeks adventures to prove his
shield and spear; and then, let Beaumanoir have chosen not one, but two
or three of the brethren here assembled, I had not doubted to cast them
out of the saddle with my single lance. Thus, Rebecca, should thine
innocence have been avouched, and to thine own gratitude would I have
trusted for the reward of my victory.”

“This, Sir Knight,” said Rebecca, “is but idle boasting—a brag of what
you would have done had you not found it convenient to do otherwise.
You received my glove, and my champion, if a creature so desolate can
find one, must encounter your lance in the lists—yet you would assume
the air of my friend and protector!”

“Thy friend and protector,” said the Templar, gravely, “I will yet
be—but mark at what risk, or rather at what certainty, of dishonour;
and then blame me not if I make my stipulations, before I offer up all
that I have hitherto held dear, to save the life of a Jewish maiden.”

“Speak,” said Rebecca; “I understand thee not.”

“Well, then,” said Bois-Guilbert, “I will speak as freely as ever did
doting penitent to his ghostly father, when placed in the tricky
confessional.—Rebecca, if I appear not in these lists I lose fame and
rank—lose that which is the breath of my nostrils, the esteem, I mean,
in which I am held by my brethren, and the hopes I have of succeeding
to that mighty authority, which is now wielded by the bigoted dotard
Lucas de Beaumanoir, but of which I should make a different use. Such
is my certain doom, except I appear in arms against thy cause. Accursed
be he of Goodalricke, who baited this trap for me! and doubly accursed
Albert de Malvoisin, who withheld me from the resolution I had formed,
of hurling back the glove at the face of the superstitious and
superannuated fool, who listened to a charge so absurd, and against a
creature so high in mind, and so lovely in form as thou art!”

“And what now avails rant or flattery?” answered Rebecca. “Thou hast
made thy choice between causing to be shed the blood of an innocent
woman, or of endangering thine own earthly state and earthly hopes—What
avails it to reckon together?—thy choice is made.”

“No, Rebecca,” said the knight, in a softer tone, and drawing nearer
towards her; “my choice is NOT made—nay, mark, it is thine to make the
election. If I appear in the lists, I must maintain my name in arms;
and if I do so, championed or unchampioned, thou diest by the stake and
faggot, for there lives not the knight who hath coped with me in arms
on equal issue, or on terms of vantage, save Richard Cœur-de-Lion, and
his minion of Ivanhoe. Ivanhoe, as thou well knowest, is unable to bear
his corslet, and Richard is in a foreign prison. If I appear, then thou
diest, even although thy charms should instigate some hot-headed youth
to enter the lists in thy defence.”

“And what avails repeating this so often?” said Rebecca.

“Much,” replied the Templar; “for thou must learn to look at thy fate
on every side.”

“Well, then, turn the tapestry,” said the Jewess, “and let me see the
other side.”

“If I appear,” said Bois-Guilbert, “in the fatal lists, thou diest by a
slow and cruel death, in pain such as they say is destined to the
guilty hereafter. But if I appear not, then am I a degraded and
dishonoured knight, accused of witchcraft and of communion with
infidels—the illustrious name which has grown yet more so under my
wearing, becomes a hissing and a reproach. I lose fame, I lose honour,
I lose the prospect of such greatness as scarce emperors attain to—I
sacrifice mighty ambition, I destroy schemes built as high as the
mountains with which heathens say their heaven was once nearly
scaled—and yet, Rebecca,” he added, throwing himself at her feet, “this
greatness will I sacrifice, this fame will I renounce, this power will
I forego, even now when it is half within my grasp, if thou wilt say,
Bois-Guilbert, I receive thee for my lover.”

“Think not of such foolishness, Sir Knight,” answered Rebecca, “but
hasten to the Regent, the Queen Mother, and to Prince John—they cannot,
in honour to the English crown, allow of the proceedings of your Grand
Master. So shall you give me protection without sacrifice on your part,
or the pretext of requiring any requital from me.”

“With these I deal not,” he continued, holding the train of her
robe—“it is thee only I address; and what can counterbalance thy
choice? Bethink thee, were I a fiend, yet death is a worse, and it is
death who is my rival.”

“I weigh not these evils,” said Rebecca, afraid to provoke the wild
knight, yet equally determined neither to endure his passion, nor even
feign to endure it. “Be a man, be a Christian! If indeed thy faith
recommends that mercy which rather your tongues than your actions
pretend, save me from this dreadful death, without seeking a requital
which would change thy magnanimity into base barter.”

“No, damsel!” said the proud Templar, springing up, “thou shalt not
thus impose on me—if I renounce present fame and future ambition, I
renounce it for thy sake, and we will escape in company. Listen to me,
Rebecca,” he said, again softening his tone; “England,—Europe,—is not
the world. There are spheres in which we may act, ample enough even for
my ambition. We will go to Palestine, where Conrade, Marquis of
Montserrat, is my friend—a friend free as myself from the doting
scruples which fetter our free-born reason—rather with Saladin will we
league ourselves, than endure the scorn of the bigots whom we
contemn.—I will form new paths to greatness,” he continued, again
traversing the room with hasty strides—“Europe shall hear the loud step
of him she has driven from her sons!—Not the millions whom her
crusaders send to slaughter, can do so much to defend Palestine—not the
sabres of the thousands and ten thousands of Saracens can hew their way
so deep into that land for which nations are striving, as the strength
and policy of me and those brethren, who, in despite of yonder old
bigot, will adhere to me in good and evil. Thou shalt be a queen,
Rebecca—on Mount Carmel shall we pitch the throne which my valour will
gain for you, and I will exchange my long-desired batoon for a
sceptre!”

“A dream,” said Rebecca; “an empty vision of the night, which, were it
a waking reality, affects me not. Enough, that the power which thou
mightest acquire, I will never share; nor hold I so light of country or
religious faith, as to esteem him who is willing to barter these ties,
and cast away the bonds of the Order of which he is a sworn member, in
order to gratify an unruly passion for the daughter of another
people.—Put not a price on my deliverance, Sir Knight—sell not a deed
of generosity—protect the oppressed for the sake of charity, and not
for a selfish advantage—Go to the throne of England; Richard will
listen to my appeal from these cruel men.”

“Never, Rebecca!” said the Templar, fiercely. “If I renounce my Order,
for thee alone will I renounce it—Ambition shall remain mine, if thou
refuse my love; I will not be fooled on all hands.—Stoop my crest to
Richard?—ask a boon of that heart of pride?—Never, Rebecca, will I
place the Order of the Temple at his feet in my person. I may forsake
the Order, I never will degrade or betray it.”

“Now God be gracious to me,” said Rebecca, “for the succour of man is
well-nigh hopeless!”

“It is indeed,” said the Templar; “for, proud as thou art, thou hast in
me found thy match. If I enter the lists with my spear in rest, think
not any human consideration shall prevent my putting forth my strength;
and think then upon thine own fate—to die the dreadful death of the
worst of criminals—to be consumed upon a blazing pile—dispersed to the
elements of which our strange forms are so mystically composed—not a
relic left of that graceful frame, from which we could say this lived
and moved!—Rebecca, it is not in woman to sustain this prospect—thou
wilt yield to my suit.”

“Bois-Guilbert,” answered the Jewess, “thou knowest not the heart of
woman, or hast only conversed with those who are lost to her best
feelings. I tell thee, proud Templar, that not in thy fiercest battles
hast thou displayed more of thy vaunted courage, than has been shown by
woman when called upon to suffer by affection or duty. I am myself a
woman, tenderly nurtured, naturally fearful of danger, and impatient of
pain—yet, when we enter those fatal lists, thou to fight and I to
suffer, I feel the strong assurance within me, that my courage shall
mount higher than thine. Farewell—I waste no more words on thee; the
time that remains on earth to the daughter of Jacob must be otherwise
spent—she must seek the Comforter, who may hide his face from his
people, but who ever opens his ear to the cry of those who seek him in
sincerity and in truth.”

“We part then thus?” said the Templar, after a short pause; “would to
Heaven that we had never met, or that thou hadst been noble in birth
and Christian in faith!—Nay, by Heaven! when I gaze on thee, and think
when and how we are next to meet, I could even wish myself one of thine
own degraded nation; my hand conversant with ingots and shekels,
instead of spear and shield; my head bent down before each petty noble,
and my look only terrible to the shivering and bankrupt debtor—this
could I wish, Rebecca, to be near to thee in life, and to escape the
fearful share I must have in thy death.”

“Thou hast spoken the Jew,” said Rebecca, “as the persecution of such
as thou art has made him. Heaven in ire has driven him from his
country, but industry has opened to him the only road to power and to
influence, which oppression has left unbarred. Read the ancient history
of the people of God, and tell me if those, by whom Jehovah wrought
such marvels among the nations, were then a people of misers and of
usurers!—And know, proud knight, we number names amongst us to which
your boasted northern nobility is as the gourd compared with the
cedar—names that ascend far back to those high times when the Divine
Presence shook the mercy-seat between the cherubim, and which derive
their splendour from no earthly prince, but from the awful Voice, which
bade their fathers be nearest of the congregation to the Vision—Such
were the princes of the House of Jacob.”

Rebecca’s colour rose as she boasted the ancient glories of her race,
but faded as she added, with at sigh, “Such WERE the princes of Judah,
now such no more!—They are trampled down like the shorn grass, and
mixed with the mire of the ways. Yet are there those among them who
shame not such high descent, and of such shall be the daughter of Isaac
the son of Adonikam! Farewell!—I envy not thy blood-won honours—I envy
not thy barbarous descent from northern heathens—I envy thee not thy
faith, which is ever in thy mouth, but never in thy heart nor in thy
practice.”

“There is a spell on me, by Heaven!” said Bois-Guilbert. “I almost
think yon besotted skeleton spoke truth, and that the reluctance with
which I part from thee hath something in it more than is natural.—Fair
creature!” he said, approaching near her, but with great respect,—“so
young, so beautiful, so fearless of death! and yet doomed to die, and
with infamy and agony. Who would not weep for thee?—The tear, that has
been a stranger to these eyelids for twenty years, moistens them as I
gaze on thee. But it must be—nothing may now save thy life. Thou and I
are but the blind instruments of some irresistible fatality, that
hurries us along, like goodly vessels driving before the storm, which
are dashed against each other, and so perish. Forgive me, then, and let
us part, at least, as friends part. I have assailed thy resolution in
vain, and mine own is fixed as the adamantine decrees of fate.”

“Thus,” said Rebecca, “do men throw on fate the issue of their own wild
passions. But I do forgive thee, Bois-Guilbert, though the author of my
early death. There are noble things which cross over thy powerful mind;
but it is the garden of the sluggard, and the weeds have rushed up, and
conspired to choke the fair and wholesome blossom.”

“Yes,” said the Templar, “I am, Rebecca, as thou hast spoken me,
untaught, untamed—and proud, that, amidst a shoal of empty fools and
crafty bigots, I have retained the preeminent fortitude that places me
above them. I have been a child of battle from my youth upward, high in
my views, steady and inflexible in pursuing them. Such must I
remain—proud, inflexible, and unchanging; and of this the world shall
have proof.—But thou forgivest me, Rebecca?”

“As freely as ever victim forgave her executioner.”

“Farewell, then,” said the Templar, and left the apartment.

The Preceptor Albert waited impatiently in an adjacent chamber the
return of Bois-Guilbert.

“Thou hast tarried long,” he said; “I have been as if stretched on
red-hot iron with very impatience. What if the Grand Master, or his spy
Conrade, had come hither? I had paid dear for my complaisance.—But what
ails thee, brother?—Thy step totters, thy brow is as black as night.
Art thou well, Bois-Guilbert?”

“Ay,” answered the Templar, “as well as the wretch who is doomed to die
within an hour.—Nay, by the rood, not half so well—for there be those
in such state, who can lay down life like a cast-off garment. By
Heaven, Malvoisin, yonder girl hath well-nigh unmanned me. I am half
resolved to go to the Grand Master, abjure the Order to his very teeth,
and refuse to act the brutality which his tyranny has imposed on me.”

“Thou art mad,” answered Malvoisin; “thou mayst thus indeed utterly
ruin thyself, but canst not even find a chance thereby to save the life
of this Jewess, which seems so precious in thine eyes. Beaumanoir will
name another of the Order to defend his judgment in thy place, and the
accused will as assuredly perish as if thou hadst taken the duty
imposed on thee.”

“’Tis false—I will myself take arms in her behalf,” answered the
Templar, haughtily; “and, should I do so, I think, Malvoisin, that thou
knowest not one of the Order, who will keep his saddle before the point
of my lance.”

“Ay, but thou forgettest,” said the wily adviser, “thou wilt have
neither leisure nor opportunity to execute this mad project. Go to
Lucas Beaumanoir, and say thou hast renounced thy vow of obedience, and
see how long the despotic old man will leave thee in personal freedom.
The words shall scarce have left thy lips, ere thou wilt either be an
hundred feet under ground, in the dungeon of the Preceptory, to abide
trial as a recreant knight; or, if his opinion holds concerning thy
possession, thou wilt be enjoying straw, darkness, and chains, in some
distant convent cell, stunned with exorcisms, and drenched with holy
water, to expel the foul fiend which hath obtained dominion over thee.
Thou must to the lists, Brian, or thou art a lost and dishonoured man.”

“I will break forth and fly,” said Bois-Guilbert—“fly to some distant
land, to which folly and fanaticism have not yet found their way. No
drop of the blood of this most excellent creature shall be spilled by
my sanction.”

“Thou canst not fly,” said the Preceptor; “thy ravings have excited
suspicion, and thou wilt not be permitted to leave the Preceptory. Go
and make the essay—present thyself before the gate, and command the
bridge to be lowered, and mark what answer thou shalt receive.—Thou are
surprised and offended; but is it not the better for thee? Wert thou to
fly, what would ensue but the reversal of thy arms, the dishonour of
thine ancestry, the degradation of thy rank?—Think on it. Where shall
thine old companions in arms hide their heads when Brian de
Bois-Guilbert, the best lance of the Templars, is proclaimed recreant,
amid the hisses of the assembled people? What grief will be at the
Court of France! With what joy will the haughty Richard hear the news,
that the knight that set him hard in Palestine, and well-nigh darkened
his renown, has lost fame and honour for a Jewish girl, whom he could
not even save by so costly a sacrifice!”

“Malvoisin,” said the Knight, “I thank thee—thou hast touched the
string at which my heart most readily thrills!—Come of it what may,
recreant shall never be added to the name of Bois-Guilbert. Would to
God, Richard, or any of his vaunting minions of England, would appear
in these lists! But they will be empty—no one will risk to break a
lance for the innocent, the forlorn.”

“The better for thee, if it prove so,” said the Preceptor; “if no
champion appears, it is not by thy means that this unlucky damsel shall
die, but by the doom of the Grand Master, with whom rests all the
blame, and who will count that blame for praise and commendation.”

“True,” said Bois-Guilbert; “if no champion appears, I am but a part of
the pageant, sitting indeed on horseback in the lists, but having no
part in what is to follow.”

“None whatever,” said Malvoisin; “no more than the armed image of Saint
George when it makes part of a procession.”

“Well, I will resume my resolution,” replied the haughty Templar. “She
has despised me—repulsed me—reviled me—And wherefore should I offer up
for her whatever of estimation I have in the opinion of others?
Malvoisin, I will appear in the lists.”

He left the apartment hastily as he uttered these words, and the
Preceptor followed, to watch and confirm him in his resolution; for in
Bois-Guilbert’s fame he had himself a strong interest, expecting much
advantage from his being one day at the head of the Order, not to
mention the preferment of which Mont-Fitchet had given him hopes, on
condition he would forward the condemnation of the unfortunate Rebecca.
Yet although, in combating his friend’s better feelings, he possessed
all the advantage which a wily, composed, selfish disposition has over
a man agitated by strong and contending passions, it required all
Malvoisin’s art to keep Bois-Guilbert steady to the purpose he had
prevailed on him to adopt. He was obliged to watch him closely to
prevent his resuming his purpose of flight, to intercept his
communication with the Grand Master, lest he should come to an open
rupture with his Superior, and to renew, from time to time, the various
arguments by which he endeavoured to show, that, in appearing as
champion on this occasion, Bois-Guilbert, without either accelerating
or ensuring the fate of Rebecca, would follow the only course by which
he could save himself from degradation and disgrace.




CHAPTER XL


Shadows avaunt!—Richard’s himself again.


RICHARD III


When the Black Knight—for it becomes necessary to resume the train of
his adventures—left the Trysting-tree of the generous Outlaw, he held
his way straight to a neighbouring religious house, of small extent and
revenue, called the Priory of Saint Botolph, to which the wounded
Ivanhoe had been removed when the castle was taken, under the guidance
of the faithful Gurth, and the magnanimous Wamba. It is unnecessary at
present to mention what took place in the interim betwixt Wilfred and
his deliverer; suffice it to say, that after long and grave
communication, messengers were dispatched by the Prior in several
directions, and that on the succeeding morning the Black Knight was
about to set forth on his journey, accompanied by the jester Wamba, who
attended as his guide.

“We will meet,” he said to Ivanhoe, “at Coningsburgh, the castle of the
deceased Athelstane, since there thy father Cedric holds the funeral
feast for his noble relation. I would see your Saxon kindred together,
Sir Wilfred, and become better acquainted with them than heretofore.
Thou also wilt meet me; and it shall be my task to reconcile thee to
thy father.”

So saying, he took an affectionate farewell of Ivanhoe, who expressed
an anxious desire to attend upon his deliverer. But the Black Knight
would not listen to the proposal.

“Rest this day; thou wilt have scarce strength enough to travel on the
next. I will have no guide with me but honest Wamba, who can play
priest or fool as I shall be most in the humour.”

“And I,” said Wamba, “will attend you with all my heart. I would fain
see the feasting at the funeral of Athelstane; for, if it be not full
and frequent, he will rise from the dead to rebuke cook, sewer, and
cupbearer; and that were a sight worth seeing. Always, Sir Knight, I
will trust your valour with making my excuse to my master Cedric, in
case mine own wit should fail.”

“And how should my poor valour succeed, Sir Jester, when thy light wit
halts?—resolve me that.”

“Wit, Sir Knight,” replied the Jester, “may do much. He is a quick,
apprehensive knave, who sees his neighbours blind side, and knows how
to keep the lee-gage when his passions are blowing high. But valour is
a sturdy fellow, that makes all split. He rows against both wind and
tide, and makes way notwithstanding; and, therefore, good Sir Knight,
while I take advantage of the fair weather in our noble master’s
temper, I will expect you to bestir yourself when it grows rough.”

“Sir Knight of the Fetterlock, since it is your pleasure so to be
distinguished,” said Ivanhoe, “I fear me you have chosen a talkative
and a troublesome fool to be your guide. But he knows every path and
alley in the woods as well as e’er a hunter who frequents them; and the
poor knave, as thou hast partly seen, is as faithful as steel.”

“Nay,” said the Knight, “an he have the gift of showing my road, I
shall not grumble with him that he desires to make it pleasant.—Fare
thee well, kind Wilfred—I charge thee not to attempt to travel till
to-morrow at earliest.”

So saying, he extended his hand to Ivanhoe, who pressed it to his lips,
took leave of the Prior, mounted his horse, and departed, with Wamba
for his companion. Ivanhoe followed them with his eyes, until they were
lost in the shades of the surrounding forest, and then returned into
the convent.

But shortly after matin-song, he requested to see the Prior. The old
man came in haste, and enquired anxiously after the state of his
health.

“It is better,” he said, “than my fondest hope could have anticipated;
either my wound has been slighter than the effusion of blood led me to
suppose, or this balsam hath wrought a wonderful cure upon it. I feel
already as if I could bear my corslet; and so much the better, for
thoughts pass in my mind which render me unwilling to remain here
longer in inactivity.”

“Now, the saints forbid,” said the Prior, “that the son of the Saxon
Cedric should leave our convent ere his wounds were healed! It were
shame to our profession were we to suffer it.”

“Nor would I desire to leave your hospitable roof, venerable father,”
said Ivanhoe, “did I not feel myself able to endure the journey, and
compelled to undertake it.”

“And what can have urged you to so sudden a departure?” said the Prior.

“Have you never, holy father,” answered the Knight, “felt an
apprehension of approaching evil, for which you in vain attempted to
assign a cause?—Have you never found your mind darkened, like the sunny
landscape, by the sudden cloud, which augurs a coming tempest?—And
thinkest thou not that such impulses are deserving of attention, as
being the hints of our guardian spirits, that danger is impending?”

“I may not deny,” said the Prior, crossing himself, “that such things
have been, and have been of Heaven; but then such communications have
had a visibly useful scope and tendency. But thou, wounded as thou art,
what avails it thou shouldst follow the steps of him whom thou couldst
not aid, were he to be assaulted?”

“Prior,” said Ivanhoe, “thou dost mistake—I am stout enough to exchange
buffets with any who will challenge me to such a traffic—But were it
otherwise, may I not aid him were he in danger, by other means than by
force of arms? It is but too well known that the Saxons love not the
Norman race, and who knows what may be the issue, if he break in upon
them when their hearts are irritated by the death of Athelstane, and
their heads heated by the carousal in which they will indulge
themselves? I hold his entrance among them at such a moment most
perilous, and I am resolved to share or avert the danger; which, that I
may the better do, I would crave of thee the use of some palfrey whose
pace may be softer than that of my ‘destrier’.” 56

“Surely,” said the worthy churchman; “you shall have mine own ambling
jennet, and I would it ambled as easy for your sake as that of the
Abbot of Saint Albans. Yet this will I say for Malkin, for so I call
her, that unless you were to borrow a ride on the juggler’s steed that
paces a hornpipe amongst the eggs, you could not go a journey on a
creature so gentle and smooth-paced. I have composed many a homily on
her back, to the edification of my brethren of the convent, and many
poor Christian souls.”

“I pray you, reverend father,” said Ivanhoe, “let Malkin be got ready
instantly, and bid Gurth attend me with mine arms.”

“Nay, but fair sir,” said the Prior, “I pray you to remember that
Malkin hath as little skill in arms as her master, and that I warrant
not her enduring the sight or weight of your full panoply. O, Malkin, I
promise you, is a beast of judgment, and will contend against any undue
weight—I did but borrow the ‘Fructus Temporum’ from the priest of Saint
Bees, and I promise you she would not stir from the gate until I had
exchanged the huge volume for my little breviary.”

“Trust me, holy father,” said Ivanhoe, “I will not distress her with
too much weight; and if she calls a combat with me, it is odds but she
has the worst.”

This reply was made while Gurth was buckling on the Knight’s heels a
pair of large gilded spurs, capable of convincing any restive horse
that his best safety lay in being conformable to the will of his rider.

The deep and sharp rowels with which Ivanhoe’s heels were now armed,
began to make the worthy Prior repent of his courtesy, and
ejaculate,—“Nay, but fair sir, now I bethink me, my Malkin abideth not
the spur—Better it were that you tarry for the mare of our manciple
down at the Grange, which may be had in little more than an hour, and
cannot but be tractable, in respect that she draweth much of our winter
fire-wood, and eateth no corn.”

“I thank you, reverend father, but will abide by your first offer, as I
see Malkin is already led forth to the gate. Gurth shall carry mine
armour; and for the rest, rely on it, that as I will not overload
Malkin’s back, she shall not overcome my patience. And now, farewell!”

Ivanhoe now descended the stairs more hastily and easily than his wound
promised, and threw himself upon the jennet, eager to escape the
importunity of the Prior, who stuck as closely to his side as his age
and fatness would permit, now singing the praises of Malkin, now
recommending caution to the Knight in managing her.

“She is at the most dangerous period for maidens as well as mares,”
said the old man, laughing at his own jest, “being barely in her
fifteenth year.”

Ivanhoe, who had other web to weave than to stand canvassing a
palfrey’s paces with its owner, lent but a deaf ear to the Prior’s
grave advices and facetious jests, and having leapt on his mare, and
commanded his squire (for such Gurth now called himself) to keep close
by his side, he followed the track of the Black Knight into the forest,
while the Prior stood at the gate of the convent looking after him, and
ejaculating,—“Saint Mary! how prompt and fiery be these men of war! I
would I had not trusted Malkin to his keeping, for, crippled as I am
with the cold rheum, I am undone if aught but good befalls her. And
yet,” said he, recollecting himself, “as I would not spare my own old
and disabled limbs in the good cause of Old England, so Malkin must
e’en run her hazard on the same venture; and it may be they will think
our poor house worthy of some munificent guerdon—or, it may be, they
will send the old Prior a pacing nag. And if they do none of these, as
great men will forget little men’s service, truly I shall hold me well
repaid in having done that which is right. And it is now well-nigh the
fitting time to summon the brethren to breakfast in the refectory—Ah! I
doubt they obey that call more cheerily than the bells for primes and
matins.”

So the Prior of Saint Botolph’s hobbled back again into the refectory,
to preside over the stockfish and ale, which was just serving out for
the friars’ breakfast. Busy and important, he sat him down at the
table, and many a dark word he threw out, of benefits to be expected to
the convent, and high deeds of service done by himself, which, at
another season, would have attracted observation. But as the stockfish
was highly salted, and the ale reasonably powerful, the jaws of the
brethren were too anxiously employed to admit of their making much use
of their ears; nor do we read of any of the fraternity, who was tempted
to speculate upon the mysterious hints of their Superior, except Father
Diggory, who was severely afflicted by the toothache, so that he could
only eat on one side of his jaws.

In the meantime, the Black Champion and his guide were pacing at their
leisure through the recesses of the forest; the good Knight whiles
humming to himself the lay of some enamoured troubadour, sometimes
encouraging by questions the prating disposition of his attendant, so
that their dialogue formed a whimsical mixture of song and jest, of
which we would fain give our readers some idea. You are then to imagine
this Knight, such as we have already described him, strong of person,
tall, broad-shouldered, and large of bone, mounted on his mighty black
charger, which seemed made on purpose to bear his weight, so easily he
paced forward under it, having the visor of his helmet raised, in order
to admit freedom of breath, yet keeping the beaver, or under part,
closed, so that his features could be but imperfectly distinguished.
But his ruddy embrowned cheek-bones could be plainly seen, and the
large and bright blue eyes, that flashed from under the dark shade of
the raised visor; and the whole gesture and look of the champion
expressed careless gaiety and fearless confidence—a mind which was
unapt to apprehend danger, and prompt to defy it when most imminent—yet
with whom danger was a familiar thought, as with one whose trade was
war and adventure.

The Jester wore his usual fantastic habit, but late accidents had led
him to adopt a good cutting falchion, instead of his wooden sword, with
a targe to match it; of both which weapons he had, notwithstanding his
profession, shown himself a skilful master during the storming of
Torquilstone. Indeed, the infirmity of Wamba’s brain consisted chiefly
in a kind of impatient irritability, which suffered him not long to
remain quiet in any posture, or adhere to any certain train of ideas,
although he was for a few minutes alert enough in performing any
immediate task, or in apprehending any immediate topic. On horseback,
therefore, he was perpetually swinging himself backwards and forwards,
now on the horse’s ears, then anon on the very rump of the animal,—now
hanging both his legs on one side, and now sitting with his face to the
tail, moping, mowing, and making a thousand apish gestures, until his
palfrey took his freaks so much to heart, as fairly to lay him at his
length on the green grass—an incident which greatly amused the Knight,
but compelled his companion to ride more steadily thereafter.

At the point of their journey at which we take them up, this joyous
pair were engaged in singing a virelai, as it was called, in which the
clown bore a mellow burden, to the better instructed Knight of the
Fetterlock. And thus run the ditty:—

Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun,
Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun,
Mists are dispersing, love, birds singing free,
Up in the morning, love, Anna-Marie.
Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn,
The hunter is winding blithe sounds on his horn,
The echo rings merry from rock and from tree,
’Tis time to arouse thee, love, Anna-Marie.


Wamba.

O Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet,
Around my soft pillow while softer dreams flit,
For what are the joys that in waking we prove,
Compared with these visions, O, Tybalt, my love?
Let the birds to the rise of the mist carol shrill,
Let the hunter blow out his loud horn on the hill,
Softer sounds, softer pleasures, in slumber I prove,—
But think not I dreamt of thee, Tybalt, my love.


“A dainty song,” said Wamba, when they had finished their carol, “and I
swear by my bauble, a pretty moral!—I used to sing it with Gurth, once
my playfellow, and now, by the grace of God and his master, no less
than a freemen; and we once came by the cudgel for being so entranced
by the melody, that we lay in bed two hours after sunrise, singing the
ditty betwixt sleeping and waking—my bones ache at thinking of the tune
ever since. Nevertheless, I have played the part of Anna-Marie, to
please you, fair sir.”

The Jester next struck into another carol, a sort of comic ditty, to
which the Knight, catching up the tune, replied in the like manner.

Knight and Wamba.

There came three merry men from south, west, and north,
    Ever more sing the roundelay;
To win the Widow of Wycombe forth,
    And where was the widow might say them nay?

The first was a knight, and from Tynedale he came,
    Ever more sing the roundelay;
And his fathers, God save us, were men of great fame,
    And where was the widow might say him nay?

Of his father the laird, of his uncle the squire,
    He boasted in rhyme and in roundelay;
She bade him go bask by his sea-coal fire,
    For she was the widow would say him nay.


Wamba.

The next that came forth, swore by blood and by nails,
    Merrily sing the roundelay;
Hur’s a gentleman, God wot, and hur’s lineage was of Wales,
    And where was the widow might say him nay?

Sir David ap Morgan ap Griffith ap Hugh
    Ap Tudor ap Rhice, quoth his roundelay
She said that one widow for so many was too few,
    And she bade the Welshman wend his way.

But then next came a yeoman, a yeoman of Kent,
    Jollily singing his roundelay;
He spoke to the widow of living and rent,
    And where was the widow could say him nay?


Both.

So the knight and the squire were both left in the mire,
    There for to sing their roundelay;
For a yeoman of Kent, with his yearly rent,
    There never was a widow could say him nay.


“I would, Wamba,” said the knight, “that our host of the Trysting-tree,
or the jolly Friar, his chaplain, heard this thy ditty in praise of our
bluff yeoman.”

“So would not I,” said Wamba—“but for the horn that hangs at your
baldric.”

“Ay,” said the Knight,—“this is a pledge of Locksley’s goodwill, though
I am not like to need it. Three mots on this bugle will, I am assured,
bring round, at our need, a jolly band of yonder honest yeomen.”

“I would say, Heaven forefend,” said the Jester, “were it not that that
fair gift is a pledge they would let us pass peaceably.”

“Why, what meanest thou?” said the Knight; “thinkest thou that but for
this pledge of fellowship they would assault us?”

“Nay, for me I say nothing,” said Wamba; “for green trees have ears as
well as stone walls. But canst thou construe me this, Sir Knight—When
is thy wine-pitcher and thy purse better empty than full?”

“Why, never, I think,” replied the Knight.

“Thou never deservest to have a full one in thy hand, for so simple an
answer! Thou hadst best empty thy pitcher ere thou pass it to a Saxon,
and leave thy money at home ere thou walk in the greenwood.”

“You hold our friends for robbers, then?” said the Knight of the
Fetterlock.

“You hear me not say so, fair sir,” said Wamba; “it may relieve a man’s
steed to take of his mail when he hath a long journey to make; and,
certes, it may do good to the rider’s soul to ease him of that which is
the root of evil; therefore will I give no hard names to those who do
such services. Only I would wish my mail at home, and my purse in my
chamber, when I meet with these good fellows, because it might save
them some trouble.”

“WE are bound to pray for them, my friend, notwithstanding the fair
character thou dost afford them.”

“Pray for them with all my heart,” said Wamba; “but in the town, not in
the greenwood, like the Abbot of Saint Bees, whom they caused to say
mass with an old hollow oak-tree for his stall.”

“Say as thou list, Wamba,” replied the Knight, “these yeomen did thy
master Cedric yeomanly service at Torquilstone.”

“Ay, truly,” answered Wamba; “but that was in the fashion of their
trade with Heaven.”

“Their trade, Wamba! how mean you by that?” replied his companion.

“Marry, thus,” said the Jester. “They make up a balanced account with
Heaven, as our old cellarer used to call his ciphering, as fair as
Isaac the Jew keeps with his debtors, and, like him, give out a very
little, and take large credit for doing so; reckoning, doubtless, on
their own behalf the seven-fold usury which the blessed text hath
promised to charitable loans.”

“Give me an example of your meaning, Wamba,—I know nothing of ciphers
or rates of usage,” answered the Knight.

“Why,” said Wamba, “an your valour be so dull, you will please to learn
that those honest fellows balance a good deed with one not quite so
laudable; as a crown given to a begging friar with an hundred byzants
taken from a fat abbot, or a wench kissed in the greenwood with the
relief of a poor widow.”

“Which of these was the good deed, which was the felony?” interrupted
the Knight.

“A good gibe! a good gibe!” said Wamba; “keeping witty company
sharpeneth the apprehension. You said nothing so well, Sir Knight, I
will be sworn, when you held drunken vespers with the bluff Hermit.—But
to go on. The merry-men of the forest set off the building of a cottage
with the burning of a castle,—the thatching of a choir against the
robbing of a church,—the setting free a poor prisoner against the
murder of a proud sheriff; or, to come nearer to our point, the
deliverance of a Saxon franklin against the burning alive of a Norman
baron. Gentle thieves they are, in short, and courteous robbers; but it
is ever the luckiest to meet with them when they are at the worst.”

“How so, Wamba?” said the Knight.

“Why, then they have some compunction, and are for making up matters
with Heaven. But when they have struck an even balance, Heaven help
them with whom they next open the account! The travellers who first met
them after their good service at Torquilstone would have a woeful
flaying.—And yet,” said Wamba, coming close up to the Knight’s side,
“there be companions who are far more dangerous for travellers to meet
than yonder outlaws.”

“And who may they be, for you have neither bears nor wolves, I trow?”
said the Knight.

“Marry, sir, but we have Malvoisin’s men-at-arms,” said Wamba; “and let
me tell you, that, in time of civil war, a halfscore of these is worth
a band of wolves at any time. They are now expecting their harvest, and
are reinforced with the soldiers that escaped from Torquilstone. So
that, should we meet with a band of them, we are like to pay for our
feats of arms.—Now, I pray you, Sir Knight, what would you do if we met
two of them?”

“Pin the villains to the earth with my lance, Wamba, if they offered us
any impediment.”

“But what if there were four of them?”

“They should drink of the same cup,” answered the Knight.

“What if six,” continued Wamba, “and we as we now are, barely two—would
you not remember Locksley’s horn?”

“What! sound for aid,” exclaimed the Knight, “against a score of such
‘rascaille’ as these, whom one good knight could drive before him, as
the wind drives the withered leaves?”

“Nay, then,” said Wamba, “I will pray you for a close sight of that
same horn that hath so powerful a breath.”

The Knight undid the clasp of the baldric, and indulged his
fellow-traveller, who immediately hung the bugle round his own neck.

“Tra-lira-la,” said he, whistling the notes; “nay, I know my gamut as
well as another.”

“How mean you, knave?” said the Knight; “restore me the bugle.”

“Content you, Sir Knight, it is in safe keeping. When Valour and Folly
travel, Folly should bear the horn, because she can blow the best.”

“Nay but, rogue,” said the Black Knight, “this exceedeth thy
license—Beware ye tamper not with my patience.”

“Urge me not with violence, Sir Knight,” said the Jester, keeping at a
distance from the impatient champion, “or Folly will show a clean pair
of heels, and leave Valour to find out his way through the wood as best
he may.”

“Nay, thou hast hit me there,” said the Knight; “and, sooth to say, I
have little time to jangle with thee. Keep the horn an thou wilt, but
let us proceed on our journey.”

“You will not harm me, then?” said Wamba.

“I tell thee no, thou knave!”

“Ay, but pledge me your knightly word for it,” continued Wamba, as he
approached with great caution.

“My knightly word I pledge; only come on with thy foolish self.”

“Nay, then, Valour and Folly are once more boon companions,” said the
Jester, coming up frankly to the Knight’s side; “but, in truth, I love
not such buffets as that you bestowed on the burly Friar, when his
holiness rolled on the green like a king of the nine-pins. And now that
Folly wears the horn, let Valour rouse himself, and shake his mane;
for, if I mistake not, there are company in yonder brake that are on
the look-out for us.”

“What makes thee judge so?” said the Knight.

“Because I have twice or thrice noticed the glance of a motion from
amongst the green leaves. Had they been honest men, they had kept the
path. But yonder thicket is a choice chapel for the Clerks of Saint
Nicholas.”

“By my faith,” said the Knight, closing his visor, “I think thou be’st
in the right on’t.”

And in good time did he close it, for three arrows, flew at the same
instant from the suspected spot against his head and breast, one of
which would have penetrated to the brain, had it not been turned aside
by the steel visor. The other two were averted by the gorget, and by
the shield which hung around his neck.

“Thanks, trusty armourers,” said the Knight.—“Wamba, let us close with
them,”—and he rode straight to the thicket. He was met by six or seven
men-at-arms, who ran against him with their lances at full career.
Three of the weapons struck against him, and splintered with as little
effect as if they had been driven against a tower of steel. The Black
Knight’s eyes seemed to flash fire even through the aperture of his
visor. He raised himself in his stirrups with an air of inexpressible
dignity, and exclaimed, “What means this, my masters!”—The men made no
other reply than by drawing their swords and attacking him on every
side, crying, “Die, tyrant!”

“Ha! Saint Edward! Ha! Saint George!” said the Black Knight, striking
down a man at every invocation; “have we traitors here?”

His opponents, desperate as they were, bore back from an arm which
carried death in every blow, and it seemed as if the terror of his
single strength was about to gain the battle against such odds, when a
knight, in blue armour, who had hitherto kept himself behind the other
assailants, spurred forward with his lance, and taking aim, not at the
rider but at the steed, wounded the noble animal mortally.

“That was a felon stroke!” exclaimed the Black Knight, as the steed
fell to the earth, bearing his rider along with him.

And at this moment, Wamba winded the bugle, for the whole had passed so
speedily, that he had not time to do so sooner. The sudden sound made
the murderers bear back once more, and Wamba, though so imperfectly
weaponed, did not hesitate to rush in and assist the Black Knight to
rise.

“Shame on ye, false cowards!” exclaimed he in the blue harness, who
seemed to lead the assailants, “do ye fly from the empty blast of a
horn blown by a Jester?”

Animated by his words, they attacked the Black Knight anew, whose best
refuge was now to place his back against an oak, and defend himself
with his sword. The felon knight, who had taken another spear, watching
the moment when his formidable antagonist was most closely pressed,
galloped against him in hopes to nail him with his lance against the
tree, when his purpose was again intercepted by Wamba. The Jester,
making up by agility the want of strength, and little noticed by the
men-at-arms, who were busied in their more important object, hovered on
the skirts of the fight, and effectually checked the fatal career of
the Blue Knight, by hamstringing his horse with a stroke of his sword.
Horse and man went to the ground; yet the situation of the Knight of
the Fetterlock continued very precarious, as he was pressed close by
several men completely armed, and began to be fatigued by the violent
exertions necessary to defend himself on so many points at nearly the
same moment, when a grey-goose shaft suddenly stretched on the earth
one of the most formidable of his assailants, and a band of yeomen
broke forth from the glade, headed by Locksley and the jovial Friar,
who, taking ready and effectual part in the fray, soon disposed of the
ruffians, all of whom lay on the spot dead or mortally wounded. The
Black Knight thanked his deliverers with a dignity they had not
observed in his former bearing, which hitherto had seemed rather that
of a blunt bold soldier, than of a person of exalted rank.

“It concerns me much,” he said, “even before I express my full
gratitude to my ready friends, to discover, if I may, who have been my
unprovoked enemies.—Open the visor of that Blue Knight, Wamba, who
seems the chief of these villains.”

The Jester instantly made up to the leader of the assassins, who,
bruised by his fall, and entangled under the wounded steed, lay
incapable either of flight or resistance.

“Come, valiant sir,” said Wamba, “I must be your armourer as well as
your equerry—I have dismounted you, and now I will unhelm you.”

So saying, with no very gentle hand he undid the helmet of the Blue
Knight, which, rolling to a distance on the grass, displayed to the
Knight of the Fetterlock grizzled locks, and a countenance he did not
expect to have seen under such circumstances.

“Waldemar Fitzurse!” he said in astonishment; “what could urge one of
thy rank and seeming worth to so foul an undertaking?”

“Richard,” said the captive Knight, looking up to him, “thou knowest
little of mankind, if thou knowest not to what ambition and revenge can
lead every child of Adam.”

“Revenge?” answered the Black Knight; “I never wronged thee—On me thou
hast nought to revenge.”

“My daughter, Richard, whose alliance thou didst scorn—was that no
injury to a Norman, whose blood is noble as thine own?”

“Thy daughter?” replied the Black Knight; “a proper cause of enmity,
and followed up to a bloody issue!—Stand back, my masters, I would
speak to him alone.—And now, Waldemar Fitzurse, say me the
truth—confess who set thee on this traitorous deed.”

“Thy father’s son,” answered Waldemar, “who, in so doing, did but
avenge on thee thy disobedience to thy father.”

Richard’s eyes sparkled with indignation, but his better nature
overcame it. He pressed his hand against his brow, and remained an
instant gazing on the face of the humbled baron, in whose features
pride was contending with shame.

“Thou dost not ask thy life, Waldemar,” said the King.

“He that is in the lion’s clutch,” answered Fitzurse, “knows it were
needless.”

“Take it, then, unasked,” said Richard; “the lion preys not on
prostrate carcasses.—Take thy life, but with this condition, that in
three days thou shalt leave England, and go to hide thine infamy in thy
Norman castle, and that thou wilt never mention the name of John of
Anjou as connected with thy felony. If thou art found on English ground
after the space I have allotted thee, thou diest—or if thou breathest
aught that can attaint the honour of my house, by Saint George! not the
altar itself shall be a sanctuary. I will hang thee out to feed the
ravens, from the very pinnacle of thine own castle.—Let this knight
have a steed, Locksley, for I see your yeomen have caught those which
were running loose, and let him depart unharmed.”

“But that I judge I listen to a voice whose behests must not be
disputed,” answered the yeoman, “I would send a shaft after the
skulking villain that should spare him the labour of a long journey.”

“Thou bearest an English heart, Locksley,” said the Black Knight, “and
well dost judge thou art the more bound to obey my behest—I am Richard
of England!”

At these words, pronounced in a tone of majesty suited to the high
rank, and no less distinguished character of Cœur-de-Lion, the yeomen
at once kneeled down before him, and at the same time tendered their
allegiance, and implored pardon for their offences.

“Rise, my friends,” said Richard, in a gracious tone, looking on them
with a countenance in which his habitual good-humour had already
conquered the blaze of hasty resentment, and whose features retained no
mark of the late desperate conflict, excepting the flush arising from
exertion,—“Arise,” he said, “my friends!—Your misdemeanours, whether in
forest or field, have been atoned by the loyal services you rendered my
distressed subjects before the walls of Torquilstone, and the rescue
you have this day afforded to your sovereign. Arise, my liegemen, and
be good subjects in future.—And thou, brave Locksley—”

“Call me no longer Locksley, my Liege, but know me under the name,
which, I fear, fame hath blown too widely not to have reached even your
royal ears—I am Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest.” 561

“King of Outlaws, and Prince of good fellows!” said the King, “who hath
not heard a name that has been borne as far as Palestine? But be
assured, brave Outlaw, that no deed done in our absence, and in the
turbulent times to which it hath given rise, shall be remembered to thy
disadvantage.”

“True says the proverb,” said Wamba, interposing his word, but with
some abatement of his usual petulance,—

“‘When the cat is away,
The mice will play.’”


“What, Wamba, art thou there?” said Richard; “I have been so long of
hearing thy voice, I thought thou hadst taken flight.”

“I take flight!” said Wamba; “when do you ever find Folly separated
from Valour? There lies the trophy of my sword, that good grey gelding,
whom I heartily wish upon his legs again, conditioning his master lay
there houghed in his place. It is true, I gave a little ground at
first, for a motley jacket does not brook lance-heads, as a steel
doublet will. But if I fought not at sword’s point, you will grant me
that I sounded the onset.”

“And to good purpose, honest Wamba,” replied the King. “Thy good
service shall not be forgotten.”

“‘Confiteor! Confiteor!’”—exclaimed, in a submissive tone, a voice near
the King’s side—“my Latin will carry me no farther—but I confess my
deadly treason, and pray leave to have absolution before I am led to
execution!”

Richard looked around, and beheld the jovial Friar on his knees,
telling his rosary, while his quarter-staff, which had not been idle
during the skirmish, lay on the grass beside him. His countenance was
gathered so as he thought might best express the most profound
contrition, his eyes being turned up, and the corners of his mouth
drawn down, as Wamba expressed it, like the tassels at the mouth of a
purse. Yet this demure affectation of extreme penitence was whimsically
belied by a ludicrous meaning which lurked in his huge features, and
seemed to pronounce his fear and repentance alike hypocritical.

“For what art thou cast down, mad Priest?” said Richard; “art thou
afraid thy diocesan should learn how truly thou dost serve Our Lady and
Saint Dunstan?—Tush, man! fear it not; Richard of England betrays no
secrets that pass over the flagon.”

“Nay, most gracious sovereign,” answered the Hermit, (well known to the
curious in penny-histories of Robin Hood, by the name of Friar Tuck,)
“it is not the crosier I fear, but the sceptre.—Alas! that my
sacrilegious fist should ever have been applied to the ear of the
Lord’s anointed!”

“Ha! ha!” said Richard, “sits the wind there?—In truth I had forgotten
the buffet, though mine ear sung after it for a whole day. But if the
cuff was fairly given, I will be judged by the good men around, if it
was not as well repaid—or, if thou thinkest I still owe thee aught, and
will stand forth for another counterbuff—”

“By no means,” replied Friar Tuck, “I had mine own returned, and with
usury—may your Majesty ever pay your debts as fully!”

“If I could do so with cuffs,” said the King, “my creditors should have
little reason to complain of an empty exchequer.”

“And yet,” said the Friar, resuming his demure hypocritical
countenance, “I know not what penance I ought to perform for that most
sacrilegious blow!—-”

“Speak no more of it, brother,” said the King; “after having stood so
many cuffs from Paynims and misbelievers, I were void of reason to
quarrel with the buffet of a clerk so holy as he of Copmanhurst. Yet,
mine honest Friar, I think it would be best both for the church and
thyself, that I should procure a license to unfrock thee, and retain
thee as a yeoman of our guard, serving in care of our person, as
formerly in attendance upon the altar of Saint Dunstan.”

“My Liege,” said the Friar, “I humbly crave your pardon; and you would
readily grant my excuse, did you but know how the sin of laziness has
beset me. Saint Dunstan—may he be gracious to us!—stands quiet in his
niche, though I should forget my orisons in killing a fat buck—I stay
out of my cell sometimes a night, doing I wot not what—Saint Dunstan
never complains—a quiet master he is, and a peaceful, as ever was made
of wood.—But to be a yeoman in attendance on my sovereign the King—the
honour is great, doubtless—yet, if I were but to step aside to comfort
a widow in one corner, or to kill a deer in another, it would be,
‘where is the dog Priest?’ says one. ‘Who has seen the accursed Tuck?’
says another. ‘The unfrocked villain destroys more venison than half
the country besides,’ says one keeper; ‘And is hunting after every shy
doe in the country!’ quoth a second.—In fine, good my Liege, I pray you
to leave me as you found me; or, if in aught you desire to extend your
benevolence to me, that I may be considered as the poor Clerk of Saint
Dunstan’s cell in Copmanhurst, to whom any small donation will be most
thankfully acceptable.”

“I understand thee,” said the King, “and the Holy Clerk shall have a
grant of vert and venison in my woods of Warncliffe. Mark, however, I
will but assign thee three bucks every season; but if that do not prove
an apology for thy slaying thirty, I am no Christian knight nor true
king.”

“Your Grace may be well assured,” said the Friar, “that, with the grace
of Saint Dunstan, I shall find the way of multiplying your most
bounteous gift.”

“I nothing doubt it, good brother,” said the King; “and as venison is
but dry food, our cellarer shall have orders to deliver to thee a butt
of sack, a runlet of Malvoisie, and three hogsheads of ale of the first
strike, yearly—If that will not quench thy thirst, thou must come to
court, and become acquainted with my butler.”

“But for Saint Dunstan?” said the Friar—

“A cope, a stole, and an altar-cloth shalt thou also have,” continued
the King, crossing himself—“But we may not turn our game into earnest,
lest God punish us for thinking more on our follies than on his honour
and worship.”

“I will answer for my patron,” said the Priest, joyously.

“Answer for thyself, Friar,” said King Richard, something sternly; but
immediately stretching out his hand to the Hermit, the latter, somewhat
abashed, bent his knee, and saluted it. “Thou dost less honour to my
extended palm than to my clenched fist,” said the Monarch; “thou didst
only kneel to the one, and to the other didst prostrate thyself.”

But the Friar, afraid perhaps of again giving offence by continuing the
conversation in too jocose a style—a false step to be particularly
guarded against by those who converse with monarchs—bowed profoundly,
and fell into the rear.

At the same time, two additional personages appeared on the scene.




CHAPTER XLI


All hail to the lordlings of high degree,
Who live not more happy, though greater than we!
    Our pastimes to see,
    Under every green tree,
In all the gay woodland, right welcome ye be.


MACDONALD


The new comers were Wilfred of Ivanhoe, on the Prior of Botolph’s
palfrey, and Gurth, who attended him, on the Knight’s own war-horse.
The astonishment of Ivanhoe was beyond bounds, when he saw his master
besprinkled with blood, and six or seven dead bodies lying around in
the little glade in which the battle had taken place. Nor was he less
surprised to see Richard surrounded by so many silvan attendants, the
outlaws, as they seemed to be, of the forest, and a perilous retinue
therefore for a prince. He hesitated whether to address the King as the
Black Knight-errant, or in what other manner to demean himself towards
him. Richard saw his embarrassment.

“Fear not, Wilfred,” he said, “to address Richard Plantagenet as
himself, since thou seest him in the company of true English hearts,
although it may be they have been urged a few steps aside by warm
English blood.”

“Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe,” said the gallant Outlaw, stepping forward,
“my assurances can add nothing to those of our sovereign; yet, let me
say somewhat proudly, that of men who have suffered much, he hath not
truer subjects than those who now stand around him.”

“I cannot doubt it, brave man,” said Wilfred, “since thou art of the
number—But what mean these marks of death and danger? these slain men,
and the bloody armour of my Prince?”

“Treason hath been with us, Ivanhoe,” said the King; “but, thanks to
these brave men, treason hath met its meed—But, now I bethink me, thou
too art a traitor,” said Richard, smiling; “a most disobedient traitor;
for were not our orders positive, that thou shouldst repose thyself at
Saint Botolph’s until thy wound was healed?”

“It is healed,” said Ivanhoe; “it is not of more consequence than the
scratch of a bodkin. But why, oh why, noble Prince, will you thus vex
the hearts of your faithful servants, and expose your life by lonely
journeys and rash adventures, as if it were of no more value than that
of a mere knight-errant, who has no interest on earth but what lance
and sword may procure him?”

“And Richard Plantagenet,” said the King, “desires no more fame than
his good lance and sword may acquire him—and Richard Plantagenet is
prouder of achieving an adventure, with only his good sword, and his
good arm to speed, than if he led to battle a host of an hundred
thousand armed men.”

“But your kingdom, my Liege,” said Ivanhoe, “your kingdom is threatened
with dissolution and civil war—your subjects menaced with every species
of evil, if deprived of their sovereign in some of those dangers which
it is your daily pleasure to incur, and from which you have but this
moment narrowly escaped.”

“Ho! ho! my kingdom and my subjects?” answered Richard, impatiently; “I
tell thee, Sir Wilfred, the best of them are most willing to repay my
follies in kind—For example, my very faithful servant, Wilfred of
Ivanhoe, will not obey my positive commands, and yet reads his king a
homily, because he does not walk exactly by his advice. Which of us has
most reason to upbraid the other?—Yet forgive me, my faithful Wilfred.
The time I have spent, and am yet to spend in concealment, is, as I
explained to thee at Saint Botolph’s, necessary to give my friends and
faithful nobles time to assemble their forces, that when Richard’s
return is announced, he should be at the head of such a force as
enemies shall tremble to face, and thus subdue the meditated treason,
without even unsheathing a sword. Estoteville and Bohun will not be
strong enough to move forward to York for twenty-four hours. I must
have news of Salisbury from the south; and of Beauchamp, in
Warwickshire; and of Multon and Percy in the north. The Chancellor must
make sure of London. Too sudden an appearance would subject me to
dangers, other than my lance and sword, though backed by the bow of
bold Robin, or the quarter-staff of Friar Tuck, and the horn of the
sage Wamba, may be able to rescue me from.”

Wilfred bowed in submission, well knowing how vain it was to contend
with the wild spirit of chivalry which so often impelled his master
upon dangers which he might easily have avoided, or rather, which it
was unpardonable in him to have sought out. The young knight sighed,
therefore, and held his peace; while Richard, rejoiced at having
silenced his counsellor, though his heart acknowledged the justice of
the charge he had brought against him, went on in conversation with
Robin Hood.—“King of Outlaws,” he said, “have you no refreshment to
offer to your brother sovereign? for these dead knaves have found me
both in exercise and appetite.”

“In troth,” replied the Outlaw, “for I scorn to lie to your Grace, our
larder is chiefly supplied with—” He stopped, and was somewhat
embarrassed.

“With venison, I suppose?” said Richard, gaily; “better food at need
there can be none—and truly, if a king will not remain at home and slay
his own game, methinks he should not brawl too loud if he finds it
killed to his hand.”

“If your Grace, then,” said Robin, “will again honour with your
presence one of Robin Hood’s places of rendezvous, the venison shall
not be lacking; and a stoup of ale, and it may be a cup of reasonably
good wine, to relish it withal.”

The Outlaw accordingly led the way, followed by the buxom Monarch, more
happy, probably, in this chance meeting with Robin Hood and his
foresters, than he would have been in again assuming his royal state,
and presiding over a splendid circle of peers and nobles. Novelty in
society and adventure were the zest of life to Richard Cœur-de-Lion,
and it had its highest relish when enhanced by dangers encountered and
surmounted. In the lion-hearted King, the brilliant, but useless
character, of a knight of romance, was in a great measure realized and
revived; and the personal glory which he acquired by his own deeds of
arms, was far more dear to his excited imagination, than that which a
course of policy and wisdom would have spread around his government.
Accordingly, his reign was like the course of a brilliant and rapid
meteor, which shoots along the face of Heaven, shedding around an
unnecessary and portentous light, which is instantly swallowed up by
universal darkness; his feats of chivalry furnishing themes for bards
and minstrels, but affording none of those solid benefits to his
country on which history loves to pause, and hold up as an example to
posterity. But in his present company Richard showed to the greatest
imaginable advantage. He was gay, good-humoured, and fond of manhood in
every rank of life.

Beneath a huge oak-tree the silvan repast was hastily prepared for the
King of England, surrounded by men outlaws to his government, but who
now formed his court and his guard. As the flagon went round, the rough
foresters soon lost their awe for the presence of Majesty. The song and
the jest were exchanged—the stories of former deeds were told with
advantage; and at length, and while boasting of their successful
infraction of the laws, no one recollected they were speaking in
presence of their natural guardian. The merry King, nothing heeding his
dignity any more than his company, laughed, quaffed, and jested among
the jolly band. The natural and rough sense of Robin Hood led him to be
desirous that the scene should be closed ere any thing should occur to
disturb its harmony, the more especially that he observed Ivanhoe’s
brow clouded with anxiety. “We are honoured,” he said to Ivanhoe,
apart, “by the presence of our gallant Sovereign; yet I would not that
he dallied with time, which the circumstances of his kingdom may render
precious.”

“It is well and wisely spoken, brave Robin Hood,” said Wilfred, apart;
“and know, moreover, that they who jest with Majesty even in its gayest
mood are but toying with the lion’s whelp, which, on slight
provocation, uses both fangs and claws.”

“You have touched the very cause of my fear,” said the Outlaw; “my men
are rough by practice and nature, the King is hasty as well as
good-humoured; nor know I how soon cause of offence may arise, or how
warmly it may be received—it is time this revel were broken off.”

“It must be by your management then, gallant yeoman,” said Ivanhoe;
“for each hint I have essayed to give him serves only to induce him to
prolong it.”

“Must I so soon risk the pardon and favour of my Sovereign?” said Robin
Hood, pausing for all instant; “but by Saint Christopher, it shall be
so. I were undeserving his grace did I not peril it for his good.—Here,
Scathlock, get thee behind yonder thicket, and wind me a Norman blast
on thy bugle, and without an instant’s delay on peril of your life.”

Scathlock obeyed his captain, and in less than five minutes the
revellers were startled by the sound of his horn.

“It is the bugle of Malvoisin,” said the Miller, starting to his feet,
and seizing his bow. The Friar dropped the flagon, and grasped his
quarter-staff. Wamba stopt short in the midst of a jest, and betook
himself to sword and target. All the others stood to their weapons.

Men of their precarious course of life change readily from the banquet
to the battle; and, to Richard, the exchange seemed but a succession of
pleasure. He called for his helmet and the most cumbrous parts of his
armour, which he had laid aside; and while Gurth was putting them on,
he laid his strict injunctions on Wilfred, under pain of his highest
displeasure, not to engage in the skirmish which he supposed was
approaching.

“Thou hast fought for me an hundred times, Wilfred,—and I have seen it.
Thou shalt this day look on, and see how Richard will fight for his
friend and liegeman.”

In the meantime, Robin Hood had sent off several of his followers in
different directions, as if to reconnoitre the enemy; and when he saw
the company effectually broken up, he approached Richard, who was now
completely armed, and, kneeling down on one knee, craved pardon of his
Sovereign.

“For what, good yeoman?” said Richard, somewhat impatiently. “Have we
not already granted thee a full pardon for all transgressions? Thinkest
thou our word is a feather, to be blown backward and forward between
us? Thou canst not have had time to commit any new offence since that
time?”

“Ay, but I have though,” answered the yeoman, “if it be an offence to
deceive my prince for his own advantage. The bugle you have heard was
none of Malvoisin’s, but blown by my direction, to break off the
banquet, lest it trenched upon hours of dearer import than to be thus
dallied with.”

He then rose from his knee, folded his arm on his bosom, and in a
manner rather respectful than submissive, awaited the answer of the
King,—like one who is conscious he may have given offence, yet is
confident in the rectitude of his motive. The blood rushed in anger to
the countenance of Richard; but it was the first transient emotion, and
his sense of justice instantly subdued it.

“The King of Sherwood,” he said, “grudges his venison and his
wine-flask to the King of England? It is well, bold Robin!—but when you
come to see me in merry London, I trust to be a less niggard host. Thou
art right, however, good fellow. Let us therefore to horse and
away—Wilfred has been impatient this hour. Tell me, bold Robin, hast
thou never a friend in thy band, who, not content with advising, will
needs direct thy motions, and look miserable when thou dost presume to
act for thyself?”

“Such a one,” said Robin, “is my Lieutenant, Little John, who is even
now absent on an expedition as far as the borders of Scotland; and I
will own to your Majesty, that I am sometimes displeased by the freedom
of his councils—but, when I think twice, I cannot be long angry with
one who can have no motive for his anxiety save zeal for his master’s
service.”

“Thou art right, good yeoman,” answered Richard; “and if I had Ivanhoe,
on the one hand, to give grave advice, and recommend it by the sad
gravity of his brow, and thee, on the other, to trick me into what thou
thinkest my own good, I should have as little the freedom of mine own
will as any king in Christendom or Heathenesse.—But come, sirs, let us
merrily on to Coningsburgh, and think no more on’t.”

Robin Hood assured them that he had detached a party in the direction
of the road they were to pass, who would not fail to discover and
apprize them of any secret ambuscade; and that he had little doubt they
would find the ways secure, or, if otherwise, would receive such timely
notice of the danger as would enable them to fall back on a strong
troop of archers, with which he himself proposed to follow on the same
route.

The wise and attentive precautions adopted for his safety touched
Richard’s feelings, and removed any slight grudge which he might retain
on account of the deception the Outlaw Captain had practised upon him.
He once more extended his hand to Robin Hood, assured him of his full
pardon and future favour, as well as his firm resolution to restrain
the tyrannical exercise of the forest rights and other oppressive laws,
by which so many English yeomen were driven into a state of rebellion.
But Richard’s good intentions towards the bold Outlaw were frustrated
by the King’s untimely death; and the Charter of the Forest was
extorted from the unwilling hands of King John when he succeeded to his
heroic brother. As for the rest of Robin Hood’s career, as well as the
tale of his treacherous death, they are to be found in those
black-letter garlands, once sold at the low and easy rate of one
halfpenny.

“Now cheaply purchased at their weight in gold.”


The Outlaw’s opinion proved true; and the King, attended by Ivanhoe,
Gurth, and Wamba, arrived, without any interruption, within view of the
Castle of Coningsburgh, while the sun was yet in the horizon.

There are few more beautiful or striking scenes in England, than are
presented by the vicinity of this ancient Saxon fortress. The soft and
gentle river Don sweeps through an amphitheatre, in which cultivation
is richly blended with woodland, and on a mount, ascending from the
river, well defended by walls and ditches, rises this ancient edifice,
which, as its Saxon name implies, was, previous to the Conquest, a
royal residence of the kings of England. The outer walls have probably
been added by the Normans, but the inner keep bears token of very great
antiquity. It is situated on a mount at one angle of the inner court,
and forms a complete circle of perhaps twenty-five feet in diameter.
The wall is of immense thickness, and is propped or defended by six
huge external buttresses which project from the circle, and rise up
against the sides of the tower as if to strengthen or to support it.
These massive buttresses are solid when they arise from the foundation,
and a good way higher up; but are hollowed out towards the top, and
terminate in a sort of turrets communicating with the interior of the
keep itself. The distant appearance of this huge building, with these
singular accompaniments, is as interesting to the lovers of the
picturesque, as the interior of the castle is to the eager antiquary,
whose imagination it carries back to the days of the Heptarchy. A
barrow, in the vicinity of the castle, is pointed out as the tomb of
the memorable Hengist; and various monuments, of great antiquity and
curiosity, are shown in the neighbouring churchyard. 57

When Cœur-de-Lion and his retinue approached this rude yet stately
building, it was not, as at present, surrounded by external
fortifications. The Saxon architect had exhausted his art in rendering
the main keep defensible, and there was no other circumvallation than a
rude barrier of palisades.

A huge black banner, which floated from the top of the tower, announced
that the obsequies of the late owner were still in the act of being
solemnized. It bore no emblem of the deceased’s birth or quality, for
armorial bearings were then a novelty among the Norman chivalry
themselves and, were totally unknown to the Saxons. But above the gate
was another banner, on which the figure of a white horse, rudely
painted, indicated the nation and rank of the deceased, by the
well-known symbol of Hengist and his Saxon warriors.

All around the castle was a scene of busy commotion; for such funeral
banquets were times of general and profuse hospitality, which not only
every one who could claim the most distant connexion with the deceased,
but all passengers whatsoever, were invited to partake. The wealth and
consequence of the deceased Athelstane, occasioned this custom to be
observed in the fullest extent.

Numerous parties, therefore, were seen ascending and descending the
hill on which the castle was situated; and when the King and his
attendants entered the open and unguarded gates of the external
barrier, the space within presented a scene not easily reconciled with
the cause of the assemblage. In one place cooks were toiling to roast
huge oxen, and fat sheep; in another, hogsheads of ale were set
abroach, to be drained at the freedom of all comers. Groups of every
description were to be seen devouring the food and swallowing the
liquor thus abandoned to their discretion. The naked Saxon serf was
drowning the sense of his half-year’s hunger and thirst, in one day of
gluttony and drunkenness—the more pampered burgess and guild-brother
was eating his morsel with gust, or curiously criticising the quantity
of the malt and the skill of the brewer. Some few of the poorer Norman
gentry might also be seen, distinguished by their shaven chins and
short cloaks, and not less so by their keeping together, and looking
with great scorn on the whole solemnity, even while condescending to
avail themselves of the good cheer which was so liberally supplied.

Mendicants were of course assembled by the score, together with
strolling soldiers returned from Palestine, (according to their own
account at least,) pedlars were displaying their wares, travelling
mechanics were enquiring after employment, and wandering palmers,
hedge-priests, Saxon minstrels, and Welsh bards, were muttering
prayers, and extracting mistuned dirges from their harps, crowds, and
rotes. 58

One sent forth the praises of Athelstane in a doleful panegyric;
another, in a Saxon genealogical poem, rehearsed the uncouth and harsh
names of his noble ancestry. Jesters and jugglers were not awanting,
nor was the occasion of the assembly supposed to render the exercise of
their profession indecorous or improper. Indeed the ideas of the Saxons
on these occasions were as natural as they were rude. If sorrow was
thirsty, there was drink—if hungry, there was food—if it sunk down upon
and saddened the heart, here were the means supplied of mirth, or at
least of amusement. Nor did the assistants scorn to avail themselves of
those means of consolation, although, every now and then, as if
suddenly recollecting the cause which had brought them together, the
men groaned in unison, while the females, of whom many were present,
raised up their voices and shrieked for very woe.

Such was the scene in the castle-yard at Coningsburgh when it was
entered by Richard and his followers. The seneschal or steward deigned
not to take notice of the groups of inferior guests who were
perpetually entering and withdrawing, unless so far as was necessary to
preserve order; nevertheless he was struck by the good mien of the
Monarch and Ivanhoe, more especially as he imagined the features of the
latter were familiar to him. Besides, the approach of two knights, for
such their dress bespoke them, was a rare event at a Saxon solemnity,
and could not but be regarded as a sort of honour to the deceased and
his family. And in his sable dress, and holding in his hand his white
wand of office, this important personage made way through the
miscellaneous assemblage of guests, thus conducting Richard and Ivanhoe
to the entrance of the tower. Gurth and Wamba speedily found
acquaintances in the court-yard, nor presumed to intrude themselves any
farther until their presence should be required.




CHAPTER XLII


I found them winding of Marcello’s corpse.
And there was such a solemn melody,
’Twixt doleful songs, tears, and sad elegies,—
Such as old grandames, watching by the dead,
Are wont to outwear the night with.


OLD PLAY


The mode of entering the great tower of Coningsburgh Castle is very
peculiar, and partakes of the rude simplicity of the early times in
which it was erected. A flight of steps, so deep and narrow as to be
almost precipitous, leads up to a low portal in the south side of the
tower, by which the adventurous antiquary may still, or at least could
a few years since, gain access to a small stair within the thickness of
the main wall of the tower, which leads up to the third story of the
building,—the two lower being dungeons or vaults, which neither receive
air nor light, save by a square hole in the third story, with which
they seem to have communicated by a ladder. The access to the upper
apartments in the tower which consist in all of four stories, is given
by stairs which are carried up through the external buttresses.

By this difficult and complicated entrance, the good King Richard,
followed by his faithful Ivanhoe, was ushered into the round apartment
which occupies the whole of the third story from the ground. Wilfred,
by the difficulties of the ascent, gained time to muffle his face in
his mantle, as it had been held expedient that he should not present
himself to his father until the King should give him the signal.

There were assembled in this apartment, around a large oaken table,
about a dozen of the most distinguished representatives of the Saxon
families in the adjacent counties. They were all old, or, at least,
elderly men; for the younger race, to the great displeasure of the
seniors, had, like Ivanhoe, broken down many of the barriers which
separated for half a century the Norman victors from the vanquished
Saxons. The downcast and sorrowful looks of these venerable men, their
silence and their mournful posture, formed a strong contrast to the
levity of the revellers on the outside of the castle. Their grey locks
and long full beards, together with their antique tunics and loose
black mantles, suited well with the singular and rude apartment in
which they were seated, and gave the appearance of a band of ancient
worshippers of Woden, recalled to life to mourn over the decay of their
national glory.

Cedric, seated in equal rank among his countrymen, seemed yet, by
common consent, to act as chief of the assembly. Upon the entrance of
Richard (only known to him as the valorous Knight of the Fetterlock) he
arose gravely, and gave him welcome by the ordinary salutation, “Waes
hael”, raising at the same time a goblet to his head. The King, no
stranger to the customs of his English subjects, returned the greeting
with the appropriate words, “Drinc hael”, and partook of a cup which
was handed to him by the sewer. The same courtesy was offered to
Ivanhoe, who pledged his father in silence, supplying the usual speech
by an inclination of his head, lest his voice should have been
recognised.

When this introductory ceremony was performed, Cedric arose, and,
extending his hand to Richard, conducted him into a small and very rude
chapel, which was excavated, as it were, out of one of the external
buttresses. As there was no opening, saving a little narrow loop-hole,
the place would have been nearly quite dark but for two flambeaux or
torches, which showed, by a red and smoky light, the arched roof and
naked walls, the rude altar of stone, and the crucifix of the same
material.

Before this altar was placed a bier, and on each side of this bier
kneeled three priests, who told their beads, and muttered their
prayers, with the greatest signs of external devotion. For this service
a splendid “soul-scat” was paid to the convent of Saint Edmund’s by the
mother of the deceased; and, that it might be fully deserved, the whole
brethren, saving the lame Sacristan, had transferred themselves to
Coningsburgh, where, while six of their number were constantly on guard
in the performance of divine rites by the bier of Athelstane, the
others failed not to take their share of the refreshments and
amusements which went on at the castle. In maintaining this pious watch
and ward, the good monks were particularly careful not to interrupt
their hymns for an instant, lest Zernebock, the ancient Saxon Apollyon,
should lay his clutches on the departed Athelstane. Nor were they less
careful to prevent any unhallowed layman from touching the pall, which,
having been that used at the funeral of Saint Edmund, was liable to be
desecrated, if handled by the profane. If, in truth, these attentions
could be of any use to the deceased, he had some right to expect them
at the hands of the brethren of Saint Edmund’s, since, besides a
hundred mancuses of gold paid down as the soul-ransom, the mother of
Athelstane had announced her intention of endowing that foundation with
the better part of the lands of the deceased, in order to maintain
perpetual prayers for his soul, and that of her departed husband.
Richard and Wilfred followed the Saxon Cedric into the apartment of
death, where, as their guide pointed with solemn air to the untimely
bier of Athelstane, they followed his example in devoutly crossing
themselves, and muttering a brief prayer for the weal of the departed
soul.

This act of pious charity performed, Cedric again motioned them to
follow him, gliding over the stone floor with a noiseless tread; and,
after ascending a few steps, opened with great caution the door of a
small oratory, which adjoined to the chapel. It was about eight feet
square, hollowed, like the chapel itself, out of the thickness of the
wall; and the loop-hole, which enlightened it, being to the west, and
widening considerably as it sloped inward, a beam of the setting sun
found its way into its dark recess, and showed a female of a dignified
mien, and whose countenance retained the marked remains of majestic
beauty. Her long mourning robes and her flowing wimple of black
cypress, enhanced the whiteness of her skin, and the beauty of her
light-coloured and flowing tresses, which time had neither thinned nor
mingled with silver. Her countenance expressed the deepest sorrow that
is consistent with resignation. On the stone table before her stood a
crucifix of ivory, beside which was laid a missal, having its pages
richly illuminated, and its boards adorned with clasps of gold, and
bosses of the same precious metal.

“Noble Edith,” said Cedric, after having stood a moment silent, as if
to give Richard and Wilfred time to look upon the lady of the mansion,
“these are worthy strangers, come to take a part in thy sorrows. And
this, in especial, is the valiant Knight who fought so bravely for the
deliverance of him for whom we this day mourn.”

“His bravery has my thanks,” returned the lady; “although it be the
will of Heaven that it should be displayed in vain. I thank, too, his
courtesy, and that of his companion, which hath brought them hither to
behold the widow of Adeling, the mother of Athelstane, in her deep hour
of sorrow and lamentation. To your care, kind kinsman, I intrust them,
satisfied that they will want no hospitality which these sad walls can
yet afford.”

The guests bowed deeply to the mourning parent, and withdrew from their
hospitable guide.

Another winding stair conducted them to an apartment of the same size
with that which they had first entered, occupying indeed the story
immediately above. From this room, ere yet the door was opened,
proceeded a low and melancholy strain of vocal music. When they
entered, they found themselves in the presence of about twenty matrons
and maidens of distinguished Saxon lineage. Four maidens, Rowena
leading the choir, raised a hymn for the soul of the deceased, of which
we have only been able to decipher two or three stanzas:—

Dust unto dust,
To this all must;
The tenant hath resign’d
The faded form
To waste and worm—
Corruption claims her kind.

Through paths unknown
Thy soul hath flown,
To seek the realms of woe,
Where fiery pain
Shall purge the stain
Of actions done below.

In that sad place,
By Mary’s grace,
Brief may thy dwelling be
Till prayers and alms,
And holy psalms,
Shall set the captive free.


While this dirge was sung, in a low and melancholy tone, by the female
choristers, the others were divided into two bands, of which one was
engaged in bedecking, with such embroidery as their skill and taste
could compass, a large silken pall, destined to cover the bier of
Athelstane, while the others busied themselves in selecting, from
baskets of flowers placed before them, garlands, which they intended
for the same mournful purpose. The behaviour of the maidens was
decorous, if not marked with deep affliction; but now and then a
whisper or a smile called forth the rebuke of the severer matrons, and
here and there might be seen a damsel more interested in endeavouring
to find out how her mourning-robe became her, than in the dismal
ceremony for which they were preparing. Neither was this propensity (if
we must needs confess the truth) at all diminished by the appearance of
two strange knights, which occasioned some looking up, peeping, and
whispering. Rowena alone, too proud to be vain, paid her greeting to
her deliverer with a graceful courtesy. Her demeanour was serious, but
not dejected; and it may be doubted whether thoughts of Ivanhoe, and of
the uncertainty of his fate, did not claim as great a share in her
gravity as the death of her kinsman.

To Cedric, however, who, as we have observed, was not remarkably
clear-sighted on such occasions, the sorrow of his ward seemed so much
deeper than any of the other maidens, that he deemed it proper to
whisper the explanation—“She was the affianced bride of the noble
Athelstane.”—It may be doubted whether this communication went a far
way to increase Wilfred’s disposition to sympathize with the mourners
of Coningsburgh.

Having thus formally introduced the guests to the different chambers in
which the obsequies of Athelstane were celebrated under different
forms, Cedric conducted them into a small room, destined, as he
informed them, for the exclusive accomodation of honourable guests,
whose more slight connexion with the deceased might render them
unwilling to join those who were immediately effected by the unhappy
event. He assured them of every accommodation, and was about to
withdraw when the Black Knight took his hand.

“I crave to remind you, noble Thane,” he said, “that when we last
parted, you promised, for the service I had the fortune to render you,
to grant me a boon.”

“It is granted ere named, noble Knight,” said Cedric; “yet, at this sad
moment—-”

“Of that also,” said the King, “I have bethought me—but my time is
brief—neither does it seem to me unfit, that, when closing the grave on
the noble Athelstane, we should deposit therein certain prejudices and
hasty opinions.”

“Sir Knight of the Fetterlock,” said Cedric, colouring, and
interrupting the King in his turn, “I trust your boon regards yourself
and no other; for in that which concerns the honour of my house, it is
scarce fitting that a stranger should mingle.”

“Nor do I wish to mingle,” said the King, mildly, “unless in so far as
you will admit me to have an interest. As yet you have known me but as
the Black Knight of the Fetterlock—Know me now as Richard Plantagenet.”

“Richard of Anjou!” exclaimed Cedric, stepping backward with the utmost
astonishment.

“No, noble Cedric—Richard of England!—whose deepest interest—whose
deepest wish, is to see her sons united with each other.—And, how now,
worthy Thane! hast thou no knee for thy prince?”

“To Norman blood,” said Cedric, “it hath never bended.”

“Reserve thine homage then,” said the Monarch, “until I shall prove my
right to it by my equal protection of Normans and English.”

“Prince,” answered Cedric, “I have ever done justice to thy bravery and
thy worth—Nor am I ignorant of thy claim to the crown through thy
descent from Matilda, niece to Edgar Atheling, and daughter to Malcolm
of Scotland. But Matilda, though of the royal Saxon blood, was not the
heir to the monarchy.”

“I will not dispute my title with thee, noble Thane,” said Richard,
calmly; “but I will bid thee look around thee, and see where thou wilt
find another to be put into the scale against it.”

“And hast thou wandered hither, Prince, to tell me so?” said Cedric—“To
upbraid me with the ruin of my race, ere the grave has closed o’er the
last scion of Saxon royalty?”—His countenance darkened as he spoke.—“It
was boldly—it was rashly done!”

“Not so, by the holy rood!” replied the King; “it was done in the frank
confidence which one brave man may repose in another, without a shadow
of danger.”

“Thou sayest well, Sir King—for King I own thou art, and wilt be,
despite of my feeble opposition.—I dare not take the only mode to
prevent it, though thou hast placed the strong temptation within my
reach!”

“And now to my boon,” said the King, “which I ask not with one jot the
less confidence, that thou hast refused to acknowledge my lawful
sovereignty. I require of thee, as a man of thy word, on pain of being
held faithless, man-sworn, and ‘nidering’, 581 to forgive and receive
to thy paternal affection the good knight, Wilfred of Ivanhoe. In this
reconciliation thou wilt own I have an interest—the happiness of my
friend, and the quelling of dissension among my faithful people.”

“And this is Wilfred!” said Cedric, pointing to his son.

“My father!—my father!” said Ivanhoe, prostrating himself at Cedric’s
feet, “grant me thy forgiveness!”

“Thou hast it, my son,” said Cedric, raising him up. “The son of
Hereward knows how to keep his word, even when it has been passed to a
Norman. But let me see thee use the dress and costume of thy English
ancestry—no short cloaks, no gay bonnets, no fantastic plumage in my
decent household. He that would be the son of Cedric, must show himself
of English ancestry.—Thou art about to speak,” he added, sternly, “and
I guess the topic. The Lady Rowena must complete two years’ mourning,
as for a betrothed husband—all our Saxon ancestors would disown us were
we to treat of a new union for her ere the grave of him she should have
wedded—him, so much the most worthy of her hand by birth and
ancestry—is yet closed. The ghost of Athelstane himself would burst his
bloody cerements and stand before us to forbid such dishonour to his
memory.”

It seemed as if Cedric’s words had raised a spectre; for, scarce had he
uttered them ere the door flew open, and Athelstane, arrayed in the
garments of the grave, stood before them, pale, haggard, and like
something arisen from the dead! 59

The effect of this apparition on the persons present was utterly
appalling. Cedric started back as far as the wall of the apartment
would permit, and, leaning against it as one unable to support himself,
gazed on the figure of his friend with eyes that seemed fixed, and a
mouth which he appeared incapable of shutting. Ivanhoe crossed himself,
repeating prayers in Saxon, Latin, or Norman-French, as they occurred
to his memory, while Richard alternately said, “Benedicite”, and swore,
“Mort de ma vie!”

In the meantime, a horrible noise was heard below stairs, some crying,
“Secure the treacherous monks!”—others, “Down with them into the
dungeon!”—others, “Pitch them from the highest battlements!”

“In the name of God!” said Cedric, addressing what seemed the spectre
of his departed friend, “if thou art mortal, speak!—if a departed
spirit, say for what cause thou dost revisit us, or if I can do aught
that can set thy spirit at repose.—Living or dead, noble Athelstane,
speak to Cedric!”

“I will,” said the spectre, very composedly, “when I have collected
breath, and when you give me time—Alive, saidst thou?—I am as much
alive as he can be who has fed on bread and water for three days, which
seem three ages—Yes, bread and water, Father Cedric! By Heaven, and all
saints in it, better food hath not passed my weasand for three livelong
days, and by God’s providence it is that I am now here to tell it.”

“Why, noble Athelstane,” said the Black Knight, “I myself saw you
struck down by the fierce Templar towards the end of the storm at
Torquilstone, and as I thought, and Wamba reported, your skull was
cloven through the teeth.”

“You thought amiss, Sir Knight,” said Athelstane, “and Wamba lied. My
teeth are in good order, and that my supper shall presently find—No
thanks to the Templar though, whose sword turned in his hand, so that
the blade struck me flatlings, being averted by the handle of the good
mace with which I warded the blow; had my steel-cap been on, I had not
valued it a rush, and had dealt him such a counter-buff as would have
spoilt his retreat. But as it was, down I went, stunned, indeed, but
unwounded. Others, of both sides, were beaten down and slaughtered
above me, so that I never recovered my senses until I found myself in a
coffin—(an open one, by good luck)—placed before the altar of the
church of Saint Edmund’s. I sneezed repeatedly—groaned—awakened and
would have arisen, when the Sacristan and Abbot, full of terror, came
running at the noise, surprised, doubtless, and no way pleased to find
the man alive, whose heirs they had proposed themselves to be. I asked
for wine—they gave me some, but it must have been highly medicated, for
I slept yet more deeply than before, and wakened not for many hours. I
found my arms swathed down—my feet tied so fast that mine ankles ache
at the very remembrance—the place was utterly dark—the oubliette, as I
suppose, of their accursed convent, and from the close, stifled, damp
smell, I conceive it is also used for a place of sepulture. I had
strange thoughts of what had befallen me, when the door of my dungeon
creaked, and two villain monks entered. They would have persuaded me I
was in purgatory, but I knew too well the pursy short-breathed voice of
the Father Abbot.—Saint Jeremy! how different from that tone with which
he used to ask me for another slice of the haunch!—the dog has feasted
with me from Christmas to Twelfth-night.”

“Have patience, noble Athelstane,” said the King, “take breath—tell
your story at leisure—beshrew me but such a tale is as well worth
listening to as a romance.”

“Ay but, by the rood of Bromeholm, there was no romance in the matter!”
said Athelstane.—“A barley loaf and a pitcher of water—that THEY gave
me, the niggardly traitors, whom my father, and I myself, had enriched,
when their best resources were the flitches of bacon and measures of
corn, out of which they wheedled poor serfs and bondsmen, in exchange
for their prayers—the nest of foul ungrateful vipers—barley bread and
ditch water to such a patron as I had been! I will smoke them out of
their nest, though I be excommunicated!”

“But, in the name of Our Lady, noble Athelstane,” said Cedric, grasping
the hand of his friend, “how didst thou escape this imminent danger—did
their hearts relent?”

“Did their hearts relent!” echoed Athelstane.—“Do rocks melt with the
sun? I should have been there still, had not some stir in the Convent,
which I find was their procession hitherward to eat my funeral feast,
when they well knew how and where I had been buried alive, summoned the
swarm out of their hive. I heard them droning out their death-psalms,
little judging they were sung in respect for my soul by those who were
thus famishing my body. They went, however, and I waited long for
food—no wonder—the gouty Sacristan was even too busy with his own
provender to mind mine. At length down he came, with an unstable step
and a strong flavour of wine and spices about his person. Good cheer
had opened his heart, for he left me a nook of pasty and a flask of
wine, instead of my former fare. I ate, drank, and was invigorated;
when, to add to my good luck, the Sacristan, too totty to discharge his
duty of turnkey fitly, locked the door beside the staple, so that it
fell ajar. The light, the food, the wine, set my invention to work. The
staple to which my chains were fixed, was more rusted than I or the
villain Abbot had supposed. Even iron could not remain without
consuming in the damps of that infernal dungeon.”

“Take breath, noble Athelstane,” said Richard, “and partake of some
refreshment, ere you proceed with a tale so dreadful.”

“Partake!” quoth Athelstane; “I have been partaking five times
to-day—and yet a morsel of that savoury ham were not altogether foreign
to the matter; and I pray you, fair sir, to do me reason in a cup of
wine.”

The guests, though still agape with astonishment, pledged their
resuscitated landlord, who thus proceeded in his story:—He had indeed
now many more auditors than those to whom it was commenced, for Edith,
having given certain necessary orders for arranging matters within the
Castle, had followed the dead-alive up to the stranger’s apartment
attended by as many of the guests, male and female, as could squeeze
into the small room, while others, crowding the staircase, caught up an
erroneous edition of the story, and transmitted it still more
inaccurately to those beneath, who again sent it forth to the vulgar
without, in a fashion totally irreconcilable to the real fact.
Athelstane, however, went on as follows, with the history of his
escape:—

“Finding myself freed from the staple, I dragged myself up stairs as
well as a man loaded with shackles, and emaciated with fasting, might;
and after much groping about, I was at length directed, by the sound of
a jolly roundelay, to the apartment where the worthy Sacristan, an it
so please ye, was holding a devil’s mass with a huge beetle-browed,
broad-shouldered brother of the grey-frock and cowl, who looked much
more like a thief than a clergyman. I burst in upon them, and the
fashion of my grave-clothes, as well as the clanking of my chains, made
me more resemble an inhabitant of the other world than of this. Both
stood aghast; but when I knocked down the Sacristan with my fist, the
other fellow, his pot-companion, fetched a blow at me with a huge
quarter-staff.”

“This must be our Friar Tuck, for a count’s ransom,” said Richard,
looking at Ivanhoe.

“He may be the devil, an he will,” said Athelstane. “Fortunately he
missed the aim; and on my approaching to grapple with him, took to his
heels and ran for it. I failed not to set my own heels at liberty by
means of the fetter-key, which hung amongst others at the sexton’s
belt; and I had thoughts of beating out the knave’s brains with the
bunch of keys, but gratitude for the nook of pasty and the flask of
wine which the rascal had imparted to my captivity, came over my heart;
so, with a brace of hearty kicks, I left him on the floor, pouched some
baked meat, and a leathern bottle of wine, with which the two venerable
brethren had been regaling, went to the stable, and found in a private
stall mine own best palfrey, which, doubtless, had been set apart for
the holy Father Abbot’s particular use. Hither I came with all the
speed the beast could compass—man and mother’s son flying before me
wherever I came, taking me for a spectre, the more especially as, to
prevent my being recognised, I drew the corpse-hood over my face. I had
not gained admittance into my own castle, had I not been supposed to be
the attendant of a juggler who is making the people in the castle-yard
very merry, considering they are assembled to celebrate their lord’s
funeral—I say the sewer thought I was dressed to bear a part in the
tregetour’s mummery, and so I got admission, and did but disclose
myself to my mother, and eat a hasty morsel, ere I came in quest of
you, my noble friend.”

“And you have found me,” said Cedric, “ready to resume our brave
projects of honour and liberty. I tell thee, never will dawn a morrow
so auspicious as the next, for the deliverance of the noble Saxon
race.”

“Talk not to me of delivering any one,” said Athelstane; “it is well I
am delivered myself. I am more intent on punishing that villain Abbot.
He shall hang on the top of this Castle of Coningsburgh, in his cope
and stole; and if the stairs be too strait to admit his fat carcass, I
will have him craned up from without.”

“But, my son,” said Edith, “consider his sacred office.”

“Consider my three days’ fast,” replied Athelstane; “I will have their
blood every one of them. Front-de-Bœuf was burnt alive for a less
matter, for he kept a good table for his prisoners, only put too much
garlic in his last dish of pottage. But these hypocritical, ungrateful
slaves, so often the self-invited flatterers at my board, who gave me
neither pottage nor garlic, more or less, they die, by the soul of
Hengist!”

“But the Pope, my noble friend,”—said Cedric—

“But the devil, my noble friend,”—answered Athelstane; “they die, and
no more of them. Were they the best monks upon earth, the world would
go on without them.”

“For shame, noble Athelstane,” said Cedric; “forget such wretches in
the career of glory which lies open before thee. Tell this Norman
prince, Richard of Anjou, that, lion-hearted as he is, he shall not
hold undisputed the throne of Alfred, while a male descendant of the
Holy Confessor lives to dispute it.”

“How!” said Athelstane, “is this the noble King Richard?”

“It is Richard Plantagenet himself,” said Cedric; “yet I need not
remind thee that, coming hither a guest of free-will, he may neither be
injured nor detained prisoner—thou well knowest thy duty to him as his
host.”

“Ay, by my faith!” said Athelstane; “and my duty as a subject besides,
for I here tender him my allegiance, heart and hand.”

“My son,” said Edith, “think on thy royal rights!”

“Think on the freedom of England, degenerate Prince!” said Cedric.

“Mother and friend,” said Athelstane, “a truce to your
upbraidings—bread and water and a dungeon are marvellous mortifiers of
ambition, and I rise from the tomb a wiser man than I descended into
it. One half of those vain follies were puffed into mine ear by that
perfidious Abbot Wolfram, and you may now judge if he is a counsellor
to be trusted. Since these plots were set in agitation, I have had
nothing but hurried journeys, indigestions, blows and bruises,
imprisonments and starvation; besides that they can only end in the
murder of some thousands of quiet folk. I tell you, I will be king in
my own domains, and nowhere else; and my first act of dominion shall be
to hang the Abbot.”

“And my ward Rowena,” said Cedric—“I trust you intend not to desert
her?”

“Father Cedric,” said Athelstane, “be reasonable. The Lady Rowena cares
not for me—she loves the little finger of my kinsman Wilfred’s glove
better than my whole person. There she stands to avouch it—Nay, blush
not, kinswoman, there is no shame in loving a courtly knight better
than a country franklin—and do not laugh neither, Rowena, for
grave-clothes and a thin visage are, God knows, no matter of
merriment—Nay, an thou wilt needs laugh, I will find thee a better
jest—Give me thy hand, or rather lend it me, for I but ask it in the
way of friendship.—Here, cousin Wilfred of Ivanhoe, in thy favour I
renounce and abjure—-Hey! by Saint Dunstan, our cousin Wilfred hath
vanished!—Yet, unless my eyes are still dazzled with the fasting I have
undergone, I saw him stand there but even now.”

All now looked around and enquired for Ivanhoe, but he had vanished. It
was at length discovered that a Jew had been to seek him; and that,
after very brief conference, he had called for Gurth and his armour,
and had left the castle.

“Fair cousin,” said Athelstane to Rowena, “could I think that this
sudden disappearance of Ivanhoe was occasioned by other than the
weightiest reason, I would myself resume—”

But he had no sooner let go her hand, on first observing that Ivanhoe
had disappeared, than Rowena, who had found her situation extremely
embarrassing, had taken the first opportunity to escape from the
apartment.

“Certainly,” quoth Athelstane, “women are the least to be trusted of
all animals, monks and abbots excepted. I am an infidel, if I expected
not thanks from her, and perhaps a kiss to boot—These cursed
grave-clothes have surely a spell on them, every one flies from me.—To
you I turn, noble King Richard, with the vows of allegiance, which, as
a liege-subject—”

But King Richard was gone also, and no one knew whither. At length it
was learned that he had hastened to the court-yard, summoned to his
presence the Jew who had spoken with Ivanhoe, and after a moment’s
speech with him, had called vehemently to horse, thrown himself upon a
steed, compelled the Jew to mount another, and set off at a rate,
which, according to Wamba, rendered the old Jew’s neck not worth a
penny’s purchase.

“By my halidome!” said Athelstane, “it is certain that Zernebock hath
possessed himself of my castle in my absence. I return in my
grave-clothes, a pledge restored from the very sepulchre, and every one
I speak to vanishes as soon as they hear my voice!—But it skills not
talking of it. Come, my friends—such of you as are left, follow me to
the banquet-hall, lest any more of us disappear—it is, I trust, as yet
tolerably furnished, as becomes the obsequies of an ancient Saxon
noble; and should we tarry any longer, who knows but the devil may fly
off with the supper?”




CHAPTER XLIII


Be Mowbray’s sins so heavy in his bosom,
That they may break his foaming courser’s back,
And throw the rider headlong in the lists,
A caitiff recreant!


RICHARD II


Our scene now returns to the exterior of the Castle, or Preceptory, of
Templestowe, about the hour when the bloody die was to be cast for the
life or death of Rebecca. It was a scene of bustle and life, as if the
whole vicinity had poured forth its inhabitants to a village wake, or
rural feast. But the earnest desire to look on blood and death, is not
peculiar to those dark ages; though in the gladiatorial exercise of
single combat and general tourney, they were habituated to the bloody
spectacle of brave men falling by each other’s hands. Even in our own
days, when morals are better understood, an execution, a bruising
match, a riot, or a meeting of radical reformers, collects, at
considerable hazard to themselves, immense crowds of spectators,
otherwise little interested, except to see how matters are to be
conducted, or whether the heroes of the day are, in the heroic language
of insurgent tailors, flints or dunghills.

The eyes, therefore, of a very considerable multitude, were bent on the
gate of the Preceptory of Templestowe, with the purpose of witnessing
the procession; while still greater numbers had already surrounded the
tiltyard belonging to that establishment. This enclosure was formed on
a piece of level ground adjoining to the Preceptory, which had been
levelled with care, for the exercise of military and chivalrous sports.
It occupied the brow of a soft and gentle eminence, was carefully
palisaded around, and, as the Templars willingly invited spectators to
be witnesses of their skill in feats of chivalry, was amply supplied
with galleries and benches for their use.

On the present occasion, a throne was erected for the Grand Master at
the east end, surrounded with seats of distinction for the Preceptors
and Knights of the Order. Over these floated the sacred standard,
called “Le Beau-seant”, which was the ensign, as its name was the
battle-cry, of the Templars.

At the opposite end of the lists was a pile of faggots, so arranged
around a stake, deeply fixed in the ground, as to leave a space for the
victim whom they were destined to consume, to enter within the fatal
circle, in order to be chained to the stake by the fetters which hung
ready for that purpose. Beside this deadly apparatus stood four black
slaves, whose colour and African features, then so little known in
England, appalled the multitude, who gazed on them as on demons
employed about their own diabolical exercises. These men stirred not,
excepting now and then, under the direction of one who seemed their
chief, to shift and replace the ready fuel. They looked not on the
multitude. In fact, they seemed insensible of their presence, and of
every thing save the discharge of their own horrible duty.

And when, in speech with each other, they expanded their blubber lips,
and showed their white fangs, as if they grinned at the thoughts of the
expected tragedy, the startled commons could scarcely help believing
that they were actually the familiar spirits with whom the witch had
communed, and who, her time being out, stood ready to assist in her
dreadful punishment. They whispered to each other, and communicated all
the feats which Satan had performed during that busy and unhappy
period, not failing, of course, to give the devil rather more than his
due.

“Have you not heard, Father Dennet,” quoth one boor to another advanced
in years, “that the devil has carried away bodily the great Saxon
Thane, Athelstane of Coningsburgh?”

“Ay, but he brought him back though, by the blessing of God and Saint
Dunstan.”

“How’s that?” said a brisk young fellow, dressed in a green cassock
embroidered with gold, and having at his heels a stout lad bearing a
harp upon his back, which betrayed his vocation. The Minstrel seemed of
no vulgar rank; for, besides the splendour of his gaily braidered
doublet, he wore around his neck a silver chain, by which hung the
“wrest”, or key, with which he tuned his harp. On his right arm was a
silver plate, which, instead of bearing, as usual, the cognizance or
badge of the baron to whose family he belonged, had barely the word
SHERWOOD engraved upon it.—“How mean you by that?” said the gay
Minstrel, mingling in the conversation of the peasants; “I came to seek
one subject for my rhyme, and, by’r Lady, I were glad to find two.”

“It is well avouched,” said the elder peasant, “that after Athelstane
of Coningsburgh had been dead four weeks—”

“That is impossible,” said the Minstrel; “I saw him in life at the
Passage of Arms at Ashby-de-la-Zouche.”

“Dead, however, he was, or else translated,” said the younger peasant;
“for I heard the Monks of Saint Edmund’s singing the death’s hymn for
him; and, moreover, there was a rich death-meal and dole at the Castle
of Coningsburgh, as right was; and thither had I gone, but for Mabel
Parkins, who—”

“Ay, dead was Athelstane,” said the old man, shaking his head, “and the
more pity it was, for the old Saxon blood—”

“But, your story, my masters—your story,” said the Minstrel, somewhat
impatiently.

“Ay, ay—construe us the story,” said a burly Friar, who stood beside
them, leaning on a pole that exhibited an appearance between a
pilgrim’s staff and a quarter-staff, and probably acted as either when
occasion served,—“Your story,” said the stalwart churchman; “burn not
daylight about it—we have short time to spare.”

“An please your reverence,” said Dennet, “a drunken priest came to
visit the Sacristan at Saint Edmund’s—-”

“It does not please my reverence,” answered the churchman, “that there
should be such an animal as a drunken priest, or, if there were, that a
layman should so speak him. Be mannerly, my friend, and conclude the
holy man only wrapt in meditation, which makes the head dizzy and foot
unsteady, as if the stomach were filled with new wine—I have felt it
myself.”

“Well, then,” answered Father Dennet, “a holy brother came to visit the
Sacristan at Saint Edmund’s—a sort of hedge-priest is the visitor, and
kills half the deer that are stolen in the forest, who loves the
tinkling of a pint-pot better than the sacring-bell, and deems a flitch
of bacon worth ten of his breviary; for the rest, a good fellow and a
merry, who will flourish a quarter-staff, draw a bow, and dance a
Cheshire round, with e’er a man in Yorkshire.”

“That last part of thy speech, Dennet,” said the Minstrel, “has saved
thee a rib or twain.”

“Tush, man, I fear him not,” said Dennet; “I am somewhat old and stiff,
but when I fought for the bell and ram at Doncaster—”

“But the story—the story, my friend,” again said the Minstrel.

“Why, the tale is but this—Athelstane of Coningsburgh was buried at
Saint Edmund’s.”

“That’s a lie, and a loud one,” said the Friar, “for I saw him borne to
his own Castle of Coningsburgh.”

“Nay, then, e’en tell the story yourself, my masters,” said Dennet,
turning sulky at these repeated contradictions; and it was with some
difficulty that the boor could be prevailed on, by the request of his
comrade and the Minstrel, to renew his tale.—“These two ‘sober’
friars,” said he at length, “since this reverend man will needs have
them such, had continued drinking good ale, and wine, and what not, for
the best part for a summer’s day, when they were aroused by a deep
groan, and a clanking of chains, and the figure of the deceased
Athelstane entered the apartment, saying, ‘Ye evil shep-herds!—’”

“It is false,” said the Friar, hastily, “he never spoke a word.”

“So ho! Friar Tuck,” said the Minstrel, drawing him apart from the
rustics; “we have started a new hare, I find.”

“I tell thee, Allan-a-Dale,” said the Hermit, “I saw Athelstane of
Coningsburgh as much as bodily eyes ever saw a living man. He had his
shroud on, and all about him smelt of the sepulchre—A butt of sack will
not wash it out of my memory.”

“Pshaw!” answered the Minstrel; “thou dost but jest with me!”

“Never believe me,” said the Friar, “an I fetched not a knock at him
with my quarter-staff that would have felled an ox, and it glided
through his body as it might through a pillar of smoke!”

“By Saint Hubert,” said the Minstrel, “but it is a wondrous tale, and
fit to be put in metre to the ancient tune, ‘Sorrow came to the old
Friar.’”

“Laugh, if ye list,” said Friar Tuck; “but an ye catch me singing on
such a theme, may the next ghost or devil carry me off with him
headlong! No, no—I instantly formed the purpose of assisting at some
good work, such as the burning of a witch, a judicial combat, or the
like matter of godly service, and therefore am I here.”

As they thus conversed, the heavy bell of the church of Saint Michael
of Templestowe, a venerable building, situated in a hamlet at some
distance from the Preceptory, broke short their argument. One by one
the sullen sounds fell successively on the ear, leaving but sufficient
space for each to die away in distant echo, ere the air was again
filled by repetition of the iron knell. These sounds, the signal of the
approaching ceremony, chilled with awe the hearts of the assembled
multitude, whose eyes were now turned to the Preceptory, expecting the
approach of the Grand Master, the champion, and the criminal.

At length the drawbridge fell, the gates opened, and a knight, bearing
the great standard of the Order, sallied from the castle, preceded by
six trumpets, and followed by the Knights Preceptors, two and two, the
Grand Master coming last, mounted on a stately horse, whose furniture
was of the simplest kind. Behind him came Brian de Bois-Guilbert, armed
cap-a-pie in bright armour, but without his lance, shield, and sword,
which were borne by his two esquires behind him. His face, though
partly hidden by a long plume which floated down from his barrel-cap,
bore a strong and mingled expression of passion, in which pride seemed
to contend with irresolution. He looked ghastly pale, as if he had not
slept for several nights, yet reined his pawing war-horse with the
habitual ease and grace proper to the best lance of the Order of the
Temple. His general appearance was grand and commanding; but, looking
at him with attention, men read that in his dark features, from which
they willingly withdrew their eyes.

On either side rode Conrade of Mont-Fitchet, and Albert de Malvoisin,
who acted as godfathers to the champion. They were in their robes of
peace, the white dress of the Order. Behind them followed other
Companions of the Temple, with a long train of esquires and pages clad
in black, aspirants to the honour of being one day Knights of the
Order. After these neophytes came a guard of warders on foot, in the
same sable livery, amidst whose partisans might be seen the pale form
of the accused, moving with a slow but undismayed step towards the
scene of her fate. She was stript of all her ornaments, lest perchance
there should be among them some of those amulets which Satan was
supposed to bestow upon his victims, to deprive them of the power of
confession even when under the torture. A coarse white dress, of the
simplest form, had been substituted for her Oriental garments; yet
there was such an exquisite mixture of courage and resignation in her
look, that even in this garb, and with no other ornament than her long
black tresses, each eye wept that looked upon her, and the most
hardened bigot regretted the fate that had converted a creature so
goodly into a vessel of wrath, and a waged slave of the devil.

A crowd of inferior personages belonging to the Preceptory followed the
victim, all moving with the utmost order, with arms folded, and looks
bent upon the ground.

This slow procession moved up the gentle eminence, on the summit of
which was the tiltyard, and, entering the lists, marched once around
them from right to left, and when they had completed the circle, made a
halt. There was then a momentary bustle, while the Grand Master and all
his attendants, excepting the champion and his godfathers, dismounted
from their horses, which were immediately removed out of the lists by
the esquires, who were in attendance for that purpose.

The unfortunate Rebecca was conducted to the black chair placed near
the pile. On her first glance at the terrible spot where preparations
were making for a death alike dismaying to the mind and painful to the
body, she was observed to shudder and shut her eyes, praying internally
doubtless, for her lips moved though no speech was heard. In the space
of a minute she opened her eyes, looked fixedly on the pile as if to
familiarize her mind with the object, and then slowly and naturally
turned away her head.

Meanwhile, the Grand Master had assumed his seat; and when the chivalry
of his order was placed around and behind him, each in his due rank, a
loud and long flourish of the trumpets announced that the Court were
seated for judgment. Malvoisin, then, acting as godfather of the
champion, stepped forward, and laid the glove of the Jewess, which was
the pledge of battle, at the feet of the Grand Master.

“Valorous Lord, and reverend Father,” said he, “here standeth the good
Knight, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, Knight Preceptor of the Order of the
Temple, who, by accepting the pledge of battle which I now lay at your
reverence’s feet, hath become bound to do his devoir in combat this
day, to maintain that this Jewish maiden, by name Rebecca, hath justly
deserved the doom passed upon her in a Chapter of this most Holy Order
of the Temple of Zion, condemning her to die as a sorceress;—here, I
say, he standeth, such battle to do, knightly and honourable, if such
be your noble and sanctified pleasure.”

“Hath he made oath,” said the Grand Master, “that his quarrel is just
and honourable? Bring forward the Crucifix and the ‘Te igitur’.”

“Sir, and most reverend father,” answered Malvoisin, readily, “our
brother here present hath already sworn to the truth of his accusation
in the hand of the good Knight Conrade de Mont-Fitchet; and otherwise
he ought not to be sworn, seeing that his adversary is an unbeliever,
and may take no oath.”

This explanation was satisfactory, to Albert’s great joy; for the wily
knight had foreseen the great difficulty, or rather impossibility, of
prevailing upon Brian de Bois-Guilbert to take such an oath before the
assembly, and had invented this excuse to escape the necessity of his
doing so.

The Grand Master, having allowed the apology of Albert Malvoisin,
commanded the herald to stand forth and do his devoir. The trumpets
then again flourished, and a herald, stepping forward, proclaimed
aloud,—“Oyez, oyez, oyez.—Here standeth the good Knight, Sir Brian de
Bois-Guilbert, ready to do battle with any knight of free blood, who
will sustain the quarrel allowed and allotted to the Jewess Rebecca, to
try by champion, in respect of lawful essoine of her own body; and to
such champion the reverend and valorous Grand Master here present
allows a fair field, and equal partition of sun and wind, and whatever
else appertains to a fair combat.” The trumpets again sounded, and
there was a dead pause of many minutes.

“No champion appears for the appellant,” said the Grand Master. “Go,
herald, and ask her whether she expects any one to do battle for her in
this her cause.” The herald went to the chair in which Rebecca was
seated, and Bois-Guilbert suddenly turning his horse’s head toward that
end of the lists, in spite of hints on either side from Malvoisin and
Mont-Fitchet, was by the side of Rebecca’s chair as soon as the herald.

“Is this regular, and according to the law of combat?” said Malvoisin,
looking to the Grand Master.

“Albert de Malvoisin, it is,” answered Beaumanoir; “for in this appeal
to the judgment of God, we may not prohibit parties from having that
communication with each other, which may best tend to bring forth the
truth of the quarrel.”

In the meantime, the herald spoke to Rebecca in these terms:—“Damsel,
the Honourable and Reverend the Grand Master demands of thee, if thou
art prepared with a champion to do battle this day in thy behalf, or if
thou dost yield thee as one justly condemned to a deserved doom?”

“Say to the Grand Master,” replied Rebecca, “that I maintain my
innocence, and do not yield me as justly condemned, lest I become
guilty of mine own blood. Say to him, that I challenge such delay as
his forms will permit, to see if God, whose opportunity is in man’s
extremity, will raise me up a deliverer; and when such uttermost space
is passed, may His holy will be done!” The herald retired to carry this
answer to the Grand Master.

“God forbid,” said Lucas Beaumanoir, “that Jew or Pagan should impeach
us of injustice!—Until the shadows be cast from the west to the
eastward, will we wait to see if a champion shall appear for this
unfortunate woman. When the day is so far passed, let her prepare for
death.”

The herald communicated the words of the Grand Master to Rebecca, who
bowed her head submissively, folded her arms, and, looking up towards
heaven, seemed to expect that aid from above which she could scarce
promise herself from man. During this awful pause, the voice of
Bois-Guilbert broke upon her ear—it was but a whisper, yet it startled
her more than the summons of the herald had appeared to do.

“Rebecca,” said the Templar, “dost thou hear me?”

“I have no portion in thee, cruel, hard-hearted man,” said the
unfortunate maiden.

“Ay, but dost thou understand my words?” said the Templar; “for the
sound of my voice is frightful in mine own ears. I scarce know on what
ground we stand, or for what purpose they have brought us hither.—This
listed space—that chair—these faggots—I know their purpose, and yet it
appears to me like something unreal—the fearful picture of a vision,
which appals my sense with hideous fantasies, but convinces not my
reason.”

“My mind and senses keep touch and time,” answered Rebecca, “and tell
me alike that these faggots are destined to consume my earthly body,
and open a painful but a brief passage to a better world.”

“Dreams, Rebecca,—dreams,” answered the Templar; “idle visions,
rejected by the wisdom of your own wiser Sadducees. Hear me, Rebecca,”
he said, proceeding with animation; “a better chance hast thou for life
and liberty than yonder knaves and dotard dream of. Mount thee behind
me on my steed—on Zamor, the gallant horse that never failed his rider.
I won him in single fight from the Soldan of Trebizond—mount, I say,
behind me—in one short hour is pursuit and enquiry far behind—a new
world of pleasure opens to thee—to me a new career of fame. Let them
speak the doom which I despise, and erase the name of Bois-Guilbert
from their list of monastic slaves! I will wash out with blood whatever
blot they may dare to cast on my scutcheon.”

[Illustration]

“Tempter,” said Rebecca, “begone!—Not in this last extremity canst thou
move me one hair’s-breadth from my resting place—surrounded as I am by
foes, I hold thee as my worst and most deadly enemy—avoid thee, in the
name of God!”

Albert Malvoisin, alarmed and impatient at the duration of their
conference, now advanced to interrupt it.

“Hath the maiden acknowledged her guilt?” he demanded of Bois-Guilbert;
“or is she resolute in her denial?”

“She is indeed resolute,” said Bois-Guilbert.

“Then,” said Malvoisin, “must thou, noble brother, resume thy place to
attend the issue—The shades are changing on the circle of the
dial—Come, brave Bois-Guilbert—come, thou hope of our holy Order, and
soon to be its head.”

As he spoke in this soothing tone, he laid his hand on the knight’s
bridle, as if to lead him back to his station.

“False villain! what meanest thou by thy hand on my rein?” said Sir
Brian, angrily. And shaking off his companion’s grasp, he rode back to
the upper end of the lists.

“There is yet spirit in him,” said Malvoisin apart to Mont-Fitchet,
“were it well directed—but, like the Greek fire, it burns whatever
approaches it.”

The Judges had now been two hours in the lists, awaiting in vain the
appearance of a champion.

“And reason good,” said Friar Tuck, “seeing she is a Jewess—and yet, by
mine Order, it is hard that so young and beautiful a creature should
perish without one blow being struck in her behalf! Were she ten times
a witch, provided she were but the least bit of a Christian, my
quarter-staff should ring noon on the steel cap of yonder fierce
Templar, ere he carried the matter off thus.”

It was, however, the general belief that no one could or would appear
for a Jewess, accused of sorcery; and the knights, instigated by
Malvoisin, whispered to each other, that it was time to declare the
pledge of Rebecca forfeited. At this instant a knight, urging his horse
to speed, appeared on the plain advancing towards the lists. A hundred
voices exclaimed, “A champion! a champion!” And despite the
prepossessions and prejudices of the multitude, they shouted
unanimously as the knight rode into the tiltyard. The second glance,
however, served to destroy the hope that his timely arrival had
excited. His horse, urged for many miles to its utmost speed, appeared
to reel from fatigue, and the rider, however undauntedly he presented
himself in the lists, either from weakness, weariness, or both, seemed
scarce able to support himself in the saddle.

To the summons of the herald, who demanded his rank, his name, and
purpose, the stranger knight answered readily and boldly, “I am a good
knight and noble, come hither to sustain with lance and sword the just
and lawful quarrel of this damsel, Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York;
to uphold the doom pronounced against her to be false and truthless,
and to defy Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, as a traitor, murderer, and
liar; as I will prove in this field with my body against his, by the
aid of God, of Our Lady, and of Monseigneur Saint George, the good
knight.”

“The stranger must first show,” said Malvoisin, “that he is good
knight, and of honourable lineage. The Temple sendeth not forth her
champions against nameless men.”

“My name,” said the Knight, raising his helmet, “is better known, my
lineage more pure, Malvoisin, than thine own. I am Wilfred of Ivanhoe.”

“I will not fight with thee at present,” said the Templar, in a changed
and hollow voice. “Get thy wounds healed, purvey thee a better horse,
and it may be I will hold it worth my while to scourge out of thee this
boyish spirit of bravado.”

“Ha! proud Templar,” said Ivanhoe, “hast thou forgotten that twice
didst thou fall before this lance? Remember the lists at Acre—remember
the Passage of Arms at Ashby—remember thy proud vaunt in the halls of
Rotherwood, and the gage of your gold chain against my reliquary, that
thou wouldst do battle with Wilfred of Ivanhoe, and recover the honour
thou hadst lost! By that reliquary and the holy relic it contains, I
will proclaim thee, Templar, a coward in every court in Europe—in every
Preceptory of thine Order—unless thou do battle without farther delay.”

Bois-Guilbert turned his countenance irresolutely towards Rebecca, and
then exclaimed, looking fiercely at Ivanhoe, “Dog of a Saxon! take thy
lance, and prepare for the death thou hast drawn upon thee!”

“Does the Grand Master allow me the combat?” said Ivanhoe.

“I may not deny what thou hast challenged,” said the Grand Master,
“provided the maiden accepts thee as her champion. Yet I would thou
wert in better plight to do battle. An enemy of our Order hast thou
ever been, yet would I have thee honourably met with.”

“Thus—thus as I am, and not otherwise,” said Ivanhoe; “it is the
judgment of God—to his keeping I commend myself.—Rebecca,” said he,
riding up to the fatal chair, “dost thou accept of me for thy
champion?”

“I do,” she said—“I do,” fluttered by an emotion which the fear of
death had been unable to produce, “I do accept thee as the champion
whom Heaven hath sent me. Yet, no—no—thy wounds are uncured—Meet not
that proud man—why shouldst thou perish also?”

But Ivanhoe was already at his post, and had closed his visor, and
assumed his lance. Bois-Guilbert did the same; and his esquire
remarked, as he clasped his visor, that his face, which had,
notwithstanding the variety of emotions by which he had been agitated,
continued during the whole morning of an ashy paleness, was now become
suddenly very much flushed.

The herald, then, seeing each champion in his place, uplifted his
voice, repeating thrice—“Faites vos devoirs, preux chevaliers!” After
the third cry, he withdrew to one side of the lists, and again
proclaimed, that none, on peril of instant death, should dare, by word,
cry, or action, to interfere with or disturb this fair field of combat.
The Grand Master, who held in his hand the gage of battle, Rebecca’s
glove, now threw it into the lists, and pronounced the fatal signal
words, “Laissez aller”.

The trumpets sounded, and the knights charged each other in full
career. The wearied horse of Ivanhoe, and its no less exhausted rider,
went down, as all had expected, before the well-aimed lance and
vigorous steed of the Templar. This issue of the combat all had
foreseen; but although the spear of Ivanhoe did but, in comparison,
touch the shield of Bois-Guilbert, that champion, to the astonishment
of all who beheld it reeled in his saddle, lost his stirrups, and fell
in the lists.

Ivanhoe, extricating himself from his fallen horse, was soon on foot,
hastening to mend his fortune with his sword; but his antagonist arose
not. Wilfred, placing his foot on his breast, and the sword’s point to
his throat, commanded him to yield him, or die on the spot.
Bois-Guilbert returned no answer.

“Slay him not, Sir Knight,” cried the Grand Master, “unshriven and
unabsolved—kill not body and soul! We allow him vanquished.”

He descended into the lists, and commanded them to unhelm the conquered
champion. His eyes were closed—the dark red flush was still on his
brow. As they looked on him in astonishment, the eyes opened—but they
were fixed and glazed. The flush passed from his brow, and gave way to
the pallid hue of death. Unscathed by the lance of his enemy, he had
died a victim to the violence of his own contending passions.

“This is indeed the judgment of God,” said the Grand Master, looking
upwards—“‘Fiat voluntas tua!’”




CHAPTER XLIV


So! now ’tis ended, like an old wife’s story.


WEBSTER


When the first moments of surprise were over, Wilfred of Ivanhoe
demanded of the Grand Master, as judge of the field, if he had manfully
and rightfully done his duty in the combat? “Manfully and rightfully
hath it been done,” said the Grand Master. “I pronounce the maiden free
and guiltless—The arms and the body of the deceased knight are at the
will of the victor.”

“I will not despoil him of his weapons,” said the Knight of Ivanhoe,
“nor condemn his corpse to shame—he hath fought for Christendom—God’s
arm, no human hand, hath this day struck him down. But let his
obsequies be private, as becomes those of a man who died in an unjust
quarrel.—And for the maiden—”

He was interrupted by a clattering of horses’ feet, advancing in such
numbers, and so rapidly, as to shake the ground before them; and the
Black Knight galloped into the lists. He was followed by a numerous
band of men-at-arms, and several knights in complete armour.

“I am too late,” he said, looking around him. “I had doomed
Bois-Guilbert for mine own property.—Ivanhoe, was this well, to take on
thee such a venture, and thou scarce able to keep thy saddle?”

“Heaven, my Liege,” answered Ivanhoe, “hath taken this proud man for
its victim. He was not to be honoured in dying as your will had
designed.”

“Peace be with him,” said Richard, looking steadfastly on the corpse,
“if it may be so—he was a gallant knight, and has died in his steel
harness full knightly. But we must waste no time—Bohun, do thine
office!”

A Knight stepped forward from the King’s attendants, and, laying his
hand on the shoulder of Albert de Malvoisin, said, “I arrest thee of
High Treason.”

The Grand Master had hitherto stood astonished at the appearance of so
many warriors.—He now spoke.

“Who dares to arrest a Knight of the Temple of Zion, within the girth
of his own Preceptory, and in the presence of the Grand Master? and by
whose authority is this bold outrage offered?”

“I make the arrest,” replied the Knight—“I, Henry Bohun, Earl of Essex,
Lord High Constable of England.”

“And he arrests Malvoisin,” said the King, raising his visor, “by the
order of Richard Plantagenet, here present.—Conrade Mont-Fitchet, it is
well for thee thou art born no subject of mine.—But for thee,
Malvoisin, thou diest with thy brother Philip, ere the world be a week
older.”

“I will resist thy doom,” said the Grand Master.

“Proud Templar,” said the King, “thou canst not—look up, and behold the
Royal Standard of England floats over thy towers instead of thy Temple
banner!—Be wise, Beaumanoir, and make no bootless opposition—Thy hand
is in the lion’s mouth.”

“I will appeal to Rome against thee,” said the Grand Master, “for
usurpation on the immunities and privileges of our Order.”

“Be it so,” said the King; “but for thine own sake tax me not with
usurpation now. Dissolve thy Chapter, and depart with thy followers to
thy next Preceptory, (if thou canst find one), which has not been made
the scene of treasonable conspiracy against the King of England—Or, if
thou wilt, remain, to share our hospitality, and behold our justice.”

“To be a guest in the house where I should command?” said the Templar;
“never!—Chaplains, raise the Psalm, ‘Quare fremuerunt Gentes?’—Knights,
squires, and followers of the Holy Temple, prepare to follow the banner
of ‘Beau-seant!’”

The Grand Master spoke with a dignity which confronted even that of
England’s king himself, and inspired courage into his surprised and
dismayed followers. They gathered around him like the sheep around the
watch-dog, when they hear the baying of the wolf. But they evinced not
the timidity of the scared flock—there were dark brows of defiance, and
looks which menaced the hostility they dared not to proffer in words.
They drew together in a dark line of spears, from which the white
cloaks of the knights were visible among the dusky garments of their
retainers, like the lighter-coloured edges of a sable cloud. The
multitude, who had raised a clamorous shout of reprobation, paused and
gazed in silence on the formidable and experienced body to which they
had unwarily bade defiance, and shrunk back from their front.

The Earl of Essex, when he beheld them pause in their assembled force,
dashed the rowels into his charger’s sides, and galloped backwards and
forwards to array his followers, in opposition to a band so formidable.
Richard alone, as if he loved the danger his presence had provoked,
rode slowly along the front of the Templars, calling aloud, “What,
sirs! Among so many gallant knights, will none dare splinter a spear
with Richard?—Sirs of the Temple! your ladies are but sun-burned, if
they are not worth the shiver of a broken lance?”

“The Brethren of the Temple,” said the Grand Master, riding forward in
advance of their body, “fight not on such idle and profane quarrel—and
not with thee, Richard of England, shall a Templar cross lance in my
presence. The Pope and Princes of Europe shall judge our quarrel, and
whether a Christian prince has done well in bucklering the cause which
thou hast to-day adopted. If unassailed, we depart assailing no one. To
thine honour we refer the armour and household goods of the Order which
we leave behind us, and on thy conscience we lay the scandal and
offence thou hast this day given to Christendom.”

With these words, and without waiting a reply, the Grand Master gave
the signal of departure. Their trumpets sounded a wild march, of an
Oriental character, which formed the usual signal for the Templars to
advance. They changed their array from a line to a column of march, and
moved off as slowly as their horses could step, as if to show it was
only the will of their Grand Master, and no fear of the opposing and
superior force, which compelled them to withdraw.

“By the splendour of Our Lady’s brow!” said King Richard, “it is pity
of their lives that these Templars are not so trusty as they are
disciplined and valiant.”

The multitude, like a timid cur which waits to bark till the object of
its challenge has turned his back, raised a feeble shout as the rear of
the squadron left the ground.

During the tumult which attended the retreat of the Templars, Rebecca
saw and heard nothing—she was locked in the arms of her aged father,
giddy, and almost senseless, with the rapid change of circumstances
around her. But one word from Isaac at length recalled her scattered
feelings.

“Let us go,” he said, “my dear daughter, my recovered treasure—let us
go to throw ourselves at the feet of the good youth.”

“Not so,” said Rebecca, “O no—no—no—I must not at this moment dare to
speak to him—Alas! I should say more than—No, my father, let us
instantly leave this evil place.”

“But, my daughter,” said Isaac, “to leave him who hath come forth like
a strong man with his spear and shield, holding his life as nothing, so
he might redeem thy captivity; and thou, too, the daughter of a people
strange unto him and his—this is service to be thankfully
acknowledged.”

“It is—it is—most thankfully—most devoutly acknowledged,” said
Rebecca—“it shall be still more so—but not now—for the sake of thy
beloved Rachel, father, grant my request—not now!”

“Nay, but,” said Isaac, insisting, “they will deem us more thankless
than mere dogs!”

“But thou seest, my dear father, that King Richard is in presence, and
that—-”

“True, my best—my wisest Rebecca!—Let us hence—let us hence!—Money he
will lack, for he has just returned from Palestine, and, as they say,
from prison—and pretext for exacting it, should he need any, may arise
out of my simple traffic with his brother John. Away, away, let us
hence!”

And hurrying his daughter in his turn, he conducted her from the lists,
and by means of conveyance which he had provided, transported her
safely to the house of the Rabbi Nathan.

The Jewess, whose fortunes had formed the principal interest of the
day, having now retired unobserved, the attention of the populace was
transferred to the Black Knight. They now filled the air with “Long
life to Richard with the Lion’s Heart, and down with the usurping
Templars!”

“Notwithstanding all this lip-loyalty,” said Ivanhoe to the Earl of
Essex, “it was well the King took the precaution to bring thee with
him, noble Earl, and so many of thy trusty followers.”

The Earl smiled and shook his head.

“Gallant Ivanhoe,” said Essex, “dost thou know our Master so well, and
yet suspect him of taking so wise a precaution! I was drawing towards
York having heard that Prince John was making head there, when I met
King Richard, like a true knight-errant, galloping hither to achieve in
his own person this adventure of the Templar and the Jewess, with his
own single arm. I accompanied him with my band, almost maugre his
consent.”

“And what news from York, brave Earl?” said Ivanhoe; “will the rebels
bide us there?”

“No more than December’s snow will bide July’s sun,” said the Earl;
“they are dispersing; and who should come posting to bring us the news,
but John himself!”

“The traitor! the ungrateful insolent traitor!” said Ivanhoe; “did not
Richard order him into confinement?”

“O! he received him,” answered the Earl, “as if they had met after a
hunting party; and, pointing to me and our men-at-arms, said, ‘Thou
seest, brother, I have some angry men with me—thou wert best go to our
mother, carry her my duteous affection, and abide with her until men’s
minds are pacified.’”

“And this was all he said?” enquired Ivanhoe; “would not any one say
that this Prince invites men to treason by his clemency?”

“Just,” replied the Earl, “as the man may be said to invite death, who
undertakes to fight a combat, having a dangerous wound unhealed.”

“I forgive thee the jest, Lord Earl,” said Ivanhoe; “but, remember, I
hazarded but my own life—Richard, the welfare of his kingdom.”

“Those,” replied Essex, “who are specially careless of their own
welfare, are seldom remarkably attentive to that of others—But let us
haste to the castle, for Richard meditates punishing some of the
subordinate members of the conspiracy, though he has pardoned their
principal.”

From the judicial investigations which followed on this occasion, and
which are given at length in the Wardour Manuscript, it appears that
Maurice de Bracy escaped beyond seas, and went into the service of
Philip of France; while Philip de Malvoisin, and his brother Albert,
the Preceptor of Templestowe, were executed, although Waldemar
Fitzurse, the soul of the conspiracy, escaped with banishment; and
Prince John, for whose behoof it was undertaken, was not even censured
by his good-natured brother. No one, however, pitied the fate of the
two Malvoisins, who only suffered the death which they had both well
deserved, by many acts of falsehood, cruelty, and oppression.

Briefly after the judicial combat, Cedric the Saxon was summoned to the
court of Richard, which, for the purpose of quieting the counties that
had been disturbed by the ambition of his brother, was then held at
York. Cedric tushed and pshawed more than once at the message—but he
refused not obedience. In fact, the return of Richard had quenched
every hope that he had entertained of restoring a Saxon dynasty in
England; for, whatever head the Saxons might have made in the event of
a civil war, it was plain that nothing could be done under the
undisputed dominion of Richard, popular as he was by his personal good
qualities and military fame, although his administration was wilfully
careless, now too indulgent, and now allied to despotism.

But, moreover, it could not escape even Cedric’s reluctant observation,
that his project for an absolute union among the Saxons, by the
marriage of Rowena and Athelstane, was now completely at an end, by the
mutual dissent of both parties concerned. This was, indeed, an event
which, in his ardour for the Saxon cause, he could not have
anticipated, and even when the disinclination of both was broadly and
plainly manifested, he could scarce bring himself to believe that two
Saxons of royal descent should scruple, on personal grounds, at an
alliance so necessary for the public weal of the nation. But it was not
the less certain: Rowena had always expressed her repugnance to
Athelstane, and now Athelstane was no less plain and positive in
proclaiming his resolution never to pursue his addresses to the Lady
Rowena. Even the natural obstinacy of Cedric sunk beneath these
obstacles, where he, remaining on the point of junction, had the task
of dragging a reluctant pair up to it, one with each hand. He made,
however, a last vigorous attack on Athelstane, and he found that
resuscitated sprout of Saxon royalty engaged, like country squires of
our own day, in a furious war with the clergy.

It seems that, after all his deadly menaces against the Abbot of Saint
Edmund’s, Athelstane’s spirit of revenge, what between the natural
indolent kindness of his own disposition, what through the prayers of
his mother Edith, attached, like most ladies, (of the period,) to the
clerical order, had terminated in his keeping the Abbot and his monks
in the dungeons of Coningsburgh for three days on a meagre diet. For
this atrocity the Abbot menaced him with excommunication, and made out
a dreadful list of complaints in the bowels and stomach, suffered by
himself and his monks, in consequence of the tyrannical and unjust
imprisonment they had sustained. With this controversy, and with the
means he had adopted to counteract this clerical persecution, Cedric
found the mind of his friend Athelstane so fully occupied, that it had
no room for another idea. And when Rowena’s name was mentioned the
noble Athelstane prayed leave to quaff a full goblet to her health, and
that she might soon be the bride of his kinsman Wilfred. It was a
desperate case therefore. There was obviously no more to be made of
Athelstane; or, as Wamba expressed it, in a phrase which has descended
from Saxon times to ours, he was a cock that would not fight.

There remained betwixt Cedric and the determination which the lovers
desired to come to, only two obstacles—his own obstinacy, and his
dislike of the Norman dynasty. The former feeling gradually gave way
before the endearments of his ward, and the pride which he could not
help nourishing in the fame of his son. Besides, he was not insensible
to the honour of allying his own line to that of Alfred, when the
superior claims of the descendant of Edward the Confessor were
abandoned for ever. Cedric’s aversion to the Norman race of kings was
also much undermined,—first, by consideration of the impossibility of
ridding England of the new dynasty, a feeling which goes far to create
loyalty in the subject to the king “de facto”; and, secondly, by the
personal attention of King Richard, who delighted in the blunt humour
of Cedric, and, to use the language of the Wardour Manuscript, so dealt
with the noble Saxon, that, ere he had been a guest at court for seven
days, he had given his consent to the marriage of his ward Rowena and
his son Wilfred of Ivanhoe.

The nuptials of our hero, thus formally approved by his father, were
celebrated in the most august of temples, the noble Minster of York.
The King himself attended, and from the countenance which he afforded
on this and other occasions to the distressed and hitherto degraded
Saxons, gave them a safer and more certain prospect of attaining their
just rights, than they could reasonably hope from the precarious chance
of a civil war. The Church gave her full solemnities, graced with all
the splendour which she of Rome knows how to apply with such brilliant
effect.

Gurth, gallantly apparelled, attended as esquire upon his young master
whom he had served so faithfully, and the magnanimous Wamba, decorated
with a new cap and a most gorgeous set of silver bells. Sharers of
Wilfred’s dangers and adversity, they remained, as they had a right to
expect, the partakers of his more prosperous career.

But besides this domestic retinue, these distinguished nuptials were
celebrated by the attendance of the high-born Normans, as well as
Saxons, joined with the universal jubilee of the lower orders, that
marked the marriage of two individuals as a pledge of the future peace
and harmony betwixt two races, which, since that period, have been so
completely mingled, that the distinction has become wholly invisible.
Cedric lived to see this union approximate towards its completion; for
as the two nations mixed in society and formed intermarriages with each
other, the Normans abated their scorn, and the Saxons were refined from
their rusticity. But it was not until the reign of Edward the Third
that the mixed language, now termed English, was spoken at the court of
London, and that the hostile distinction of Norman and Saxon seems
entirely to have disappeared.

It was upon the second morning after this happy bridal, that the Lady
Rowena was made acquainted by her handmaid Elgitha, that a damsel
desired admission to her presence, and solicited that their parley
might be without witness. Rowena wondered, hesitated, became curious,
and ended by commanding the damsel to be admitted, and her attendants
to withdraw.

She entered—a noble and commanding figure, the long white veil, in
which she was shrouded, overshadowing rather than concealing the
elegance and majesty of her shape. Her demeanour was that of respect,
unmingled by the least shade either of fear, or of a wish to propitiate
favour. Rowena was ever ready to acknowledge the claims, and attend to
the feelings, of others. She arose, and would have conducted her lovely
visitor to a seat; but the stranger looked at Elgitha, and again
intimated a wish to discourse with the Lady Rowena alone. Elgitha had
no sooner retired with unwilling steps, than, to the surprise of the
Lady of Ivanhoe, her fair visitant kneeled on one knee, pressed her
hands to her forehead, and bending her head to the ground, in spite of
Rowena’s resistance, kissed the embroidered hem of her tunic.

[Illustration]

“What means this, lady?” said the surprised bride; “or why do you offer
to me a deference so unusual?”

“Because to you, Lady of Ivanhoe,” said Rebecca, rising up and resuming
the usual quiet dignity of her manner, “I may lawfully, and without
rebuke, pay the debt of gratitude which I owe to Wilfred of Ivanhoe. I
am—forgive the boldness which has offered to you the homage of my
country—I am the unhappy Jewess, for whom your husband hazarded his
life against such fearful odds in the tiltyard of Templestowe.”

“Damsel,” said Rowena, “Wilfred of Ivanhoe on that day rendered back
but in slight measure your unceasing charity towards him in his wounds
and misfortunes. Speak, is there aught remains in which he or I can
serve thee?”

“Nothing,” said Rebecca, calmly, “unless you will transmit to him my
grateful farewell.”

“You leave England then?” said Rowena, scarce recovering the surprise
of this extraordinary visit.

“I leave it, lady, ere this moon again changes. My father had a brother
high in favour with Mohammed Boabdil, King of Grenada—thither we go,
secure of peace and protection, for the payment of such ransom as the
Moslem exact from our people.”

“And are you not then as well protected in England?” said Rowena. “My
husband has favour with the King—the King himself is just and
generous.”

“Lady,” said Rebecca, “I doubt it not—but the people of England are a
fierce race, quarrelling ever with their neighbours or among
themselves, and ready to plunge the sword into the bowels of each
other. Such is no safe abode for the children of my people. Ephraim is
an heartless dove—Issachar an over-laboured drudge, which stoops
between two burdens. Not in a land of war and blood, surrounded by
hostile neighbours, and distracted by internal factions, can Israel
hope to rest during her wanderings.”

“But you, maiden,” said Rowena—“you surely can have nothing to fear.
She who nursed the sick-bed of Ivanhoe,” she continued, rising with
enthusiasm—“she can have nothing to fear in England, where Saxon and
Norman will contend who shall most do her honour.”

“Thy speech is fair, lady,” said Rebecca, “and thy purpose fairer; but
it may not be—there is a gulf betwixt us. Our breeding, our faith,
alike forbid either to pass over it. Farewell—yet, ere I go indulge me
one request. The bridal-veil hangs over thy face; deign to raise it,
and let me see the features of which fame speaks so highly.”

“They are scarce worthy of being looked upon,” said Rowena; “but,
expecting the same from my visitant, I remove the veil.”

She took it off accordingly; and, partly from the consciousness of
beauty, partly from bashfulness, she blushed so intensely, that cheek,
brow, neck, and bosom, were suffused with crimson. Rebecca blushed
also, but it was a momentary feeling; and, mastered by higher emotions,
past slowly from her features like the crimson cloud, which changes
colour when the sun sinks beneath the horizon.

“Lady,” she said, “the countenance you have deigned to show me will
long dwell in my remembrance. There reigns in it gentleness and
goodness; and if a tinge of the world’s pride or vanities may mix with
an expression so lovely, how should we chide that which is of earth for
bearing some colour of its original? Long, long will I remember your
features, and bless God that I leave my noble deliverer united with—”

She stopped short—her eyes filled with tears. She hastily wiped them,
and answered to the anxious enquiries of Rowena—“I am well, lady—well.
But my heart swells when I think of Torquilstone and the lists of
Templestowe.—Farewell. One, the most trifling part of my duty, remains
undischarged. Accept this casket—startle not at its contents.”

Rowena opened the small silver-chased casket, and perceived a carcanet,
or neck lace, with ear-jewels, of diamonds, which were obviously of
immense value.

“It is impossible,” she said, tendering back the casket. “I dare not
accept a gift of such consequence.”

“Yet keep it, lady,” returned Rebecca.—“You have power, rank, command,
influence; we have wealth, the source both of our strength and
weakness; the value of these toys, ten times multiplied, would not
influence half so much as your slightest wish. To you, therefore, the
gift is of little value,—and to me, what I part with is of much less.
Let me not think you deem so wretchedly ill of my nation as your
commons believe. Think ye that I prize these sparkling fragments of
stone above my liberty? or that my father values them in comparison to
the honour of his only child? Accept them, lady—to me they are
valueless. I will never wear jewels more.”

“You are then unhappy!” said Rowena, struck with the manner in which
Rebecca uttered the last words. “O, remain with us—the counsel of holy
men will wean you from your erring law, and I will be a sister to you.”

“No, lady,” answered Rebecca, the same calm melancholy reigning in her
soft voice and beautiful features—“that—may not be. I may not change
the faith of my fathers like a garment unsuited to the climate in which
I seek to dwell, and unhappy, lady, I will not be. He, to whom I
dedicate my future life, will be my comforter, if I do His will.”

“Have you then convents, to one of which you mean to retire?” asked
Rowena.

“No, lady,” said the Jewess; “but among our people, since the time of
Abraham downwards, have been women who have devoted their thoughts to
Heaven, and their actions to works of kindness to men, tending the
sick, feeding the hungry, and relieving the distressed. Among these
will Rebecca be numbered. Say this to thy lord, should he chance to
enquire after the fate of her whose life he saved.”

There was an involuntary tremour on Rebecca’s voice, and a tenderness
of accent, which perhaps betrayed more than she would willingly have
expressed. She hastened to bid Rowena adieu.

“Farewell,” she said. “May He, who made both Jew and Christian, shower
down on you his choicest blessings! The bark that waits us hence will
be under weigh ere we can reach the port.”

She glided from the apartment, leaving Rowena surprised as if a vision
had passed before her. The fair Saxon related the singular conference
to her husband, on whose mind it made a deep impression. He lived long
and happily with Rowena, for they were attached to each other by the
bonds of early affection, and they loved each other the more, from the
recollection of the obstacles which had impeded their union. Yet it
would be enquiring too curiously to ask, whether the recollection of
Rebecca’s beauty and magnanimity did not recur to his mind more
frequently than the fair descendant of Alfred might altogether have
approved.

Ivanhoe distinguished himself in the service of Richard, and was graced
with farther marks of the royal favour. He might have risen still
higher, but for the premature death of the heroic Cœur-de-Lion, before
the Castle of Chaluz, near Limoges. With the life of a generous, but
rash and romantic monarch, perished all the projects which his ambition
and his generosity had formed; to whom may be applied, with a slight
alteration, the lines composed by Johnson for Charles of Sweden—

His fate was destined to a foreign strand,
A petty fortress and an “humble” hand;
He left the name at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral, or adorn a TALE.




NOTE TO CHAPTER I.


Note A.—The Ranger or the Forest, that cuts the foreclaws off our dogs.

A most sensible grievance of those aggrieved times were the Forest
Laws. These oppressive enactments were the produce of the Norman
Conquest, for the Saxon laws of the chase were mild and humane; while
those of William, enthusiastically attached to the exercise and its
rights, were to the last degree tyrannical. The formation of the New
Forest, bears evidence to his passion for hunting, where he reduced
many a happy village to the condition of that one commemorated by my
friend, Mr William Stewart Rose:

“Amongst the ruins of the church
The midnight raven found a perch,
A melancholy place;
The ruthless Conqueror cast down,
Woe worth the deed, that little town,
To lengthen out his chase.”


The disabling dogs, which might be necessary for keeping flocks and
herds, from running at the deer, was called “lawing”, and was in
general use. The Charter of the Forest designed to lessen those evils,
declares that inquisition, or view, for lawing dogs, shall be made
every third year, and shall be then done by the view and testimony of
lawful men, not otherwise; and they whose dogs shall be then found
unlawed, shall give three shillings for mercy, and for the future no
man’s ox shall be taken for lawing. Such lawing also shall be done by
the assize commonly used, and which is, that three claws shall be cut
off without the ball of the right foot. See on this subject the
Historical Essay on the Magna Charta of King John, (a most beautiful
volume), by Richard Thomson.




NOTE TO CHAPTER II.


Note B.—Negro Slaves.

The severe accuracy of some critics has objected to the complexion of
the slaves of Brian de Bois-Guilbert, as being totally out of costume
and propriety. I remember the same objection being made to a set of
sable functionaries, whom my friend, Mat Lewis, introduced as the
guards and mischief-doing satellites of the wicked Baron, in his Castle
Spectre. Mat treated the objection with great contempt, and averred in
reply, that he made the slaves black in order to obtain a striking
effect of contrast, and that, could he have derived a similar advantage
from making his heroine blue, blue she should have been.

I do not pretend to plead the immunities of my order so highly as this;
but neither will I allow that the author of a modern antique romance is
obliged to confine himself to the introduction of those manners only
which can be proved to have absolutely existed in the times he is
depicting, so that he restrain himself to such as are plausible and
natural, and contain no obvious anachronism. In this point of view,
what can be more natural, than that the Templars, who, we know, copied
closely the luxuries of the Asiatic warriors with whom they fought,
should use the service of the enslaved Africans, whom the fate of war
transferred to new masters? I am sure, if there are no precise proofs
of their having done so, there is nothing, on the other hand, that can
entitle us positively to conclude that they never did. Besides, there
is an instance in romance.

John of Rampayne, an excellent juggler and minstrel, undertook to
effect the escape of one Audulf de Bracy, by presenting himself in
disguise at the court of the king, where he was confined. For this
purpose, “he stained his hair and his whole body entirely as black as
jet, so that nothing was white but his teeth,” and succeeded in
imposing himself on the king, as an Ethiopian minstrel. He effected, by
stratagem, the escape of the prisoner. Negroes, therefore, must have
been known in England in the dark ages. 60




NOTE TO CHAPTER XVII.


Note C.—Minstrelsy.

The realm of France, it is well known, was divided betwixt the Norman
and Teutonic race, who spoke the language in which the word Yes is
pronounced as “oui”, and the inhabitants of the southern regions, whose
speech bearing some affinity to the Italian, pronounced the same word
“oc”. The poets of the former race were called “Minstrels”, and their
poems “Lays”: those of the latter were termed “Troubadours”, and their
compositions called “sirventes”, and other names. Richard, a professed
admirer of the joyous science in all its branches, could imitate either
the minstrel or troubadour. It is less likely that he should have been
able to compose or sing an English ballad; yet so much do we wish to
assimilate Him of the Lion Heart to the band of warriors whom he led,
that the anachronism, if there be one may readily be forgiven.




NOTE TO CHAPTER XXI.


Note D.—Battle of Stamford.

A great topographical blunder occurred here in former editions. The
bloody battle alluded to in the text, fought and won by King Harold,
over his brother the rebellious Tosti, and an auxiliary force of Danes
or Norsemen, was said, in the text, and a corresponding note, to have
taken place at Stamford, in Leicestershire, and upon the river Welland.
This is a mistake, into which the author has been led by trusting to
his memory, and so confounding two places of the same name. The
Stamford, Strangford, or Staneford, at which the battle really was
fought, is a ford upon the river Derwent, at the distance of about
seven miles from York, and situated in that large and opulent county. A
long wooden bridge over the Derwent, the site of which, with one
remaining buttress, is still shown to the curious traveller, was
furiously contested. One Norwegian long defended it by his single arm,
and was at length pierced with a spear thrust through the planks of the
bridge from a boat beneath.

The neighbourhood of Stamford, on the Derwent, contains some memorials
of the battle. Horseshoes, swords, and the heads of halberds, or bills,
are often found there; one place is called the “Danes’ well,” another
the “Battle flats.” From a tradition that the weapon with which the
Norwegian champion was slain, resembled a pear, or, as others say, that
the trough or boat in which the soldier floated under the bridge to
strike the blow, had such a shape, the country people usually begin a
great market, which is held at Stamford, with an entertainment called
the Pear-pie feast, which after all may be a corruption of the
Spear-pie feast. For more particulars, Drake’s History of York may be
referred to. The author’s mistake was pointed out to him, in the most
obliging manner, by Robert Belt, Esq. of Bossal House. The battle was
fought in 1066.




NOTE TO CHAPTER XXII.


Note E.—The range of iron bars above that glowing charcoal.

This horrid species of torture may remind the reader of that to which
the Spaniards subjected Guatimozin, in order to extort a discovery of
his concealed wealth. But, in fact, an instance of similar barbarity is
to be found nearer home, and occurs in the annals of Queen Mary’s time,
containing so many other examples of atrocity. Every reader must
recollect, that after the fall of the Catholic Church, and the
Presbyterian Church Government had been established by law, the rank,
and especially the wealth, of the Bishops, Abbots, Priors, and so
forth, were no longer vested in ecclesiastics, but in lay impropriators
of the church revenues, or, as the Scottish lawyers called them,
titulars of the temporalities of the benefice, though having no claim
to the spiritual character of their predecessors in office.

Of these laymen, who were thus invested with ecclesiastical revenues,
some were men of high birth and rank, like the famous Lord James
Stewart, the Prior of St Andrews, who did not fail to keep for their
own use the rents, lands, and revenues of the church. But if, on the
other hand, the titulars were men of inferior importance, who had been
inducted into the office by the interest of some powerful person, it
was generally understood that the new Abbot should grant for his
patron’s benefit such leases and conveyances of the church lands and
tithes as might afford their protector the lion’s share of the booty.
This was the origin of those who were wittily termed Tulchan 61

Bishops, being a sort of imaginary prelate, whose image was set up to
enable his patron and principal to plunder the benefice under his name.

There were other cases, however, in which men who had got grants of
these secularised benefices, were desirous of retaining them for their
own use, without having the influence sufficient to establish their
purpose; and these became frequently unable to protect themselves,
however unwilling to submit to the exactions of the feudal tyrant of
the district.

Bannatyne, secretary to John Knox, recounts a singular course of
oppression practised on one of those titulars abbots, by the Earl of
Cassilis in Ayrshire, whose extent of feudal influence was so wide that
he was usually termed the King of Carrick. We give the fact as it
occurs in Bannatyne’s Journal, only premising that the Journalist held
his master’s opinions, both with respect to the Earl of Cassilis as an
opposer of the king’s party, and as being a detester of the practice of
granting church revenues to titulars, instead of their being devoted to
pious uses, such as the support of the clergy, expense of schools, and
the relief of the national poor. He mingles in the narrative,
therefore, a well deserved feeling of execration against the tyrant who
employed the torture, which a tone of ridicule towards the patient, as
if, after all, it had not been ill bestowed on such an equivocal and
amphibious character as a titular abbot. He entitles his narrative,

THE EARL OF CASSILIS’ TYRANNY AGAINST A QUICK (i.e. LIVING) MAN.

“Master Allan Stewart, friend to Captain James Stewart of Cardonall, by
means of the Queen’s corrupted court, obtained the Abbey of
Crossraguel. The said Earl thinking himself greater than any king in
those quarters, determined to have that whole benefice (as he hath
divers others) to pay at his pleasure; and because he could not find
sic security as his insatiable appetite required, this shift was
devised. The said Mr Allan being in company with the Laird of Bargany,
(also a Kennedy,) was, by the Earl and his friends, enticed to leave
the safeguard which he had with the Laird, and come to make good cheer
with the said Earl. The simplicity of the imprudent man was suddenly
abused; and so he passed his time with them certain days, which he did
in Maybole with Thomas Kennedie, uncle to the said Earl; after which
the said Mr Allan passed, with quiet company, to visit the place and
bounds of Crossraguel, [his abbacy,] of which the said Earl being
surely advertised, determined to put in practice the tyranny which long
before he had conceived. And so, as king of the country, apprehended
the said Mr Allan, and carried him to the house of Denure, where for a
season he was honourably treated, (if a prisoner can think any
entertainment pleasing;) but after that certain days were spent, and
that the Earl could not obtain the feus of Crossraguel according to his
own appetite, he determined to prove if a collation could work that
which neither dinner nor supper could do for a long time. And so the
said Mr Allan was carried to a secret chamber: with him passed the
honourable Earl, his worshipful brother, and such as were appointed to
be servants at that banquet. In the chamber there was a grit iron
chimlay, under it a fire; other grit provision was not seen. The first
course was,—‘My Lord Abbot,’ (said the Earl,) ‘it will please you
confess here, that with your own consent you remain in my company,
because ye durst not commit yourself to the hands of others.’ The Abbot
answered, ‘Would you, my lord, that I should make a manifest lie for
your pleasure? The truth is, my lord, it is against my will that I am
here; neither yet have I any pleasure in your company.’ ‘But ye shall
remain with me, nevertheless, at this time,’ said the Earl. ‘I am not
able to resist your will and pleasure,’ said the Abbot, ‘in this
place.’ ‘Ye must then obey me,’ said the Earl,—and with that were
presented unto him certain letters to subscribe, amongst which there
was a five years’ tack, and a nineteen years’ tack, and a charter of
feu of all the lands (of Crossraguel), with all the clauses necessary
for the Earl to haste him to hell. For if adultery, sacrilege,
oppression, barbarous cruelty, and theft heaped upon theft, deserve
hell, the great King of Carrick can no more escape hell for ever, than
the imprudent Abbot escaped the fire for a season as follows.

“After that the Earl spied repugnance, and saw that he could not come
to his purpose by fair means, he commanded his cooks to prepare the
banquet: and so first they flayed the sheep, that is, they took off the
Abbot’s cloathes even to his skin, and next they bound him to the
chimney—his legs to the one end, and his arms to the other; and so they
began to beet [i.e. feed] the fire sometimes to his buttocks, sometimes
to his legs, sometimes to his shoulders and arms; and that the roast
might not burn, but that it might rest in soppe, they spared not
flambing with oil, (basting as a cook bastes roasted meat); Lord, look
thou to sic cruelty! And that the crying of the miserable man should
not be heard, they dosed his mouth that the voice might be stopped. It
may be suspected that some partisan of the King’s [Darnley’s] murder
was there. In that torment they held the poor man, till that often he
cried for God’s sake to dispatch him; for he had as meikle gold in his
awin purse as would buy powder enough to shorten his pain. The famous
King of Carrick and his cooks perceiving the roast to be aneuch,
commanded it to be tane fra the fire, and the Earl himself began the
grace in this manner:—‘Benedicite, Jesus Maria, you are the most
obstinate man that ever I saw; gif I had known that ye had been so
stubborn, I would not for a thousand crowns have handled you so; I
never did so to man before you.’ And yet he returned to the same
practice within two days, and ceased not till that he obtained his
formost purpose, that is, that he had got all his pieces subscryvit
alsweill as ane half-roasted hand could do it. The Earl thinking
himself sure enough so long as he had the half-roasted Abbot in his own
keeping, and yet being ashamed of his presence by reason of his former
cruelty, left the place of Denure in the hands of certain of his
servants, and the half-roasted Abbot to be kept there as prisoner. The
Laird of Bargany, out of whose company the said Abbot had been enticed,
understanding, (not the extremity,) but the retaining of the man, sent
to the court, and raised letters of deliverance of the person of the
man according to the order, which being disobeyed, the said Earl for
his contempt was denounced rebel, and put to the horne. But yet hope
was there none, neither to the afflicted to be delivered, neither yet
to the purchaser [i.e. procurer] of the letters to obtain any comfort
thereby; for in that time God was despised, and the lawful authority
was contemned in Scotland, in hope of the sudden return and regiment of
that cruel murderer of her awin husband, of whose lords the said Earl
was called one; and yet, oftener than once, he was solemnly sworn to
the King and to his Regent.”

The Journalist then recites the complaint of the injured Allan Stewart,
Commendator of Crossraguel, to the Regent and Privy Council, averring
his having been carried, partly by flattery, partly by force, to the
black vault of Denure, a strong fortalice, built on a rock overhanging
the Irish channel, where to execute leases and conveyances of the whole
churches and parsonages belonging to the Abbey of Crossraguel, which he
utterly refused as an unreasonable demand, and the more so that he had
already conveyed them to John Stewart of Cardonah, by whose interest he
had been made Commendator. The complainant proceeds to state, that he
was, after many menaces, stript, bound, and his limbs exposed to fire
in the manner already described, till, compelled by excess of agony, he
subscribed the charter and leases presented to him, of the contents of
which he was totally ignorant. A few days afterwards, being again
required to execute a ratification of these deeds before a notary and
witnesses, and refusing to do so, he was once more subjected to the
same torture, until his agony was so excessive that he exclaimed, “Fye
on you, why do you not strike your whingers into me, or blow me up with
a barrel of powder, rather than torture me thus unmercifully?” upon
which the Earl commanded Alexander Richard, one of his attendants, to
stop the patient’s mouth with a napkin, which was done accordingly.
Thus he was once more compelled to submit to their tyranny. The
petition concluded with stating, that the Earl, under pretence of the
deeds thus iniquitously obtained, had taken possession of the whole
place and living of Crossraguel, and enjoyed the profits thereof for
three years.

The doom of the Regent and Council shows singularly the total
interruption of justice at this calamitous period, even in the most
clamant cases of oppression. The Council declined interference with the
course of the ordinary justice of the county, (which was completely
under the said Earl of Cassilis’ control,) and only enacted, that he
should forbear molestation of the unfortunate Comendator, under the
surety of two thousand pounds Scots. The Earl was appointed also to
keep the peace towards the celebrated George Buchanan, who had a
pension out of the same Abbacy, to a similar extent, and under the like
penalty.

The consequences are thus described by the Journalist already quoted.—

“The said Laird of Bargany perceiving that the ordiner justice could
neither help the oppressed, nor yet the afflicted, applied his mind to
the next remedy, and in the end, by his servants, took the house of
Denure, where the poor Abbot was kept prisoner. The bruit flew fra
Carrick to Galloway, and so suddenly assembled herd and hyre-man that
pertained to the band of the Kennedies; and so within a few hours was
the house of Denure environed again. The master of Cassilis was the
frackast [i.e. the readiest or boldest] and would not stay, but in his
heat would lay fire to the dungeon, with no small boasting that all
enemies within the house should die.

“He was required and admonished by those that were within to be more
moderate, and not to hazard himself so foolishly. But no admonition
would help, till that the wind of an hacquebute blasted his shoulder,
and then ceased he from further pursuit in fury. The Laird of Bargany
had before purchest [obtained] of the authorities, letters, charging
all faithfull subjects to the King’s Majesty, to assist him against
that cruel tyrant and mansworn traitor, the Earl of Cassilis; which
letters, with his private writings, he published, and shortly found sic
concurrence of Kyle and Cunynghame with his other friends, that the
Carrick company drew back fra the house: and so the other approached,
furnished the house with more men, delivered the said Mr Allan, and
carried him to Ayr, where, publicly at the market cross of the said
town, he declared how cruelly he was entreated, and how the murdered
King suffered not sic torment as he did, excepting only he escaped the
death: and, therefore, publickly did revoke all things that were done
in that extremity, and especially revoked the subscription of the three
writings, to wit, of a fyve yeir tack and nineteen year tack, and of a
charter of feu. And so the house remained, and remains (till this day,
the 7th of February, 1571,) in the custody of the said Laird of Bargany
and of his servants. And so cruelty was disappointed of proffeit
present, and shall be eternallie punished, unless he earnestly repent.
And this far for the cruelty committed, to give occasion unto others,
and to such as hate the monstrous dealing of degenerate nobility, to
look more diligently upon their behaviuours, and to paint them forth
unto the world, that they themselves may be ashamed of their own
beastliness, and that the world may be advertised and admonished to
abhor, detest, and avoid the company of all sic tyrants, who are not
worthy of the society of men, but ought to be sent suddenly to the
devil, with whom they must burn without end, for their contempt of God,
and cruelty committed against his creatures. Let Cassilis and his
brother be the first to be the example unto others. Amen. Amen.” 62

This extract has been somewhat amended or modernized in orthography, to
render it more intelligible to the general reader. I have to add, that
the Kennedies of Bargany, who interfered in behalf of the oppressed
Abbot, were themselves a younger branch of the Cassilis family, but
held different politics, and were powerful enough in this, and other
instances, to bid them defiance.

The ultimate issue of this affair does not appear; but as the house of
Cassilis are still in possession of the greater part of the feus and
leases which belonged to Crossraguel Abbey, it is probable the talons
of the King of Carrick were strong enough, in those disorderly times,
to retain the prey which they had so mercilessly fixed upon.

I may also add, that it appears by some papers in my possession, that
the officers or Country Keepers on the border, were accustomed to
torment their prisoners by binding them to the iron bars of their
chimneys, to extort confession.




NOTE TO CHAPTER XXIX


Note F.—Heraldry

The author has been here upbraided with false heraldry, as having
charged metal upon metal. It should be remembered, however, that
heraldry had only its first rude origin during the crusades, and that
all the minutiae of its fantastic science were the work of time, and
introduced at a much later period. Those who think otherwise must
suppose that the Goddess of “Armoirers”, like the Goddess of Arms,
sprung into the world completely equipped in all the gaudy trappings of
the department she presides over.

Additional Note

In corroboration of said note, it may be observed, that the arms, which
were assumed by Godfrey of Boulogne himself, after the conquest of
Jerusalem, was a cross counter patent cantoned with four little crosses
or, upon a field azure, displaying thus metal upon metal. The heralds
have tried to explain this undeniable fact in different modes—but Ferne
gallantly contends, that a prince of Godfrey’s qualities should not be
bound by the ordinary rules. The Scottish Nisbet, and the same Ferne,
insist that the chiefs of the Crusade must have assigned to Godfrey
this extraordinary and unwonted coat-of-arms, in order to induce those
who should behold them to make enquiries; and hence give them the name
of “arma inquirenda”. But with reverence to these grave authorities, it
seems unlikely that the assembled princes of Europe should have
adjudged to Godfrey a coat armorial so much contrary to the general
rule, if such rule had then existed; at any rate, it proves that metal
upon metal, now accounted a solecism in heraldry, was admitted in other
cases similar to that in the text. See Ferne’s “Blazon of Gentrie” p.
238. Edition 1586. Nisbet’s “Heraldry”, vol. i. p. 113. Second Edition.




NOTE TO CHAPTER XXXI


Note G.—Ulrica’s Death song.

It will readily occur to the antiquary, that these verses are intended
to imitate the antique poetry of the Scalds—the minstrels of the old
Scandinavians—the race, as the Laureate so happily terms them,

“Stern to inflict, and stubborn to endure,
Who smiled in death.”


The poetry of the Anglo-Saxons, after their civilisation and
conversion, was of a different and softer character; but in the
circumstances of Ulrica, she may be not unnaturally supposed to return
to the wild strains which animated her forefathers during the time of
Paganism and untamed ferocity.




NOTE TO CHAPTER XXXII


Note H.—Richard Cœur-de-Lion.

The interchange of a cuff with the jolly priest is not entirely out of
character with Richard I., if romances read him aright. In the very
curious romance on the subject of his adventures in the Holy Land, and
his return from thence, it is recorded how he exchanged a pugilistic
favour of this nature, while a prisoner in Germany. His opponent was
the son of his principal warder, and was so imprudent as to give the
challenge to this barter of buffets. The King stood forth like a true
man, and received a blow which staggered him. In requital, having
previously waxed his hand, a practice unknown, I believe, to the
gentlemen of the modern fancy, he returned the box on the ear with such
interest as to kill his antagonist on the spot.—See, in Ellis’s
Specimens of English Romance, that of Cœur-de-Lion.




NOTE TO CHAPTER XXXIII


Note I.—Hedge-Priests.

It is curious to observe, that in every state of society, some sort of
ghostly consolation is provided for the members of the community,
though assembled for purposes diametrically opposite to religion. A
gang of beggars have their Patrico, and the banditti of the Apennines
have among them persons acting as monks and priests, by whom they are
confessed, and who perform mass before them. Unquestionably, such
reverend persons, in such a society, must accommodate their manners and
their morals to the community in which they live; and if they can
occasionally obtain a degree of reverence for their supposed spiritual
gifts, are, on most occasions, loaded with unmerciful ridicule, as
possessing a character inconsistent with all around them.

Hence the fighting parson in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, and
the famous friar of Robin Hood’s band. Nor were such characters ideal.
There exists a monition of the Bishop of Durham against irregular
churchmen of this class, who associated themselves with Border robbers,
and desecrated the holiest offices of the priestly function, by
celebrating them for the benefit of thieves, robbers, and murderers,
amongst ruins and in caverns of the earth, without regard to canonical
form, and with torn and dirty attire, and maimed rites, altogether
improper for the occasion.




NOTE TO CHAPTER XLI.


Note J.—Castle of Coningsburgh.

When I last saw this interesting ruin of ancient days, one of the very
few remaining examples of Saxon fortification, I was strongly impressed
with the desire of tracing out a sort of theory on the subject, which,
from some recent acquaintance with the architecture of the ancient
Scandinavians, seemed to me peculiarly interesting. I was, however,
obliged by circumstances to proceed on my journey, without leisure to
take more than a transient view of Coningsburgh. Yet the idea dwells so
strongly in my mind, that I feel considerably tempted to write a page
or two in detailing at least the outline of my hypothesis, leaving
better antiquaries to correct or refute conclusions which are perhaps
too hastily drawn.

Those who have visited the Zetland Islands, are familiar with the
description of castles called by the inhabitants Burghs; and by the
Highlanders—for they are also to be found both in the Western Isles and
on the mainland—Duns. Pennant has engraved a view of the famous
Dun-Dornadilla in Glenelg; and there are many others, all of them built
after a peculiar mode of architecture, which argues a people in the
most primitive state of society. The most perfect specimen is that upon
the island of Mousa, near to the mainland of Zetland, which is probably
in the same state as when inhabited.

It is a single round tower, the wall curving in slightly, and then
turning outward again in the form of a dice-box, so that the defenders
on the top might the better protect the base. It is formed of rough
stones, selected with care, and laid in courses or circles, with much
compactness, but without cement of any kind. The tower has never, to
appearance, had roofing of any sort; a fire was made in the centre of
the space which it encloses, and originally the building was probably
little more than a wall drawn as a sort of screen around the great
council fire of the tribe. But, although the means or ingenuity of the
builders did not extend so far as to provide a roof, they supplied the
want by constructing apartments in the interior of the walls of the
tower itself. The circumvallation formed a double enclosure, the inner
side of which was, in fact, two feet or three feet distant from the
other, and connected by a concentric range of long flat stones, thus
forming a series of concentric rings or stories of various heights,
rising to the top of the tower. Each of these stories or galleries has
four windows, facing directly to the points of the compass, and rising
of course regularly above each other. These four perpendicular ranges
of windows admitted air, and, the fire being kindled, heat, or smoke at
least, to each of the galleries. The access from gallery to gallery is
equally primitive. A path, on the principle of an inclined plane, turns
round and round the building like a screw, and gives access to the
different stories, intersecting each of them in its turn, and thus
gradually rising to the top of the wall of the tower. On the outside
there are no windows; and I may add, that an enclosure of a square, or
sometimes a round form, gave the inhabitants of the Burgh an
opportunity to secure any sheep or cattle which they might possess.

Such is the general architecture of that very early period when the
Northmen swept the seas, and brought to their rude houses, such as I
have described them, the plunder of polished nations. In Zetland there
are several scores of these Burghs, occupying in every case, capes,
headlands, islets, and similar places of advantage singularly well
chosen. I remember the remains of one upon an island in a small lake
near Lerwick, which at high tide communicates with the sea, the access
to which is very ingenious, by means of a causeway or dike, about three
or four inches under the surface of the water. This causeway makes a
sharp angle in its approach to the Burgh. The inhabitants, doubtless,
were well acquainted with this, but strangers, who might approach in a
hostile manner, and were ignorant of the curve of the causeway, would
probably plunge into the lake, which is six or seven feet in depth at
the least. This must have been the device of some Vauban or Cohorn of
those early times.

The style of these buildings evinces that the architect possessed
neither the art of using lime or cement of any kind, nor the skill to
throw an arch, construct a roof, or erect a stair; and yet, with all
this ignorance, showed great ingenuity in selecting the situation of
Burghs, and regulating the access to them, as well as neatness and
regularity in the erection, since the buildings themselves show a style
of advance in the arts scarcely consistent with the ignorance of so
many of the principal branches of architectural knowledge.

I have always thought, that one of the most curious and valuable
objects of antiquaries has been to trace the progress of society, by
the efforts made in early ages to improve the rudeness of their first
expedients, until they either approach excellence, or, as is more
frequently the case, are supplied by new and fundamental discoveries,
which supersede both the earlier and ruder system, and the improvements
which have been ingrafted upon it. For example, if we conceive the
recent discovery of gas to be so much improved and adapted to domestic
use, as to supersede all other modes of producing domestic light; we
can already suppose, some centuries afterwards, the heads of a whole
Society of Antiquaries half turned by the discovery of a pair of patent
snuffers, and by the learned theories which would be brought forward to
account for the form and purpose of so singular an implement.

Following some such principle, I am inclined to regard the singular
Castle of Coningsburgh—I mean the Saxon part of it—as a step in advance
from the rude architecture, if it deserves the name, which must have
been common to the Saxons as to other Northmen. The builders had
attained the art of using cement, and of roofing a building,—great
improvements on the original Burgh. But in the round keep, a shape only
seen in the most ancient castles—the chambers excavated in the
thickness of the walls and buttresses—the difficulty by which access is
gained from one story to those above it, Coningsburgh still retains the
simplicity of its origin, and shows by what slow degrees man proceeded
from occupying such rude and inconvenient lodgings, as were afforded by
the galleries of the Castle of Mousa, to the more splendid
accommodations of the Norman castles, with all their stern and Gothic
graces.

I am ignorant if these remarks are new, or if they will be confirmed by
closer examination; but I think, that, on a hasty observation,
Coningsburgh offers means of curious study to those who may wish to
trace the history of architecture back to the times preceding the
Norman Conquest.

It would be highly desirable that a cork model should be taken of the
Castle of Mousa, as it cannot be well understood by a plan.

The Castle of Coningsburgh is thus described:—

“The castle is large, the outer walls standing on a pleasant ascent
from the river, but much overtopt by a high hill, on which the town
stands, situated at the head of a rich and magnificent vale, formed by
an amphitheatre of woody hills, in which flows the gentle Don. Near the
castle is a barrow, said to be Hengist’s tomb. The entrance is flanked
to the left by a round tower, with a sloping base, and there are
several similar in the outer wall the entrance has piers of a gate, and
on the east side the ditch and bank are double and very steep. On the
top of the churchyard wall is a tombstone, on which are cut in high
relief, two ravens, or such-like birds. On the south side of the
churchyard lies an ancient stone, ridged like a coffin, on which is
carved a man on horseback; and another man with a shield encountering a
vast winged serpent, and a man bearing a shield behind him. It was
probably one of the rude crosses not uncommon in churchyards in this
county. See it engraved on the plate of crosses for this volume, plate
14. fig. 1. The name of Coningsburgh, by which this castle goes in the
old editions of the Britannia, would lead one to suppose it the
residence of the Saxon kings. It afterwards belonged to King Harold.
The Conqueror bestowed it on William de Warren, with all its privileges
and jurisdiction, which are said to have extended over twenty-eight
towns. At the corner of the area, which is of an irregular form, stands
the great tower, or keep, placed on a small hill of its own dimensions,
on which lies six vast projecting buttresses, ascending in a steep
direction to prop and support the building, and continued upwards up
the side as turrets. The tower within forms a complete circle,
twenty-one feet in diameter, the walls fourteen feet thick. The ascent
into the tower is by an exceeding deep flight of steep steps, four feet
and a half wide, on the south side leading to a low doorway, over which
is a circular arch crossed by a great transom stone. Within this door
is the staircase which ascends straight through the thickness of the
wall, not communicating with the room on the first floor, in whose
centre is the opening to the dungeon. Neither of these lower rooms is
lighted except from a hole in the floor of the third story; the room in
which, as well as in that above it, is finished with compact smooth
stonework, both having chimney-pieces, with an arch resting on triple
clustered pillars. In the third story, or guard-chamber, is a small
recess with a loop-hole, probably a bedchamber, and in that floor above
a niche for a saint or holy-water pot. Mr. King imagines this a Saxon
castle of the first ages of the Heptarchy. Mr. Watson thus describes
it. From the first floor to the second story, (third from the ground,)
is a way by a stair in the wall five feet wide. The next staircase is
approached by a ladder, and ends at the fourth story from the ground.
Two yards from the door, at the head of this stair, is an opening
nearly east, accessible by treading on the ledge of the wall, which
diminishes eight inches each story; and this last opening leads into a
room or chapel ten feet by twelve, and fifteen or sixteen high, arched
with free-stone, and supported by small circular columns of the same,
the capitals and arches Saxon. It has an east window, and on each side
in the wall, about four feet from the ground, a stone basin with a hole
and iron pipe to convey the water into or through the wall. This chapel
is one of the buttresses, but no sign of it without, for even the
window, though large within, is only a long narrow loop-hole, scarcely
to be seen without. On the left side of this chapel is a small oratory,
eight by six in the thickness of the wall, with a niche in the wall,
and enlightened by a like loop-hole. The fourth stair from the ground,
ten feet west from the chapel door, leads to the top of the tower
through the thickness of the wall, which at top is but three yards.
Each story is about fifteen feet high, so that the tower will be
seventy-five feet from the ground. The inside forms a circle, whose
diameter may be about twelve feet. The well at the bottom of the
dungeon is piled with stones.”—Gough’s “Edition Of Camden’s Britannia”.
Second Edition, vol. iii. p. 267.




FOOTNOTES


1 (return)
[ The motto alludes to the Author returning to the stage repeatedly
after having taken leave.]

2 (return)
[ This very curious poem, long a desideratum in Scottish literature,
and given up as irrecoverably lost, was lately brought to light by the
researches of Dr Irvine of the Advocates’ Library, and has been
reprinted by Mr David Laing, Edinburgh.]

3 (return)
[ Vol. ii. p. 167.]

4 (return)
[ Like the Hermit, the Shepherd makes havock amongst the King’s game;
but by means of a sling, not of a bow; like the Hermit, too, he has his
peculiar phrases of compotation, the sign and countersign being
Passelodion and Berafriend. One can scarce conceive what humour our
ancestors found in this species of gibberish; but “I warrant it proved
an excuse for the glass.”]

5 (return)
[ The author had revised this posthumous work of Mr Strutt. See General
Preface to the present edition, Vol I. p. 65.]

6 (return)
[ This anticipation proved but too true, as my learned correspondent
did not receive my letter until a twelvemonth after it was written. I
mention this circumstance, that a gentleman attached to the cause of
learning, who now holds the principal control of the post-office, may
consider whether by some mitigation of the present enormous rates, some
favour might not be shown to the correspondents of the principal
Literary and Antiquarian Societies. I understand, indeed, that this
experiment was once tried, but that the mail-coach having broke down
under the weight of packages addressed to members of the Society of
Antiquaries, it was relinquished as a hazardous experiment. Surely,
however it would be possible to build these vehicles in a form more
substantial, stronger in the perch, and broader in the wheels, so as to
support the weight of Antiquarian learning; when, if they should be
found to travel more slowly, they would be not the less agreeable to
quiet travellers like myself.—L. T.]

7 (return)
[ Mr Skene of Rubislaw is here intimated, to whose taste and skill the
author is indebted for a series of etchings, exhibiting the various
localities alluded to in these novels.]

8 (return)
[ Note A. The Ranger of the Forest, that cuts the fore-claws off our
dogs.]

9 (return)
[ Note B. Negro Slaves.]

11 (return)
[ The original has “Cnichts”, by which the Saxons seem to have
designated a class of military attendants, sometimes free, sometimes
bondsmen, but always ranking above an ordinary domestic, whether in the
royal household or in those of the aldermen and thanes. But the term
cnicht, now spelt knight, having been received into the English
language as equivalent to the Norman word chevalier, I have avoided
using it in its more ancient sense, to prevent confusion. L. T.]

12 (return)
[ Pillage.]

13 (return)
[ These were drinks used by the Saxons, as we are informed by Mr
Turner: Morat was made of honey flavoured with the juice of mulberries;
Pigment was a sweet and rich liquor, composed of wine highly spiced,
and sweetened also with honey; the other liquors need no explanation.
L. T.]

14 (return)
[ There was no language which the Normans more formally separated from
that of common life than the terms of the chase. The objects of their
pursuit, whether bird or animal, changed their name each year, and
there were a hundred conventional terms, to be ignorant of which was to
be without one of the distinguishing marks of a gentleman. The reader
may consult Dame Juliana Berners’ book on the subject. The origin of
this science was imputed to the celebrated Sir Tristrem, famous for his
tragic intrigue with the beautiful Ysolte. As the Normans reserved the
amusement of hunting strictly to themselves, the terms of this formal
jargon were all taken from the French language.]

15 (return)
[ In those days the Jews were subjected to an Exchequer, specially
dedicated to that purpose, and which laid them under the most
exorbitant impositions.—L. T.]

16 (return)
[ This sort of masquerade is supposed to have occasioned the
introduction of supporters into the science of heraldry.]

17 (return)
[ These lines are part of an unpublished poem, by Coleridge, whose Muse
so often tantalizes with fragments which indicate her powers, while the
manner in which she flings them from her betrays her caprice, yet whose
unfinished sketches display more talent than the laboured masterpieces
of others.]

18 (return)
[ This term of chivalry, transferred to the law, gives the phrase of
being attainted of treason.]

19 (return)
[ Presumption, insolence.]

20 (return)
[ “Beau-seant” was the name of the Templars’ banner, which was half
black, half white, to intimate, it is said, that they were candid and
fair towards Christians, but black and terrible towards infidels.]

21 (return)
[ There was nothing accounted so ignominious among the Saxons as to
merit this disgraceful epithet. Even William the Conqueror, hated as he
was by them, continued to draw a considerable army of Anglo-Saxons to
his standard, by threatening to stigmatize those who staid at home, as
nidering. Bartholinus, I think, mentions a similar phrase which had
like influence on the Danes. L. T.]

22 (return)
[ The Jolly Hermit.—All readers, however slightly acquainted with black
letter, must recognise in the Clerk of Copmanhurst, Friar Tuck, the
buxom Confessor of Robin Hood’s gang, the Curtal Friar of Fountain’s
Abbey.]

23 (return)
[ Note C. Minstrelsy.]

24 (return)
[ It may be proper to remind the reader, that the chorus of “derry
down” is supposed to be as ancient, not only as the times of the
Heptarchy, but as those of the Druids, and to have furnished the chorus
to the hymns of those venerable persons when they went to the wood to
gather mistletoe.]

25 (return)
[ A rere-supper was a night-meal, and sometimes signified a collation,
which was given at a late hour, after the regular supper had made its
appearance. L. T.]

26 (return)
[ Note D. Battle of Stamford.]

27 (return)
[ “Nota Bene.”—We by no means warrant the accuracy of this piece of
natural history, which we give on the authority of the Wardour MS. L.
T.]

28 (return)
[ Note E. The range of iron bars above that glowing charcoal]

29 (return)
[ Henry’s Hist. edit. 1805, vol. vii. p..146.]

30 (return)
[ I wish the Prior had also informed them when Niobe was sainted.
Probably during that enlightened period when “Pan to Moses lent his
pagan horn.” L. T.]

31 (return)
[ “Surquedy” and “outrecuidance”—insolence and presumption]

32 (return)
[ Mantelets were temporary and movable defences formed of planks, under
cover of which the assailants advanced to the attack of fortified
places of old. Pavisses were a species of large shields covering the
whole person, employed on the same occasions.]

33 (return)
[ The bolt was the arrow peculiarly fitted to the cross-bow, as that of
the long-bow was called a shaft. Hence the English proverb—“I will
either make a shaft or bolt of it,” signifying a determination to make
one use or other of the thing spoken of.]

34 (return)
[ The arblast was a cross-bow, the windlace the machine used in bending
that weapon, and the quarrell, so called from its square or
diamond-shaped head, was the bolt adapted to it.]

35 (return)
[ Note F. Heraldry]

36 (return)
[ Every Gothic castle and city had, beyond the outer-walls, a
fortification composed of palisades, called the barriers, which were
often the scene of severe skirmishes, as these must necessarily be
carried before the walls themselves could be approached. Many of those
valiant feats of arms which adorn the chivalrous pages of Froissart
took place at the barriers of besieged places.]

37 (return)
[ “Derring-do”—desperate courage.]

38 (return)
[ The author has some idea that this passage is imitated from the
appearance of Philidaspes, before the divine Mandane, when the city of
Babylon is on fire, and he proposes to carry her from the flames. But
the theft, if there be one, would be rather too severely punished by
the penance of searching for the original passage through the
interminable volumes of the Grand Cyrus.]

39 (return)
[ Note G. Ulrica’s Death Song]

40 (return)
[ Thrall and bondsman.]

41 (return)
[ A lawful freeman.]

42 (return)
[ The notes upon the bugle were anciently called mots, and are
distinguished in the old treatises on hunting, not by musical
characters, but by written words.]

421 (return)
[ Note H. Richard Cœur-de-Lion.]

43 (return)
[ A commissary is said to have received similar consolation from a
certain Commander-in-chief, to whom he complained that a general
officer had used some such threat towards him as that in the text.]

44 (return)
[ Borghs, or borrows, signifies pledges. Hence our word to borrow,
because we pledge ourselves to restore what is lent.]

45 (return)
[ “Dortour”, or dormitory.]

46 (return)
[ Note I. Hedge-Priests.]

47 (return)
[ Reginald Fitzurse, William de Tracy, Hugh de Morville, and Richard
Brito, were the gentlemen of Henry the Second’s household, who,
instigated by some passionate expressions of their sovereign, slew the
celebrated Thomas-a-Becket.]

48 (return)
[ The establishments of the Knight Templars were called Preceptories,
and the title of those who presided in the Order was Preceptor; as the
principal Knights of Saint John were termed Commanders, and their
houses Commanderies. But these terms were sometimes, it would seem,
used indiscriminately.]

49 (return)
[ In the ordinances of the Knights of the Temple, this phrase is
repeated in a variety of forms, and occurs in almost every chapter, as
if it were the signal-word of the Order; which may account for its
being so frequently put in the Grand Master’s mouth.]

50 (return)
[ See the 13th chapter of Leviticus.]

51 (return)
[ The edict which he quotes, is against communion with women of light
character.]

53 (return)
[ The reader is again referred to the Rules of the Poor Military
Brotherhood of the Temple, which occur in the Works of St Bernard. L.
T.]

54 (return)
[ “Essoine” signifies excuse, and here relates to the appellant’s
privilege of appearing by her champion, in excuse of her own person on
account of her sex.]

55 (return)
[ “Capul”, i.e. horse; in a more limited sense, work-horse.]

56 (return)
[ “Destrier”—war-horse.]

561 (return)
[ From the ballads of Robin Hood, we learn that this celebrated outlaw,
when in disguise, sometimes assumed the name of Locksley, from a
village where he was born, but where situated we are not distinctly
told.]

57 (return)
[ Note J. Castle of Coningsburgh.]

58 (return)
[ The crowth, or crowd, was a species of violin. The rote a sort of
guitar, or rather hurdy-gurdy, the strings of which were managed by a
wheel, from which the instrument took its name.]

581 (return)
[ Infamous.]

59 (return)
[ The resuscitation of Athelstane has been much criticised, as too
violent a breach of probability, even for a work of such fantastic
character. It was a “tour-de-force”, to which the author was compelled
to have recourse, by the vehement entreaties of his friend and printer,
who was inconsolable on the Saxon being conveyed to the tomb.]

60 (return)
[ Dissertation on Romance and Minstrelsy, prefixed to Ritson’s Ancient
Metrical Romances, p. clxxxvii.]

61 (return)
[ A “Tulchan” is a calf’s skin stuffed, and placed before a cow who has
lost its calf, to induce the animal to part with her milk. The
resemblance between such a Tulchan and a Bishop named to transmit the
temporalities of a benefice to some powerful patron, is easily
understood.]

62 (return)
[ Bannatyne’s Journal.]