IVANHOE

Walter Scott

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! Wamba, up and help me an thou be'st a man; take a turn round the back
o' the hill to gain the wind on them; and when thous't got the weather-gage,
thou mayst drive them before thee as gently as so many innocent lambs."
"Truly," said Wamba, without stirring from the spot, "I have consulted my legs
upon this matter, and they are altogether of opinion, that to carry my gay
garments through these sloughs, would be an act of unfriendship to my
sovereign person and royal wardrobe; wherefore, Gurth, I advise thee to call
off Fangs, and leave the herd to their destiny, which, whether they meet with
bands of travelling soldiers, or of outlaws, or of wandering pilgrims, can be
little else than to be converted into Normans before morning, to thy no small
ease and comfort."
"The swine turned Normans to my comfort!" quoth Gurth; "expound that to
me, Wamba, for my brain is too dull, and my mind too vexed, to read riddles."
"Why, how call you those grunting brutes running about on their four legs?"
demanded Wamba.
"Swine, fool, swine," said the herd, "every fool knows that."
"And swine is good Saxon," said the Jester; "but how call you the sow when
she is flayed, and drawn, and quartered, and hung up by the heels, like a
traitor?"
"Pork," answered the swine-herd.
"I am very glad every fool knows that too," said Wamba, "and pork, I think, is
good Norman-French; and so when the brute lives, and is in the charge of a
Saxon slave, she goes by her Saxon name; but becomes a Norman, and is
called pork, when she is carried to the Castle-hall to feast among the nobles;
what dost thou think of this, friend Gurth, ha?"
"It is but too true doctrine, friend Wamba, however it got into thy fool's pate."
"Nay, I can tell you more," said Wamba, in the same tone; "there is old
Alderman Ox continues to hold his Saxon epithet, while he is under the charge
of serfs and bondsmen such as thou, but becomes Beef, a fiery French gallant,
when he arrives before the worshipful jaws that are destined to consume him.
Mynheer Calf, too, becomes Monsieur de Veau in the like manner; he is Saxon
when he requires tendance, and takes a Norman name when he becomes
matter of enjoyment."
"By St Dunstan," answered Gurth, "thou speakest but sad truths; little is left to
us but the air we breathe, and that appears to have been reserved with much
hesitation, solely for the purpose of enabling us to endure the tasks they lay
upon our shoulders. The finest and the fattest is for their board; the loveliest is
for their couch; the best and bravest supply their foreign masters with soldiers,
and whiten distant lands with their bones, leaving few here who have either
will or the power to protect the unfortunate Saxon. God's blessing on our
master Cedric, he hath done the work of a man in standing in the gap; but
Reginald Front-de-Boeuf is coming down to this country in person, and we
shall soon see how little Cedric's trouble will avail him.—Here, here," he
exclaimed again, raising his voice, "So ho! so ho! well done, Fangs! thou hast
them all before thee now, and bring'st them on bravely, lad."
"Gurth," said the Jester, "I know thou thinkest me a fool, or thou wouldst not
be so rash in putting thy head into my mouth. One word to Reginald Front-de-
Boeuf, or Philip de Malvoisin, that thou hast spoken treason against the
Norman,—and thou art but a cast-away swineherd,—thou wouldst waver on
one of these trees as a terror to all evil speakers against dignities."
"Dog, thou wouldst not betray me," said Gurth, "after having led me on to
speak so much at disadvantage?"
"Betray thee!" answered the Jester; "no, that were the trick of a wise man; a
fool cannot half so well help himself—but soft, whom have we here?" he said,
listening to the trampling of several horses which became then audible.
"Never mind whom," answered Gurth, who had now got his herd before him,
and, with the aid of Fangs, was driving them down one of the long dim vistas
which we have endeavoured to describe.
"Nay, but I must see the riders," answered Wamba; "perhaps they are come
from Fairy-land with a message from King Oberon."
"A murrain take thee," rejoined the swine-herd; "wilt thou talk of such things,
while a terrible storm of thunder and lightning is raging within a few miles of
us? Hark, how the thunder rumbles! and for summer rain, I never saw such
broad downright flat drops fall out of the clouds; the oaks, too,
notwithstanding the calm weather, sob and creak with their great boughs as if
announcing a tempest. Thou canst play the rational if thou wilt; credit me for
once, and let us home ere the storm begins to rage, for the night will be
fearful."
Wamba seemed to feel the force of this appeal, and accompanied his
companion, who began his journey after catching up a long quarter-staff which
lay upon the grass beside him. This second Eumaeus strode hastily down the
forest glade, driving before him, with the assistance of Fangs, the whole herd
of his inharmonious charge.

CHAPTER II

A Monk there was, a fayre for the maistrie,

An outrider that loved venerie;
A manly man, to be an Abbot able,
Full many a daintie horse had he in stable:
And whan he rode, men might his bridle hear
Gingeling in a whistling wind as clear,
And eke as loud, as doth the chapell bell,
There as this lord was keeper of the cell.
—Chaucer.
Notwithstanding the occasional exhortation and chiding of his companion, the
noise of the horsemen's feet continuing to approach, Wamba could not be
prevented from lingering occasionally on the road, upon every pretence which
occurred; now catching from the hazel a cluster of half-ripe nuts, and now
turning his head to leer after a cottage maiden who crossed their path. The
horsemen, therefore, soon overtook them on the road.
Their numbers amounted to ten men, of whom the two who rode foremost
seemed to be persons of considerable importance, and the others their
attendants. It was not difficult to ascertain the condition and character of one
of these personages. He was obviously an ecclesiastic of high rank; his dress
was that of a Cistercian Monk, but composed of materials much finer than
those which the rule of that order admitted. His mantle and hood were of the
best Flanders cloth, and fell in ample, and not ungraceful folds, around a
handsome, though somewhat corpulent person. His countenance bore as little
the marks of self-denial, as his habit indicated contempt of worldly splendour.
His features might have been called good, had there not lurked under the pent-
house of his eye, that sly epicurean twinkle which indicates the cautious
voluptuary. In other respects, his profession and situation had taught him a
ready command over his countenance, which he could contract at pleasure into
solemnity, although its natural expression was that of good-humoured social
indulgence. In defiance of conventual rules, and the edicts of popes and
councils, the sleeves of this dignitary were lined and turned up with rich furs,
his mantle secured at the throat with a golden clasp, and the whole dress
proper to his order as much refined upon and ornamented, as that of a quaker
beauty of the present day, who, while she retains the garb and costume of her
sect continues to give to its simplicity, by the choice of materials and the mode
of disposing them, a certain air of coquettish attraction, savouring but too
much of the vanities of the world.
This worthy churchman rode upon a well-fed ambling mule, whose furniture
was highly decorated, and whose bridle, according to the fashion of the day,
was ornamented with silver bells. In his seat he had nothing of the
awkwardness of the convent, but displayed the easy and habitual grace of a
well-trained horseman. Indeed, it seemed that so humble a conveyance as a
mule, in however good case, and however well broken to a pleasant and
accommodating amble, was only used by the gallant monk for travelling on
the road. A lay brother, one of those who followed in the train, had, for his use
on other occasions, one of the most handsome Spanish jennets ever bred at
Andalusia, which merchants used at that time to import, with great trouble and
risk, for the use of persons of wealth and distinction. The saddle and housings
of this superb palfrey were covered by a long foot-cloth, which reached nearly
to the ground, and on which were richly embroidered, mitres, crosses, and
other ecclesiastical emblems. Another lay brother led a sumpter mule, loaded
probably with his superior's baggage; and two monks of his own order, of
inferior station, rode together in the rear, laughing and conversing with each
other, without taking much notice of the other members of the cavalcade.
The companion of the church dignitary was a man past forty, thin, strong, tall,
and muscular; an athletic figure, which long fatigue and constant exercise
seemed to have left none of the softer part of the human form, having reduced
the whole to brawn, bones, and sinews, which had sustained a thousand toils,
and were ready to dare a thousand more. His head was covered with a scarlet
cap, faced with fur—of that kind which the French call "mortier", from its
resemblance to the shape of an inverted mortar. His countenance was therefore
fully displayed, and its expression was calculated to impress a degree of awe,
if not of fear, upon strangers. High features, naturally strong and powerfully
expressive, had been burnt almost into Negro blackness by constant exposure
to the tropical sun, and might, in their ordinary state, be said to slumber after
the storm of passion had passed away; but the projection of the veins of the
forehead, the readiness with which the upper lip and its thick black
moustaches quivered upon the slightest emotion, plainly intimated that the
tempest might be again and easily awakened. His keen, piercing, dark eyes,
told in every glance a history of difficulties subdued, and dangers dared, and
seemed to challenge opposition to his wishes, for the pleasure of sweeping it
from his road by a determined exertion of courage and of will; a deep scar on
his brow gave additional sternness to his countenance, and a sinister
expression to one of his eyes, which had been slightly injured on the same
occasion, and of which the vision, though perfect, was in a slight and partial
degree distorted.
The upper dress of this personage resembled that of his companion in shape,
being a long monastic mantle; but the colour, being scarlet, showed that he did
not belong to any of the four regular orders of monks. On the right shoulder of
the mantle there was cut, in white cloth, a cross of a peculiar form. This upper
robe concealed what at first view seemed rather inconsistent with its form, a
shirt, namely, of linked mail, with sleeves and gloves of the same, curiously
plaited and interwoven, as flexible to the body as those which are now
wrought in the stocking-loom, out of less obdurate materials. The fore-part of
his thighs, where the folds of his mantle permitted them to be seen, were also
covered with linked mail; the knees and feet were defended by splints, or thin
plates of steel, ingeniously jointed upon each other; and mail hose, reaching
from the ankle to the knee, effectually protected the legs, and completed the
rider's defensive armour. In his girdle he wore a long and double-edged
dagger, which was the only offensive weapon about his person.
He rode, not a mule, like his companion, but a strong hackney for the road, to
save his gallant war-horse, which a squire led behind, fully accoutred for
battle, with a chamfron or plaited head-piece upon his head, having a short
spike projecting from the front. On one side of the saddle hung a short battle-
axe, richly inlaid with Damascene carving; on the other the rider's plumed
head-piece and hood of mail, with a long two-handed sword, used by the
chivalry of the period. A second squire held aloft his master's lance, from the
extremity of which fluttered a small banderole, or streamer, bearing a cross of
the same form with that embroidered upon his cloak. He also carried his small
triangular shield, broad enough at the top to protect the breast, and from
thence diminishing to a point. It was covered with a scarlet cloth, which
prevented the device from being seen.
These two squires were followed by two attendants, whose dark visages, white
turbans, and the Oriental form of their garments, showed them to be natives of
some distant Eastern country.
The whole appearance of this warrior and his retinue was wild and outlandish;
the dress of his squires was gorgeous, and his Eastern attendants wore silver
collars round their throats, and bracelets of the same metal upon their swarthy
arms and legs, of which the former were naked from the elbow, and the latter
from mid-leg to ankle. Silk and embroidery distinguished their dresses, and
marked the wealth and importance of their master; forming, at the same time,
a striking contrast with the martial simplicity of his own attire. They were
armed with crooked sabres, having the hilt and baldric inlaid with gold, and
matched with Turkish daggers of yet more costly workmanship. Each of them
bore at his saddle-bow a bundle of darts or javelins, about four feet in length,
having sharp steel heads, a weapon much in use among the Saracens, and of
which the memory is yet preserved in the martial exercise called "El Jerrid",
still practised in the Eastern countries.
The steeds of these attendants were in appearance as foreign as their riders.
They were of Saracen origin, and consequently of Arabian descent; and their
fine slender limbs, small fetlocks, thin manes, and easy springy motion,
formed a marked contrast with the large-jointed, heavy horses, of which the
race was cultivated in Flanders and in Normandy, for mounting the men-at-
arms of the period in all the panoply of plate and mail; and which, placed by
the side of those Eastern coursers, might have passed for a personification of
substance and of shadow.
The singular appearance of this cavalcade not only attracted the curiosity of
Wamba, but excited even that of his less volatile companion. The monk he
instantly knew to be the Prior of Jorvaulx Abbey, well known for many miles
around as a lover of the chase, of the banquet, and, if fame did him not wrong,
of other worldly pleasures still more inconsistent with his monastic vows.
Yet so loose were the ideas of the times respecting the conduct of the clergy,
whether secular or regular, that the Prior Aymer maintained a fair character in
the neighbourhood of his abbey. His free and jovial temper, and the readiness
with which he granted absolution from all ordinary delinquencies, rendered
him a favourite among the nobility and principal gentry, to several of whom he
was allied by birth, being of a distinguished Norman family. The ladies, in
particular, were not disposed to scan too nicely the morals of a man who was a
professed admirer of their sex, and who possessed many means of dispelling
the ennui which was too apt to intrude upon the halls and bowers of an ancient
feudal castle. The Prior mingled in the sports of the field with more than due
eagerness, and was allowed to possess the best-trained hawks, and the fleetest
greyhounds in the North Riding; circumstances which strongly recommended
him to the youthful gentry. With the old, he had another part to play, which,
when needful, he could sustain with great decorum. His knowledge of books,
however superficial, was sufficient to impress upon their ignorance respect for
his supposed learning; and the gravity of his deportment and language, with
the high tone which he exerted in setting forth the authority of the church and
of the priesthood, impressed them no less with an opinion of his sanctity. Even
the common people, the severest critics of the conduct of their betters, had
commiseration with the follies of Prior Aymer. He was generous; and charity,
as it is well known, covereth a multitude of sins, in another sense than that in
which it is said to do so in Scripture. The revenues of the monastery, of which
a large part was at his disposal, while they gave him the means of supplying
his own very considerable expenses, afforded also those largesses which he
bestowed among the peasantry, and with which he frequently relieved the
distresses of the oppressed. If Prior Aymer rode hard in the chase, or remained
long at the banquet,—if Prior Aymer was seen, at the early peep of dawn, to
enter the postern of the abbey, as he glided home from some rendezvous which
had occupied the hours of darkness, men only shrugged up their shoulders, and
reconciled themselves to his irregularities, by recollecting that the same were
practised by many of his brethren who had no redeeming qualities whatsoever
to atone for them. Prior Aymer, therefore, and his character, were well known
to our Saxon serfs, who made their rude obeisance, and received his
"benedicite, mes filz," in return.
But the singular appearance of his companion and his attendants, arrested their
attention and excited their wonder, and they could scarcely attend to the Prior
of Jorvaulx' question, when he demanded if they knew of any place of
harbourage in the vicinity; so much were they surprised at the half monastic,
half military appearance of the swarthy stranger, and at the uncouth dress and
arms of his Eastern attendants. It is probable, too, that the language in which
the benediction was conferred, and the information asked, sounded
ungracious, though not probably unintelligible, in the ears of the Saxon
peasants.
"I asked you, my children," said the Prior, raising his voice, and using the
lingua Franca, or mixed language, in which the Norman and Saxon races
conversed with each other, "if there be in this neighbourhood any good man,
who, for the love of God, and devotion to Mother Church, will give two of her
humblest servants, with their train, a night's hospitality and refreshment?"
This he spoke with a tone of conscious importance, which formed a strong
contrast to the modest terms which he thought it proper to employ.
"Two of the humblest servants of Mother Church!" repeated Wamba to
himself,—but, fool as he was, taking care not to make his observation audible;
"I should like to see her seneschals, her chief butlers, and other principal
domestics!"
After this internal commentary on the Prior's speech, he raised his eyes, and
replied to the question which had been put.
"If the reverend fathers," he said, "loved good cheer and soft lodging, few
miles of riding would carry them to the Priory of Brinxworth, where their
quality could not but secure them the most honourable reception; or if they
preferred spending a penitential evening, they might turn down yonder wild
glade, which would bring them to the hermitage of Copmanhurst, where a
pious anchoret would make them sharers for the night of the shelter of his roof
and the benefit of his prayers."
The Prior shook his head at both proposals.
"Mine honest friend," said he, "if the jangling of thy bells had not dizzied thine
understanding, thou mightst know "Clericus clericum non decimat"; that is to
say, we churchmen do not exhaust each other's hospitality, but rather require
that of the laity, giving them thus an opportunity to serve God in honouring
and relieving his appointed servants."
"It is true," replied Wamba, "that I, being but an ass, am, nevertheless,
honoured to hear the bells as well as your reverence's mule; notwithstanding, I
did conceive that the charity of Mother Church and her servants might be said,
with other charity, to begin at home."
"A truce to thine insolence, fellow," said the armed rider, breaking in on his
prattle with a high and stern voice, "and tell us, if thou canst, the road to—
How call'd you your Franklin, Prior Aymer?"
"Cedric," answered the Prior; "Cedric the Saxon.—Tell me, good fellow, are
we near his dwelling, and can you show us the road?"
"The road will be uneasy to find," answered Gurth, who broke silence for the
first time, "and the family of Cedric retire early to rest."
"Tush, tell not me, fellow," said the military rider; "'tis easy for them to arise
and supply the wants of travellers such as we are, who will not stoop to beg
the hospitality which we have a right to command."
"I know not," said Gurth, sullenly, "if I should show the way to my master's
house, to those who demand as a right, the shelter which most are fain to ask
as a favour."
"Do you dispute with me, slave!" said the soldier; and, setting spurs to his
horse, he caused him make a demivolte across the path, raising at the same
time the riding rod which he held in his hand, with a purpose of chastising
what he considered as the insolence of the peasant.
Gurth darted at him a savage and revengeful scowl, and with a fierce, yet
hesitating motion, laid his hand on the haft of his knife; but the interference of
Prior Aymer, who pushed his mule betwixt his companion and the swineherd,
prevented the meditated violence.
"Nay, by St Mary, brother Brian, you must not think you are now in Palestine,
predominating over heathen Turks and infidel Saracens; we islanders love not
blows, save those of holy Church, who chasteneth whom she loveth.—Tell
me, good fellow," said he to Wamba, and seconded his speech by a small piece
of silver coin, "the way to Cedric the Saxon's; you cannot be ignorant of it, and
it is your duty to direct the wanderer even when his character is less sanctified
than ours."
"In truth, venerable father," answered the Jester, "the Saracen head of your
right reverend companion has frightened out of mine the way home—I am not
sure I shall get there to-night myself."
"Tush," said the Abbot, "thou canst tell us if thou wilt. This reverend brother
has been all his life engaged in fighting among the Saracens for the recovery
of the Holy Sepulchre; he is of the order of Knights Templars, whom you may
have heard of; he is half a monk, half a soldier."
"If he is but half a monk," said the Jester, "he should not be wholly
unreasonable with those whom he meets upon the road, even if they should be
in no hurry to answer questions that no way concern them."
"I forgive thy wit," replied the Abbot, "on condition thou wilt show me the
way to Cedric's mansion."
"Well, then," answered Wamba, "your reverences must hold on this path till
you come to a sunken cross, of which scarce a cubit's length remains above
ground; then take the path to the left, for there are four which meet at Sunken
Cross, and I trust your reverences will obtain shelter before the storm comes
on."
The Abbot thanked his sage adviser; and the cavalcade, setting spurs to their
horses, rode on as men do who wish to reach their inn before the bursting of a
night-storm. As their horses' hoofs died away, Gurth said to his companion, "If
they follow thy wise direction, the reverend fathers will hardly reach
Rotherwood this night."
"No," said the Jester, grinning, "but they may reach Sheffield if they have
good luck, and that is as fit a place for them. I am not so bad a woodsman as to
show the dog where the deer lies, if I have no mind he should chase him."
"Thou art right," said Gurth; "it were ill that Aymer saw the Lady Rowena; and
it were worse, it may be, for Cedric to quarrel, as is most likely he would, with
this military monk. But, like good servants let us hear and see, and say
nothing."
We return to the riders, who had soon left the bondsmen far behind them, and
who maintained the following conversation in the Norman-French language,
usually employed by the superior classes, with the exception of the few who
were still inclined to boast their Saxon descent.
"What mean these fellows by their capricious insolence?" said the Templar to
the Benedictine, "and why did you prevent me from chastising it?"
"Marry, brother Brian," replied the Prior, "touching the one of them, it were
hard for me to render a reason for a fool speaking according to his folly; and
the other churl is of that savage, fierce, intractable race, some of whom, as I
have often told you, are still to be found among the descendants of the
conquered Saxons, and whose supreme pleasure it is to testify, by all means in
their power, their aversion to their conquerors."
"I would soon have beat him into courtesy," observed Brian; "I am accustomed
to deal with such spirits: Our Turkish captives are as fierce and intractable as
Odin himself could have been; yet two months in my household, under the
management of my master of the slaves, has made them humble, submissive,
serviceable, and observant of your will. Marry, sir, you must be aware of the
poison and the dagger; for they use either with free will when you give them
the slightest opportunity."
"Ay, but," answered Prior Aymer, "every land has its own manners and
fashions; and, besides that beating this fellow could procure us no information
respecting the road to Cedric's house, it would have been sure to have
established a quarrel betwixt you and him had we found our way thither.
Remember what I told you: this wealthy franklin is proud, fierce, jealous, and
irritable, a withstander of the nobility, and even of his neighbors, Reginald
Front-de-Boeuf and Philip Malvoisin, who are no babies to strive with. He
stands up sternly for the privileges of his race, and is so proud of his
uninterrupted descend from Hereward, a renowned champion of the
Heptarchy, that he is universally called Cedric the Saxon; and makes a boast of
his belonging to a people from whom many others endeaver to hide their
descent, lest they should encounter a share of the 'vae victis,' or severities
imposed upon the vanquished."
"Prior Aymer," said the Templar, "you are a man of gallantry, learned in the
study of beauty, and as expert as a troubadour in all matters concerning the
'arrets' of love; but I shall expect much beauty in this celebrated Rowena to
counterbalance the self-denial and forbearance which I must exert if I am to
court the favor of such a seditious churl as you have described her father
Cedric."
"Cedric is not her father," replied the Prior, "and is but of remote relation: she
is descended from higher blood than even he pretends to, and is but distantly
connected with him by birth. Her guardian, however, he is, self-constituted as
I believe; but his ward is as dear to him as if she were his own child. Of her
beauty you shall soon be judge; and if the purity of her complexion, and the
majestic, yet soft expression of a mild blue eye, do not chase from your
memory the black-tressed girls of Palestine, ay, or the houris of old Mahound's
paradise, I am an infidel, and no true son of the church."
"Should your boasted beauty," said the Templar, "be weighed in the balance
and found wanting, you know our wager?"
"My gold collar," answered the Prior, "against ten butts of Chian wine;—they
are mine as securely as if they were already in the convent vaults, under the
key of old Dennis the cellarer."
"And I am myself to be judge," said the Templar, "and am only to be convicted
on my own admission, that I have seen no maiden so beautiful since Pentecost
was a twelvemonth. Ran it not so?—Prior, your collar is in danger; I will wear
it over my gorget in the lists of Ashby-de-la-Zouche."
"Win it fairly," said the Prior, "and wear it as ye will; I will trust your giving
true response, on your word as a knight and as a churchman. Yet, brother, take
my advice, and file your tongue to a little more courtesy than your habits of
predominating over infidel captives and Eastern bondsmen have accustomed
you. Cedric the Saxon, if offended,—and he is noway slack in taking offence,
—is a man who, without respect to your knighthood, my high office, or the
sanctity of either, would clear his house of us, and send us to lodge with the
larks, though the hour were midnight. And be careful how you look on
Rowena, whom he cherishes with the most jealous care; an he take the least
alarm in that quarter we are but lost men. It is said he banished his only son
from his family for lifting his eyes in the way of affection towards this beauty,
who may be worshipped, it seems, at a distance, but is not to be approached
with other thoughts than such as we bring to the shrine of the Blessed Virgin."
"Well, you have said enough," answered the Templar; "I will for a night put on
the needful restraint, and deport me as meekly as a maiden; but as for the fear
of his expelling us by violence, myself and squires, with Hamet and Abdalla,
will warrant you against that disgrace. Doubt not that we shall be strong
enough to make good our quarters."
"We must not let it come so far," answered the Prior; "but here is the clown's
sunken cross, and the night is so dark that we can hardly see which of the
roads we are to follow. He bid us turn, I think to the left."
"To the right," said Brian, "to the best of my remembrance."
"To the left, certainly, the left; I remember his pointing with his wooden
sword."
"Ay, but he held his sword in his left hand, and so pointed across his body with
it," said the Templar.
Each maintained his opinion with sufficient obstinacy, as is usual in all such
cases; the attendants were appealed to, but they had not been near enough to
hear Wamba's directions. At length Brian remarked, what had at first escaped
him in the twilight; "Here is some one either asleep, or lying dead at the foot
of this cross—Hugo, stir him with the butt-end of thy lance."
This was no sooner done than the figure arose, exclaiming in good French,
"Whosoever thou art, it is discourteous in you to disturb my thoughts."
"We did but wish to ask you," said the Prior, "the road to Rotherwood, the
abode of Cedric the Saxon."
"I myself am bound thither," replied the stranger; "and if I had a horse, I would
be your guide, for the way is somewhat intricate, though perfectly well known
to me."
"Thou shalt have both thanks and reward, my friend," said the Prior, "if thou
wilt bring us to Cedric's in safety."
And he caused one of his attendants to mount his own led horse, and give that
upon which he had hitherto ridden to the stranger, who was to serve for a
guide.
Their conductor pursued an opposite road from that which Wamba had
recommended, for the purpose of misleading them. The path soon led deeper
into the woodland, and crossed more than one brook, the approach to which
was rendered perilous by the marshes through which it flowed; but the
stranger seemed to know, as if by instinct, the soundest ground and the safest
points of passage; and by dint of caution and attention, brought the party
safely into a wilder avenue than any they had yet seen; and, pointing to a large
low irregular building at the upper extremity, he said to the Prior, "Yonder is
Rotherwood, the dwelling of Cedric the Saxon."
This was a joyful intimation to Aymer, whose nerves were none of the
strongest, and who had suffered such agitation and alarm in the course of
passing through the dangerous bogs, that he had not yet had the curiosity to
ask his guide a single question. Finding himself now at his ease and near
shelter, his curiosity began to awake, and he demanded of the guide who and
what he was.
"A Palmer, just returned from the Holy Land," was the answer.
"You had better have tarried there to fight for the recovery of the Holy
Sepulchre," said the Templar.
"True, Reverend Sir Knight," answered the Palmer, to whom the appearance of
the Templar seemed perfectly familiar; "but when those who are under oath to
recover the holy city, are found travelling at such a distance from the scene of
their duties, can you wonder that a peaceful peasant like me should decline the
task which they have abandoned?"
The Templar would have made an angry reply, but was interrupted by the
Prior, who again expressed his astonishment, that their guide, after such long
absence, should be so perfectly acquainted with the passes of the forest.
"I was born a native of these parts," answered their guide, and as he made the
reply they stood before the mansion of Cedric;—a low irregular building,
containing several court-yards or enclosures, extending over a considerable
space of ground, and which, though its size argued the inhabitant to be a
person of wealth, differed entirely from the tall, turretted, and castellated
buildings in which the Norman nobility resided, and which had become the
universal style of architecture throughout England.
Rotherwood was not, however, without defences; no habitation, in that
disturbed period, could have been so, without the risk of being plundered and
burnt before the next morning. A deep fosse, or ditch, was drawn round the
whole building, and filled with water from a neighbouring stream. A double
stockade, or palisade, composed of pointed beams, which the adjacent forest
supplied, defended the outer and inner bank of the trench. There was an
entrance from the west through the outer stockade, which communicated by a
drawbridge, with a similar opening in the interior defences. Some precautions
had been taken to place those entrances under the protection of projecting
angles, by which they might be flanked in case of need by archers or slingers.
Before this entrance the Templar wound his horn loudly; for the rain, which
had long threatened, began now to descend with great violence.
 CHAPTER III

Then (sad relief!) from the bleak coast that hears

The German Ocean roar, deep-blooming, strong,
And yellow hair'd, the blue-eyed Saxon came.
Thomson's Liberty
In a hall, the height of which was greatly disproportioned to its extreme length
and width, a long oaken table, formed of planks rough-hewn from the forest,
and which had scarcely received any polish, stood ready prepared for the
evening meal of Cedric the Saxon. The roof, composed of beams and rafters,
had nothing to divide the apartment from the sky excepting the planking and
thatch; there was a huge fireplace at either end of the hall, but as the chimneys
were constructed in a very clumsy manner, at least as much of the smoke
found its way into the apartment as escaped by the proper vent. The constant
vapour which this occasioned, had polished the rafters and beams of the low-
browed hall, by encrusting them with a black varnish of soot. On the sides of
the apartment hung implements of war and of the chase, and there were at
each corner folding doors, which gave access to other parts of the extensive
building.
The other appointments of the mansion partook of the rude simplicity of the
Saxon period, which Cedric piqued himself upon maintaining. The floor was
composed of earth mixed with lime, trodden into a hard substance, such as is
often employed in flooring our modern barns. For about one quarter of the
length of the apartment, the floor was raised by a step, and this space, which
was called the dais, was occupied only by the principal members of the family,
and visitors of distinction. For this purpose, a table richly covered with scarlet
cloth was placed transversely across the platform, from the middle of which
ran the longer and lower board, at which the domestics and inferior persons
fed, down towards the bottom of the hall. The whole resembled the form of the
letter T, or some of those ancient dinner-tables, which, arranged on the same
principles, may be still seen in the antique Colleges of Oxford or Cambridge.
Massive chairs and settles of carved oak were placed upon the dais, and over
these seats and the more elevated table was fastened a canopy of cloth, which
served in some degree to protect the dignitaries who occupied that
distinguished station from the weather, and especially from the rain, which in
some places found its way through the ill-constructed roof.
The walls of this upper end of the hall, as far as the dais extended, were
covered with hangings or curtains, and upon the floor there was a carpet, both
of which were adorned with some attempts at tapestry, or embroidery,
executed with brilliant or rather gaudy colouring. Over the lower range of
table, the roof, as we have noticed, had no covering; the rough plastered walls
were left bare, and the rude earthen floor was uncarpeted; the board was
uncovered by a cloth, and rude massive benches supplied the place of chairs.
In the centre of the upper table, were placed two chairs more elevated than the
rest, for the master and mistress of the family, who presided over the scene of
hospitality, and from doing so derived their Saxon title of honour, which
signifies "the Dividers of Bread."
To each of these chairs was added a footstool, curiously carved and inlaid with
ivory, which mark of distinction was peculiar to them. One of these seats was
at present occupied by Cedric the Saxon, who, though but in rank a thane, or,
as the Normans called him, a Franklin, felt, at the delay of his evening meal,
an irritable impatience, which might have become an alderman, whether of
ancient or of modern times.
It appeared, indeed, from the countenance of this proprietor, that he was of a
frank, but hasty and choleric temper. He was not above the middle stature, but
broad-shouldered, long-armed, and powerfully made, like one accustomed to
endure the fatigue of war or of the chase; his face was broad, with large blue
eyes, open and frank features, fine teeth, and a well formed head, altogether
expressive of that sort of good-humour which often lodges with a sudden and
hasty temper. Pride and jealousy there was in his eye, for his life had been
spent in asserting rights which were constantly liable to invasion; and the
prompt, fiery, and resolute disposition of the man, had been kept constantly
upon the alert by the circumstances of his situation. His long yellow hair was
equally divided on the top of his head and upon his brow, and combed down
on each side to the length of his shoulders; it had but little tendency to grey,
although Cedric was approaching to his sixtieth year.
His dress was a tunic of forest green, furred at the throat and cuffs with what
was called minever; a kind of fur inferior in quality to ermine, and formed, it
is believed, of the skin of the grey squirrel. This doublet hung unbuttoned over
a close dress of scarlet which sat tight to his body; he had breeches of the
same, but they did not reach below the lower part of the thigh, leaving the
knee exposed. His feet had sandals of the same fashion with the peasants, but
of finer materials, and secured in the front with golden clasps. He had
bracelets of gold upon his arms, and a broad collar of the same precious metal
around his neck. About his waist he wore a richly-studded belt, in which was
stuck a short straight two-edged sword, with a sharp point, so disposed as to
hang almost perpendicularly by his side. Behind his seat was hung a scarlet
cloth cloak lined with fur, and a cap of the same materials richly embroidered,
which completed the dress of the opulent landholder when he chose to go
forth. A short boar-spear, with a broad and bright steel head, also reclined
against the back of his chair, which served him, when he walked abroad, for
the purposes of a staff or of a weapon, as chance might require.
Several domestics, whose dress held various proportions betwixt the richness
of their master's, and the coarse and simple attire of Gurth the swine-herd,
watched the looks and waited the commands of the Saxon dignitary. Two or
three servants of a superior order stood behind their master upon the dais; the
rest occupied the lower part of the hall. Other attendants there were of a
different description; two or three large and shaggy greyhounds, such as were
then employed in hunting the stag and wolf; as many slow-hounds of a large
bony breed, with thick necks, large heads, and long ears; and one or two of the
smaller dogs, now called terriers, which waited with impatience the arrival of
the supper; but, with the sagacious knowledge of physiognomy peculiar to
their race, forbore to intrude upon the moody silence of their master,
apprehensive probably of a small white truncheon which lay by Cedric's
trencher, for the purpose of repelling the advances of his four-legged
dependants. One grisly old wolf-dog alone, with the liberty of an indulged
favourite, had planted himself close by the chair of state, and occasionally
ventured to solicit notice by putting his large hairy head upon his master's
knee, or pushing his nose into his hand. Even he was repelled by the stern
command, "Down, Balder, down! I am not in the humour for foolery."
In fact, Cedric, as we have observed, was in no very placid state of mind. The
Lady Rowena, who had been absent to attend an evening mass at a distant
church, had but just returned, and was changing her garments, which had been
wetted by the storm. There were as yet no tidings of Gurth and his charge,
which should long since have been driven home from the forest and such was
the insecurity of the period, as to render it probable that the delay might be
explained by some depreciation of the outlaws, with whom the adjacent forest
abounded, or by the violence of some neighbouring baron, whose
consciousness of strength made him equally negligent of the laws of property.
The matter was of consequence, for great part of the domestic wealth of the
Saxon proprietors consisted in numerous herds of swine, especially in forest-
land, where those animals easily found their food.
Besides these subjects of anxiety, the Saxon thane was impatient for the
presence of his favourite clown Wamba, whose jests, such as they were, served
for a sort of seasoning to his evening meal, and to the deep draughts of ale and
wine with which he was in the habit of accompanying it. Add to all this,
Cedric had fasted since noon, and his usual supper hour was long past, a cause
of irritation common to country squires, both in ancient and modern times. His
displeasure was expressed in broken sentences, partly muttered to himself,
partly addressed to the domestics who stood around; and particularly to his
cupbearer, who offered him from time to time, as a sedative, a silver goblet
filled with wine—"Why tarries the Lady Rowena?"
"She is but changing her head-gear," replied a female attendant, with as much
confidence as the favourite lady's-maid usually answers the master of a
modern family; "you would not wish her to sit down to the banquet in her
hood and kirtle? and no lady within the shire can be quicker in arraying herself
than my mistress."
This undeniable argument produced a sort of acquiescent umph! on the part of
the Saxon, with the addition, "I wish her devotion may choose fair weather for
the next visit to St John's Kirk;—but what, in the name of ten devils,"
continued he, turning to the cupbearer, and raising his voice as if happy to
have found a channel into which he might divert his indignation without fear
or control—"what, in the name of ten devils, keeps Gurth so long afield? I
suppose we shall have an evil account of the herd; he was wont to be a faithful
and cautious drudge, and I had destined him for something better; perchance I
might even have made him one of my warders."
Oswald the cupbearer modestly suggested, "that it was scarce an hour since
the tolling of the curfew;" an ill-chosen apology, since it turned upon a topic
so harsh to Saxon ears.
"The foul fiend," exclaimed Cedric, "take the curfew-bell, and the tyrannical
bastard by whom it was devised, and the heartless slave who names it with a
Saxon tongue to a Saxon ear! The curfew!" he added, pausing, "ay, the curfew;
which compels true men to extinguish their lights, that thieves and robbers
may work their deeds in darkness!—Ay, the curfew;—Reginald Front-de-
Boeuf and Philip de Malvoisin know the use of the curfew as well as William
the Bastard himself, or e'er a Norman adventurer that fought at Hastings. I
shall hear, I guess, that my property has been swept off to save from starving
the hungry banditti, whom they cannot support but by theft and robbery. My
faithful slave is murdered, and my goods are taken for a prey—and Wamba—
where is Wamba? Said not some one he had gone forth with Gurth?"
Oswald replied in the affirmative.
"Ay? why this is better and better! he is carried off too, the Saxon fool, to
serve the Norman lord. Fools are we all indeed that serve them, and fitter
subjects for their scorn and laughter, than if we were born with but half our
wits. But I will be avenged," he added, starting from his chair in impatience at
the supposed injury, and catching hold of his boar-spear; "I will go with my
complaint to the great council; I have friends, I have followers—man to man
will I appeal the Norman to the lists; let him come in his plate and his mail,
and all that can render cowardice bold; I have sent such a javelin as this
through a stronger fence than three of their war shields!—Haply they think me
old; but they shall find, alone and childless as I am, the blood of Hereward is
in the veins of Cedric.—Ah, Wilfred, Wilfred!" he exclaimed in a lower tone,
"couldst thou have ruled thine unreasonable passion, thy father had not been
left in his age like the solitary oak that throws out its shattered and unprotected
branches against the full sweep of the tempest!" The reflection seemed to
conjure into sadness his irritated feelings. Replacing his javelin, he resumed
his seat, bent his looks downward, and appeared to be absorbed in melancholy
reflection.
From his musing, Cedric was suddenly awakened by the blast of a horn, which
was replied to by the clamorous yells and barking of all the dogs in the hall,
and some twenty or thirty which were quartered in other parts of the building.
It cost some exercise of the white truncheon, well seconded by the exertions of
the domestics, to silence this canine clamour.
"To the gate, knaves!" said the Saxon, hastily, as soon as the tumult was so
much appeased that the dependants could hear his voice. "See what tidings
that horn tells us of—to announce, I ween, some hership 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—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."
"The French," said the Templar, raising his voice with the presumptuous and
authoritative tone which he used upon all occasions, "is not only the natural
language of the chase, but that of love and of war, in which ladies should be
won and enemies defied."
"Pledge me in a cup of wine, Sir Templar," said Cedric, "and fill another to the
Abbot, while I look back some thirty years to tell you another tale. As Cedric
the Saxon then was, his plain English tale needed no garnish from French
troubadours, when it was told in the ear of beauty; and the field of
Northallerton, upon the day of the Holy Standard, could tell whether the Saxon
war-cry was not heard as far within the ranks of the Scottish host as the 'cri de
guerre' of the boldest Norman baron. To the memory of the brave who fought
there!—Pledge me, my guests." He drank deep, and went on with increasing
warmth. "Ay, that was a day of cleaving of shields, when a hundred banners
were bent forwards over the heads of the valiant, and blood flowed round like
water, and death was held better than flight. A Saxon bard had called it a feast
of the swords—a gathering of the eagles to the prey—the clashing of bills
upon shield and helmet, the shouting of battle more joyful than the clamour of
a bridal. But our bards are no more," he said; "our deeds are lost in those of
another race—our language—our very name—is hastening to decay, and none
mourns for it save one solitary old man—Cupbearer! knave, fill the goblets—
To the strong in arms, Sir Templar, be their race or language what it will, who
now bear them best in Palestine among the champions of the Cross!"
"It becomes not one wearing this badge to answer," said Sir Brian de Bois-
Guilbert; "yet to whom, besides the sworn Champions of the Holy Sepulchre,
can the palm be assigned among the champions of the Cross?"
"To the Knights Hospitallers," said the Abbot; "I have a brother of their order."
"I impeach not their fame," said the Templar; "nevertheless—-"
"I think, friend Cedric," said Wamba, interfering, "that had Richard of the
Lion's Heart been wise enough to have taken a fool's advice, he might have
staid at home with his merry Englishmen, and left the recovery of Jerusalem to
those same Knights who had most to do with the loss of it."
"Were there, then, none in the English army," said the Lady Rowena, "whose
names are worthy to be mentioned with the Knights of the Temple, and of St
John?"
"Forgive me, lady," replied De Bois-Guilbert; "the English monarch did,
indeed, bring to Palestine a host of gallant warriors, second only to those
whose breasts have been the unceasing bulwark of that blessed land."
"Second to NONE," said the Pilgrim, who had stood near enough to hear, and
had listened to this conversation with marked impatience. All turned toward
the spot from whence this unexpected asseveration was heard.
"I say," repeated the Pilgrim in a firm and strong voice, "that the English
chivalry were second to NONE who ever drew sword in defence of the Holy
Land. I say besides, for I saw it, that King Richard himself, and five of his
knights, held a tournament after the taking of St John-de-Acre, as challengers
against all comers. I say that, on that day, each knight ran three courses, and
cast to the ground three antagonists. I add, that seven of these assailants were
Knights of the Temple—and Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert well knows the truth
of what I tell you."
It is impossible for language to describe the bitter scowl of rage which
rendered yet darker the swarthy countenance of the Templar. In the extremity
of his resentment and confusion, his quivering fingers griped towards the
handle of his sword, and perhaps only withdrew, from the consciousness that
no act of violence could be safely executed in that place and presence. Cedric,
whose feelings were all of a right onward and simple kind, and were seldom
occupied by more than one object at once, omitted, in the joyous glee with
which he heard of the glory of his countrymen, to remark the angry confusion
of his guest; "I would give thee this golden bracelet, Pilgrim," he said, "couldst
thou tell me the names of those knights who upheld so gallantly the renown of
merry England."
"That will I do blithely," replied the Pilgrim, "and without guerdon; my oath,
for a time, prohibits me from touching gold."
"I will wear the bracelet for you, if you will, friend Palmer," said Wamba.
"The first in honour as in arms, in renown as in place," said the Pilgrim, "was
the brave Richard, King of England."
"I forgive him," said Cedric; "I forgive him his descent from the tyrant Duke
William."
"The Earl of Leicester was the second," continued the Pilgrim; "Sir Thomas
Multon of Gilsland was the third."
"Of Saxon descent, he at least," said Cedric, with exultation.
"Sir Foulk Doilly the fourth," proceeded the Pilgrim.
"Saxon also, at least by the mother's side," continued Cedric, who listened
with the utmost eagerness, and forgot, in part at least, his hatred to the
Normans, in the common triumph of the King of England and his islanders.
"And who was the fifth?" he demanded.
"The fifth was Sir Edwin Turneham."
"Genuine Saxon, by the soul of Hengist!" shouted Cedric—"And the sixth?"
he continued with eagerness—"how name you the sixth?"
"The sixth," said the Palmer, after a pause, in which he seemed to recollect
himself, "was a young knight of lesser renown and lower rank, assumed into
that honourable company, less to aid their enterprise than to make up their
number—his name dwells not in my memory."
"Sir Palmer," said Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert scornfully, "this assumed
forgetfulness, after so much has been remembered, comes too late to serve
your purpose. I will myself tell the name of the knight before whose lance
fortune and my horse's fault occasioned my falling—it was the Knight of
Ivanhoe; nor was there one of the six that, for his years, had more renown in
arms.—Yet this will I say, and loudly—that were he in England, and durst
repeat, in this week's tournament, the challenge of St John-de-Acre, I,
mounted and armed as I now am, would give him every advantage of
weapons, and abide the result."
"Your challenge would soon be answered," replied the Palmer, "were your
antagonist near you. As the matter is, disturb not the peaceful hall with vaunts
of the issue of the conflict, which you well know cannot take place. If Ivanhoe
ever returns from Palestine, I will be his surety that he meets you."
"A goodly security!" said the Knight Templar; "and what do you proffer as a
pledge?"
"This reliquary," said the Palmer, taking a small ivory box from his bosom,
and crossing himself, "containing a portion of the true cross, brought from the
Monastery of Mount Carmel."
The Prior of Jorvaulx crossed himself and repeated a pater noster, in which all
devoutly joined, excepting the Jew, the Mahomedans, and the Templar; the
latter of whom, without vailing his bonnet, or testifying any reverence for the
alleged sanctity of the relic, took from his neck a gold chain, which he flung
on the board, saying—"Let Prior Aymer hold my pledge and that of this
nameless vagrant, in token that when the Knight of Ivanhoe comes within the
four seas of Britain, he underlies the challenge of Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
which, if he answer not, I will proclaim him as a coward on the walls of every
Temple Court in Europe."
"It will not need," said the Lady Rowena, breaking silence; "My voice shall be
heard, if no other in this hall is raised in behalf of the absent Ivanhoe. I affirm
he will meet fairly every honourable challenge. Could my weak warrant add
security to the inestimable pledge of this holy pilgrim, I would pledge name
and fame that Ivanhoe gives this proud knight the meeting he desires."
A crowd of conflicting emotions seemed to have occupied Cedric, and kept
him silent during this discussion. Gratified pride, resentment, embarrassment,
chased each other over his broad and open brow, like the shadow of clouds
drifting over a harvest-field; while his attendants, on whom the name of the
sixth knight seemed to produce an effect almost electrical, hung in suspense
upon their master's looks. But when Rowena spoke, the sound of her voice
seemed to startle him from his silence.
"Lady," said Cedric, "this beseems not; were further pledge necessary, I
myself, offended, and justly offended, as I am, would yet gage my honour for
the honour of Ivanhoe. But the wager of battle is complete, even according to
the fantastic fashions of Norman chivalry—Is it not, Father Aymer?"
"It is," replied the Prior; "and the blessed relic and rich chain will I bestow
safely in the treasury of our convent, until the decision of this warlike
challenge."
Having thus spoken, he crossed himself again and again, and after many
genuflections and muttered prayers, he delivered the reliquary to Brother
Ambrose, his attendant monk, while he himself swept up with less ceremony,
but perhaps with no less internal satisfaction, the golden chain, and bestowed
it in a pouch lined with perfumed leather, which opened under his arm. "And
now, Sir Cedric," he said, "my ears are chiming vespers with the strength of
your good wine—permit us another pledge to the welfare of the Lady Rowena,
and indulge us with liberty to pass to our repose."
"By the rood of Bromholme," said the Saxon, "you do but small credit to your
fame, Sir Prior! Report speaks you a bonny monk, that would hear the matin
chime ere he quitted his bowl; and, old as I am, I feared to have shame in
encountering you. But, by my faith, a Saxon boy of twelve, in my time, would
not so soon have relinquished his goblet."
The Prior had his own reasons, however, for persevering in the course of
temperance which he had adopted. He was not only a professional
peacemaker, but from practice a hater of all feuds and brawls. It was not
altogether from a love to his neighbour, or to himself, or from a mixture of
both. On the present occasion, he had an instinctive apprehension of the fiery
temper of the Saxon, and saw the danger that the reckless and presumptuous
spirit, of which his companion had already given so many proofs, might at
length produce some disagreeable explosion. He therefore gently insinuated
the incapacity of the native of any other country to engage in the genial
conflict of the bowl with the hardy and strong-headed Saxons; something he
mentioned, but slightly, about his own holy character, and ended by pressing
his proposal to depart to repose.
The grace-cup was accordingly served round, and the guests, after making
deep obeisance to their landlord and to the Lady Rowena, arose and mingled
in the hall, while the heads of the family, by separate doors, retired with their
attendants.
"Unbelieving dog," said the Templar to Isaac the Jew, as he passed him in the
throng, "dost thou bend thy course to the tournament?"
"I do so propose," replied Isaac, bowing in all humility, "if it please your
reverend valour."
"Ay," said the Knight, "to gnaw the bowels of our nobles with usury, and to
gull women and boys with gauds and toys—I warrant thee store of shekels in
thy Jewish scrip."
"Not a shekel, not a silver penny, not a halfling—so help me the God of
Abraham!" said the Jew, clasping his hands; "I go but to seek the assistance of
some brethren of my tribe to aid me to pay the fine which the Exchequer of the
Jews have imposed upon me—Father Jacob be my speed! I am an
impoverished wretch—the very gaberdine I wear is borrowed from Reuben of
Tadcaster."
The Templar smiled sourly as he replied, "Beshrew thee for a false-hearted
liar!" and passing onward, as if disdaining farther conference, he communed
with his Moslem slaves in a language unknown to the bystanders. The poor
Israelite seemed so staggered by the address of the military monk, that the
Templar had passed on to the extremity of the hall ere he raised his head from
the humble posture which he had assumed, so far as to be sensible of his
departure. And when he did look around, it was with the astonished air of one
at whose feet a thunderbolt has just burst, and who hears still the astounding
report ringing in his ears.
The Templar and Prior were shortly after marshalled to their sleeping
apartments by the steward and the cupbearer, each attended by two
torchbearers and two servants carrying refreshments, while servants of inferior
condition indicated to their retinue and to the other guests their respective
places of repose.

CHAPTER VI

To buy his favour I extend this friendship:

If he will take it, so; if not, adieu;
And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not.
—Merchant of Venice
As the Palmer, lighted by a domestic with a torch, passed through the intricate
combination of apartments of this large and irregular mansion, the cupbearer
coming behind him whispered in his ear, that if he had no objection to a cup of
good mead in his apartment, there were many domestics in that family who
would gladly hear the news he had brought from the Holy Land, and
particularly that which concerned the Knight of Ivanhoe. Wamba presently
appeared to urge the same request, observing that a cup after midnight was
worth three after curfew. Without disputing a maxim urged by such grave
authority, the Palmer thanked them for their courtesy, but observed that he had
included in his religious vow, an obligation never to speak in the kitchen on
matters which were prohibited in the hall. "That vow," said Wamba to the
cupbearer, "would scarce suit a serving-man."
The cupbearer shrugged up his shoulders in displeasure. "I thought to have
lodged him in the solere chamber," said he; "but since he is so unsocial to
Christians, e'en let him take the next stall to Isaac the Jew's.—Anwold," said
he to the torchbearer, "carry the Pilgrim to the southern cell.—I give you
good-night," he added, "Sir Palmer, with small thanks for short courtesy."
"Good-night, and Our Lady's benison," said the Palmer, with composure; and
his guide moved forward.
In a small antechamber, into which several doors opened, and which was
lighted by a small iron lamp, they met a second interruption from the waiting-
maid of Rowena, who, saying in a tone of authority, that her mistress desired
to speak with the Palmer, took the torch from the hand of Anwold, and,
bidding him await her return, made a sign to the Palmer to follow. Apparently
he did not think it proper to decline this invitation as he had done the former;
for, though his gesture indicated some surprise at the summons, he obeyed it
without answer or remonstrance.
A short passage, and an ascent of seven steps, each of which was composed of
a solid beam of oak, led him to the apartment of the Lady Rowena, the rude
magnificence of which corresponded to the respect which was paid to her by
the lord of the mansion. The walls were covered with embroidered hangings,
on which different-coloured silks, interwoven with gold and silver threads, had
been employed with all the art of which the age was capable, to represent the
sports of hunting and hawking. The bed was adorned with the same rich
tapestry, and surrounded with curtains dyed with purple. The seats had also
their stained coverings, and one, which was higher than the rest, was
accommodated with a footstool of ivory, curiously carved.
No fewer than four silver candelabras, holding great waxen torches, served to
illuminate this apartment. Yet let not modern beauty envy the magnificence of
a Saxon princess. The walls of the apartment were so ill finished and so full of
crevices, that the rich hangings shook in the night blast, and, in despite of a
sort of screen intended to protect them from the wind, the flame of the torches
streamed sideways into the air, like the unfurled pennon of a chieftain.
Magnificence there was, with some rude attempt at taste; but of comfort there
was little, and, being unknown, it was unmissed.
The Lady Rowena, with three of her attendants standing at her back, and
arranging her hair ere she lay down to rest, was seated in the sort of throne
already mentioned, and looked as if born to exact general homage. The
Pilgrim acknowledged her claim to it by a low genuflection.
"Rise, Palmer," said she graciously. "The defender of the absent has a right to
favourable reception from all who value truth, and honour manhood." She then
said to her train, "Retire, excepting only Elgitha; I would speak with this holy
Pilgrim."
The maidens, without leaving the apartment, retired to its further extremity,
and sat down on a small bench against the wall, where they remained mute as
statues, though at such a distance that their whispers could not have
interrupted the conversation of their mistress.
"Pilgrim," said the lady, after a moment's pause, during which she seemed
uncertain how to address him, "you this night mentioned a name—I mean,"
she said, with a degree of effort, "the name of Ivanhoe, in the halls where by
nature and kindred it should have sounded most acceptably; and yet, such is
the perverse course of fate, that of many whose hearts must have throbbed at
the sound, I, only, dare ask you where, and in what condition, you left him of
whom you spoke?—We heard, that, having remained in Palestine, on account
of his impaired health, after the departure of the English army, he had
experienced the persecution of the French faction, to whom the Templars are
known to be attached."
"I know little of the Knight of Ivanhoe," answered the Palmer, with a troubled
voice. "I would I knew him better, since you, lady, are interested in his fate.
He hath, I believe, surmounted the persecution of his enemies in Palestine, and
is on the eve of returning to England, where you, lady, must know better than
I, what is his chance of happiness."
The Lady Rowena sighed deeply, and asked more particularly when the
Knight of Ivanhoe might be expected in his native country, and whether he
would not be exposed to great dangers by the road. On the first point, the
Palmer professed ignorance; on the second, he said that the voyage might be
safely made by the way of Venice and Genoa, and from thence through France
to England. "Ivanhoe," he said, "was so well acquainted with the language and
manners of the French, that there was no fear of his incurring any hazard
during that part of his travels."
"Would to God," said the Lady Rowena, "he were here safely arrived, and able
to bear arms in the approaching tourney, in which the chivalry of this land are
expected to display their address and valour. Should Athelstane of
Coningsburgh obtain the prize, Ivanhoe is like to hear evil tidings when he
reaches England.—How looked he, stranger, when you last saw him? Had
disease laid her hand heavy upon his strength and comeliness?"
"He was darker," said the Palmer, "and thinner, than when he came from
Cyprus in the train of Coeur-de-Lion, and care seemed to sit heavy on his
brow; but I approached not his presence, because he is unknown to me."
"He will," said the lady, "I fear, find little in his native land to clear those
clouds from his countenance. Thanks, good Pilgrim, for your information
concerning the companion of my childhood.—Maidens," she said, "draw near
—offer the sleeping cup to this holy man, whom I will no longer detain from
repose."
One of the maidens presented a silver cup, containing a rich mixture of wine
and spice, which Rowena barely put to her lips. It was then offered to the
Palmer, who, after a low obeisance, tasted a few drops.
"Accept this alms, friend," continued the lady, offering a piece of gold, "in
acknowledgment of thy painful travail, and of the shrines thou hast visited."
The Palmer received the boon with another low reverence, and followed
Edwina out of the apartment.
In the anteroom he found his attendant Anwold, who, taking the torch from the
hand of the waiting-maid, conducted him with more haste than ceremony to an
exterior and ignoble part of the building, where a number of small apartments,
or rather cells, served for sleeping places to the lower order of domestics, and
to strangers of mean degree.
"In which of these sleeps the Jew?" said the Pilgrim.
"The unbelieving dog," answered Anwold, "kennels in the cell next your
holiness.—St Dunstan, how it must be scraped and cleansed ere it be again fit
for a Christian!"
"And where sleeps Gurth the swineherd?" said the stranger.
"Gurth," replied the bondsman, "sleeps in the cell on your right, as the Jew on
that to your left; you serve to keep the child of circumcision separate from the
abomination of his tribe. You might have occupied a more honourable place
had you accepted of Oswald's invitation."
"It is as well as it is," said the Palmer; "the company, even of a Jew, can hardly
spread contamination through an oaken partition."
So saying, he entered the cabin allotted to him, and taking the torch from the
domestic's hand, thanked him, and wished him good-night. Having shut the
door of his cell, he placed the torch in a candlestick made of wood, and looked
around his sleeping apartment, the furniture of which was of the most simple
kind. It consisted of a rude wooden stool, and still ruder hutch or bed-frame,
stuffed with clean straw, and accommodated with two or three sheepskins by
way of bed-clothes.
The Palmer, having extinguished his torch, threw himself, without taking off
any part of his clothes, on this rude couch, and slept, or at least retained his
recumbent posture, till the earliest sunbeams found their way through the little
grated window, which served at once to admit both air and light to his
uncomfortable cell. He then started up, and after repeating his matins, and
adjusting his dress, he left it, and entered that of Isaac the Jew, lifting the latch
as gently as he could.
The inmate was lying in troubled slumber upon a couch similar to that on
which the Palmer himself had passed the night. Such parts of his dress as the
Jew had laid aside on the preceding evening, were disposed carefully around
his person, as if to prevent the hazard of their being carried off during his
slumbers. There was a trouble on his brow amounting almost to agony. His
hands and arms moved convulsively, as if struggling with the nightmare; and
besides several ejaculations in Hebrew, the following were distinctly heard in
the Norman-English, or mixed language of the country: "For the sake of the
God of Abraham, spare an unhappy old man! I am poor, I am penniless—
should your irons wrench my limbs asunder, I could not gratify you!"
The Palmer awaited not the end of the Jew's vision, but stirred him with his
pilgrim's staff. The touch probably associated, as is usual, with some of the
apprehensions excited by his dream; for the old man started up, his grey hair
standing almost erect upon his head, and huddling some part of his garments
about him, while he held the detached pieces with the tenacious grasp of a
falcon, he fixed upon the Palmer his keen black eyes, expressive of wild
surprise and of bodily apprehension.
"Fear nothing from me, Isaac," said the Palmer, "I come as your friend."
"The God of Israel requite you," said the Jew, greatly relieved; "I dreamed—
But Father Abraham be praised, it was but a dream." Then, collecting himself,
he added in his usual tone, "And what may it be your pleasure to want at so
early an hour with the poor Jew?"
"It is to tell you," said the Palmer, "that if you leave not this mansion instantly,
and travel not with some haste, your journey may prove a dangerous one."
"Holy father!" said the Jew, "whom could it interest to endanger so poor a
wretch as I am?"
"The purpose you can best guess," said the Pilgrim; "but rely on this, that
when the Templar crossed the hall yesternight, he spoke to his Mussulman
slaves in the Saracen language, which I well understand, and charged them
this morning to watch the journey of the Jew, to seize upon him when at a
convenient distance from the mansion, and to conduct him to the castle of
Philip de Malvoisin, or to that of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf."
It is impossible to describe the extremity of terror which seized upon the Jew
at this information, and seemed at once to overpower his whole faculties. His
arms fell down to his sides, and his head drooped on his breast, his knees bent
under his weight, every nerve and muscle of his frame seemed to collapse and
lose its energy, and he sunk at the foot of the Palmer, not in the fashion of one
who intentionally stoops, kneels, or prostrates himself to excite compassion,
but like a man borne down on all sides by the pressure of some invisible force,
which crushes him to the earth without the power of resistance.
"Holy God of Abraham!" was his first exclamation, folding and elevating his
wrinkled hands, but without raising his grey head from the pavement; "Oh,
holy Moses! O, blessed Aaron! the dream is not dreamed for nought, and the
vision cometh not in vain! I feel their irons already tear my sinews! I feel the
rack pass over my body like the saws, and harrows, and axes of iron over the
men of Rabbah, and of the cities of the children of Ammon!"
"Stand up, Isaac, and hearken to me," said the Palmer, who viewed the
extremity of his distress with a compassion in which contempt was largely
mingled; "you have cause for your terror, considering how your brethren have
been used, in order to extort from them their hoards, both by princes and
nobles; but stand up, I say, and I will point out to you the means of escape.
Leave this mansion instantly, while its inmates sleep sound after the last
night's revel. I will guide you by the secret paths of the forest, known as well
to me as to any forester that ranges it, and I will not leave you till you are
under safe conduct of some chief or baron going to the tournament, whose
good-will you have probably the means of securing."
As the ears of Isaac received the hopes of escape which this speech intimated,
he began gradually, and inch by inch, as it were, to raise himself up from the
ground, until he fairly rested upon his knees, throwing back his long grey hair
and beard, and fixing his keen black eyes upon the Palmer's face, with a look
expressive at once of hope and fear, not unmingled with suspicion. But when
he heard the concluding part of the sentence, his original terror appeared to
revive in full force, and he dropt once more on his face, exclaiming, "'I'
possess the means of securing good-will! alas! there is but one road to the
favour of a Christian, and how can the poor Jew find it, whom extortions have
already reduced to the misery of Lazarus?" Then, as if suspicion had
overpowered his other feelings, he suddenly exclaimed, "For the love of God,
young man, betray me not—for the sake of the Great Father who made us all,
Jew as well as Gentile, Israelite and Ishmaelite—do me no treason! I have not
means to secure the good-will of a Christian beggar, were he rating it at a
single penny." As he spoke these last words, he raised himself, and grasped the
Palmer's mantle with a look of the most earnest entreaty. The pilgrim
extricated himself, as if there were contamination in the touch.
"Wert thou loaded with all the wealth of thy tribe," he said, "what interest have
I to injure thee?—In this dress I am vowed to poverty, nor do I change it for
aught save a horse and a coat of mail. Yet think not that I care for thy
company, or propose myself advantage by it; remain here if thou wilt—Cedric
the Saxon may protect thee."
"Alas!" said the Jew, "he will not let me travel in his train—Saxon or Norman
will be equally ashamed of the poor Israelite; and to travel by myself through
the domains of Philip de Malvoisin and Reginald Front-de-Boeuf—Good
youth, I will go with you!—Let us haste—let us gird up our loins—let us flee!
—Here is thy staff, why wilt thou tarry?"
"I tarry not," said the Pilgrim, giving way to the urgency of his companion;
"but I must secure the means of leaving this place—follow me."
He led the way to the adjoining cell, which, as the reader is apprised, was
occupied by Gurth the swineherd.—"Arise, Gurth," said the Pilgrim, "arise
quickly. Undo the postern gate, and let out the Jew and me."
Gurth, whose occupation, though now held so mean, gave him as much
consequence in Saxon England as that of Eumaeus in Ithaca, was offended at
the familiar and commanding tone assumed by the Palmer. "The Jew leaving
Rotherwood," said he, raising himself on his elbow, and looking superciliously
at him without quitting his pallet, "and travelling in company with the Palmer
to boot—"
"I should as soon have dreamt," said Wamba, who entered the apartment at the
instant, "of his stealing away with a gammon of bacon."
"Nevertheless," said Gurth, again laying down his head on the wooden log
which served him for a pillow, "both Jew and Gentile must be content to abide
the opening of the great gate—we suffer no visitors to depart by stealth at
these unseasonable hours."
"Nevertheless," said the Pilgrim, in a commanding tone, "you will not, I think,
refuse me that favour."
So saying, he stooped over the bed of the recumbent swineherd, and whispered
something in his ear in Saxon. Gurth started up as if electrified. The Pilgrim,
raising his finger in an attitude as if to express caution, added, "Gurth, beware
—thou are wont to be prudent. I say, undo the postern—thou shalt know more
anon."
With hasty alacrity Gurth obeyed him, while Wamba and the Jew followed,
both wondering at the sudden change in the swineherd's demeanour. "My
mule, my mule!" said the Jew, as soon as they stood without the postern.
"Fetch him his mule," said the Pilgrim; "and, hearest thou,—let me have
another, that I may bear him company till he is beyond these parts—I will
return it safely to some of Cedric's train at Ashby. And do thou"—he
whispered the rest in Gurth's ear.
"Willingly, most willingly shall it be done," said Gurth, and instantly departed
to execute the commission.
"I wish I knew," said Wamba, when his comrade's back was turned, "what you
Palmers learn in the Holy Land."
"To say our orisons, fool," answered the Pilgrim, "to repent our sins, and to
mortify ourselves with fastings, vigils, and long prayers."
"Something more potent than that," answered the Jester; "for when would
repentance or prayer make Gurth do a courtesy, or fasting or vigil persuade
him to lend you a mule?—I trow you might as well have told his favourite
black boar of thy vigils and penance, and wouldst have gotten as civil an
answer."
"Go to," said the Pilgrim, "thou art but a Saxon fool."
"Thou sayst well," said the Jester; "had I been born a Norman, as I think thou
art, I would have had luck on my side, and been next door to a wise man."
At this moment Gurth appeared on the opposite side of the moat with the
mules. The travellers crossed the ditch upon a drawbridge of only two planks
breadth, the narrowness of which was matched with the straitness of the
postern, and with a little wicket in the exterior palisade, which gave access to
the forest. No sooner had they reached the mules, than the Jew, with hasty and
trembling hands, secured behind the saddle a small bag of blue buckram,
which he took from under his cloak, containing, as he muttered, "a change of
raiment—only a change of raiment." Then getting upon the animal with more
alacrity and haste than could have been anticipated from his years, he lost no
time in so disposing of the skirts of his gabardine as to conceal completely
from observation the burden which he had thus deposited "en croupe".
The Pilgrim mounted with more deliberation, reaching, as he departed, his
hand to Gurth, who kissed it with the utmost possible veneration. The
swineherd stood gazing after the travellers until they were lost under the
boughs of the forest path, when he was disturbed from his reverie by the voice
of Wamba.
"Knowest thou," said the Jester, "my good friend Gurth, that thou art strangely
courteous and most unwontedly pious on this summer morning? I would I
were a black Prior or a barefoot Palmer, to avail myself of thy unwonted zeal
and courtesy—certes, I would make more out of it than a kiss of the hand."
"Thou art no fool thus far, Wamba," answered Gurth, "though thou arguest
from appearances, and the wisest of us can do no more—But it is time to look
after my charge."
So saying, he turned back to the mansion, attended by the Jester.
Meanwhile the travellers continued to press on their journey with a dispatch
which argued the extremity of the Jew's fears, since persons at his age are
seldom fond of rapid motion. The Palmer, to whom every path and outlet in
the wood appeared to be familiar, led the way through the most devious paths,
and more than once excited anew the suspicion of the Israelite, that he
intended to betray him into some ambuscade of his enemies.
His doubts might have been indeed pardoned; for, except perhaps the flying
fish, there was no race existing on the earth, in the air, or the waters, who were
the object of such an unintermitting, general, and relentless persecution as the
Jews of this period. Upon the slightest and most unreasonable pretences, as
well as upon accusations the most absurd and groundless, their persons and
property were exposed to every turn of popular fury; for Norman, Saxon,
Dane, and Briton, however adverse these races were to each other, contended
which should look with greatest detestation upon a people, whom it was
accounted a point of religion to hate, to revile, to despise, to plunder, and to
persecute. The kings of the Norman race, and the independent nobles, who
followed their example in all acts of tyranny, maintained against this devoted
people a persecution of a more regular, calculated, and self-interested kind. It
is a well-known story of King John, that he confined a wealthy Jew in one of
the royal castles, and daily caused one of his teeth to be torn out, until, when
the jaw of the unhappy Israelite was half disfurnished, he consented to pay a
large sum, which it was the tyrant's object to extort from him. The little ready
money which was in the country was chiefly in possession of this persecuted
people, and the nobility hesitated not to follow the example of their sovereign,
in wringing it from them by every species of oppression, and even personal
torture. Yet the passive courage inspired by the love of gain, induced the Jews
to dare the various evils to which they were subjected, in consideration of the
immense profits which they were enabled to realize in a country naturally so
wealthy as England. In spite of every kind of discouragement, and even of the
special court of taxations already mentioned, called the Jews' Exchequer,
erected for the very purpose of despoiling and distressing them, the Jews
increased, multiplied, and accumulated huge sums, which they transferred
from one hand to another by means of bills of exchange—an invention for
which commerce is said to be indebted to them, and which enabled them to
transfer their wealth from land to land, that when threatened with oppression
in one country, their treasure might be secured in another.
The obstinacy and avarice of the Jews being thus in a measure placed in
opposition to the fanaticism that tyranny of those under whom they lived,
seemed to increase in proportion to the persecution with which they were
visited; and the immense wealth they usually acquired in commerce, while it
frequently placed them in danger, was at other times used to extend their
influence, and to secure to them a certain degree of protection. On these terms
they lived; and their character, influenced accordingly, was watchful,
suspicious, and timid—yet obstinate, uncomplying, and skilful in evading the
dangers to which they were exposed.
When the travellers had pushed on at a rapid rate through many devious paths,
the Palmer at length broke silence.
"That large decayed oak," he said, "marks the boundaries over which Front-
de-Boeuf claims authority—we are long since far from those of Malvoisin.
There is now no fear of pursuit."
"May the wheels of their chariots be taken off," said the Jew, "like those of the
host of Pharaoh, that they may drive heavily!—But leave me not, good Pilgrim
—Think but of that fierce and savage Templar, with his Saracen slaves—they
will regard neither territory, nor manor, nor lordship."
"Our road," said the Palmer, "should here separate; for it beseems not men of
my character and thine to travel together longer than needs must be. Besides,
what succour couldst thou have from me, a peaceful Pilgrim, against two
armed heathens?"
"O good youth," answered the Jew, "thou canst defend me, and I know thou
wouldst. Poor as I am, I will requite it—not with money, for money, so help
me my Father Abraham, I have none—but—-"
"Money and recompense," said the Palmer, interrupting him, "I have already
said I require not of thee. Guide thee I can; and, it may be, even in some sort
defend thee; since to protect a Jew against a Saracen, can scarce be accounted
unworthy of a Christian. Therefore, Jew, I will see thee safe under some fitting
escort. We are now not far from the town of Sheffield, where thou mayest
easily find many of thy tribe with whom to take refuge."
"The blessing of Jacob be upon thee, good youth!" said the Jew; "in Sheffield I
can harbour with my kinsman Zareth, and find some means of travelling forth
with safety."
"Be it so," said the Palmer; "at Sheffield then we part, and half-an-hour's
riding will bring us in sight of that town."
The half hour was spent in perfect silence on both parts; the Pilgrim perhaps
disdaining to address the Jew, except in case of absolute necessity, and the Jew
not presuming to force a conversation with a person whose journey to the
Holy Sepulchre gave a sort of sanctity to his character. They paused on the top
of a gently rising bank, and the Pilgrim, pointing to the town of Sheffield,
which lay beneath them, repeated the words, "Here, then, we part."
"Not till you have had the poor Jew's thanks," said Isaac; "for I presume not to
ask you to go with me to my kinsman Zareth's, who might aid me with some
means of repaying your good offices."
"I have already said," answered the Pilgrim, "that I desire no recompense. If
among the huge list of thy debtors, thou wilt, for my sake, spare the gyves and
the dungeon to some unhappy Christian who stands in thy danger, I shall hold
this morning's service to thee well bestowed."
"Stay, stay," said the Jew, laying hold of his garment; "something would I do
more than this, something for thyself.—God knows the Jew is poor—yes,
Isaac is the beggar of his tribe—but forgive me should I guess what thou most
lackest at this moment."
"If thou wert to guess truly," said the Palmer, "it is what thou canst not supply,
wert thou as wealthy as thou sayst thou art poor."
"As I say?" echoed the Jew; "O! believe it, I say but the truth; I am a
plundered, indebted, distressed man. Hard hands have wrung from me my
goods, my money, my ships, and all that I possessed—Yet I can tell thee what
thou lackest, and, it may be, supply it too. Thy wish even now is for a horse
and armour."
The Palmer started, and turned suddenly towards the Jew:—"What fiend
prompted that guess?" said he, hastily.
"No matter," said the Jew, smiling, "so that it be a true one—and, as I can
guess thy want, so I can supply it."
"But consider," said the Palmer, "my character, my dress, my vow."
"I know you Christians," replied the Jew, "and that the noblest of you will take
the staff and sandal in superstitious penance, and walk afoot to visit the graves
of dead men."
"Blaspheme not, Jew," said the Pilgrim, sternly.
"Forgive me," said the Jew; "I spoke rashly. But there dropt words from you
last night and this morning, that, like sparks from flint, showed the metal
within; and in the bosom of that Palmer's gown, is hidden a knight's chain and
spurs of gold. They glanced as you stooped over my bed in the morning."
The Pilgrim could not forbear smiling. "Were thy garments searched by as
curious an eye, Isaac," said he, "what discoveries might not be made?"
"No more of that," said the Jew, changing colour; and drawing forth his
writing materials in haste, as if to stop the conversation, he began to write
upon a piece of paper which he supported on the top of his yellow cap, without
dismounting from his mule. When he had finished, he delivered the scroll,
which was in the Hebrew character, to the Pilgrim, saying, "In the town of
Leicester all men know the rich Jew, Kirjath Jairam of Lombardy; give him
this scroll—he hath on sale six Milan harnesses, the worst would suit a
crowned head—ten goodly steeds, the worst might mount a king, were he to
do battle for his throne. Of these he will give thee thy choice, with every thing
else that can furnish thee forth for the tournament: when it is over, thou wilt
return them safely—unless thou shouldst have wherewith to pay their value to
the owner."
"But, Isaac," said the Pilgrim, smiling, "dost thou know that in these sports,
the arms and steed of the knight who is unhorsed are forfeit to his victor? Now
I may be unfortunate, and so lose what I cannot replace or repay."
The Jew looked somewhat astounded at this possibility; but collecting his
courage, he replied hastily. "No—no—no—It is impossible—I will not think
so. The blessing of Our Father will be upon thee. Thy lance will be powerful
as the rod of Moses."
So saying, he was turning his mule's head away, when the Palmer, in his turn,
took hold of his gaberdine. "Nay, but Isaac, thou knowest not all the risk. The
steed may be slain, the armour injured—for I will spare neither horse nor man.
Besides, those of thy tribe give nothing for nothing; something there must be
paid for their use."
The Jew twisted himself in the saddle, like a man in a fit of the colic; but his
better feelings predominated over those which were most familiar to him. "I
care not," he said, "I care not—let me go. If there is damage, it will cost you
nothing—if there is usage money, Kirjath Jairam will forgive it for the sake of
his kinsman Isaac. Fare thee well!—Yet hark thee, good youth," said he,
turning about, "thrust thyself not too forward into this vain hurly-burly—I
speak not for endangering the steed, and coat of armour, but for the sake of
thine own life and limbs."
"Gramercy for thy caution," said the Palmer, again smiling; "I will use thy
courtesy frankly, and it will go hard with me but I will requite it."
They parted, and took different roads for the town of Sheffield.

CHAPTER VII

Knights, with a long retinue of their squires,

In gaudy liveries march and quaint attires;
 One laced the helm, another held the lance,
A third the shining buckler did advance.
The courser paw'd the ground with restless feet,
And snorting foam'd and champ'd the golden bit.
The smiths and armourers on palfreys ride,
Files in their hands, and hammers at their side;
And nails for loosen'd spears, and thongs for shields provide.
The yeomen guard the streets in seemly bands;
And clowns come crowding on, with cudgels in their hands.
—Palamon and Arcite
The condition of the English nation was at this time sufficiently miserable.
King Richard was absent a prisoner, and in the power of the perfidious and
cruel Duke of Austria. Even the very place of his captivity was uncertain, and
his fate but very imperfectly known to the generality of his subjects, who
were, in the meantime, a prey to every species of subaltern oppression.
Prince John, in league with Philip of France, Coeur-de-Lion's mortal enemy,
was using every species of influence with the Duke of Austria, to prolong the
captivity of his brother Richard, to whom he stood indebted for so many
favours. In the meantime, he was strengthening his own faction in the
kingdom, of which he proposed to dispute the succession, in case of the King's
death, with the legitimate heir, Arthur Duke of Brittany, son of Geoffrey
Plantagenet, the elder brother of John. This usurpation, it is well known, he
afterwards effected. His own character being light, profligate, and perfidious,
John easily attached to his person and faction, not only all who had reason to
dread the resentment of Richard for criminal proceedings during his absence,
but also the numerous class of "lawless resolutes," whom the crusades had
turned back on their country, accomplished in the vices of the East,
impoverished in substance, and hardened in character, and who placed their
hopes of harvest in civil commotion. To these causes of public distress and
apprehension, must be added, the multitude of outlaws, who, driven to despair
by the oppression of the feudal nobility, and the severe exercise of the forest
laws, banded together in large gangs, and, keeping possession of the forests
and the wastes, set at defiance the justice and magistracy of the country. The
nobles themselves, each fortified within his own castle, and playing the petty
sovereign over his own dominions, were the leaders of bands scarce less
lawless and oppressive than those of the avowed depredators. To maintain
these retainers, and to support the extravagance and magnificence which their
pride induced them to affect, the nobility borrowed sums of money from the
Jews at the most usurious interest, which gnawed into their estates like
consuming cankers, scarce to be cured unless when circumstances gave them
an opportunity of getting free, by exercising upon their creditors some act of
unprincipled violence.
Under the various burdens imposed by this unhappy state of affairs, the people
of England suffered deeply for the present, and had yet more dreadful cause to
fear for the future. To augment their misery, a contagious disorder of a
dangerous nature spread through the land; and, rendered more virulent by the
uncleanness, the indifferent food, and the wretched lodging of the lower
classes, swept off many whose fate the survivors were tempted to envy, as
exempting them from the evils which were to come.
Yet amid these accumulated distresses, the poor as well as the rich, the vulgar
as well as the noble, in the event of a tournament, which was the grand
spectacle of that age, felt as much interested as the half-starved citizen of
Madrid, who has not a real left to buy provisions for his family, feels in the
issue of a bull-feast. Neither duty nor infirmity could keep youth or age from
such exhibitions. The Passage of Arms, as it was called, which was to take
place at Ashby, in the county of Leicester, as champions of the first renown
were to take the field in the presence of Prince John himself, who was
expected to grace the lists, had attracted universal attention, and an immense
confluence of persons of all ranks hastened upon the appointed morning to the
place of combat.
The scene was singularly romantic. On the verge of a wood, which approached
to within a mile of the town of Ashby, was an extensive meadow, of the finest
and most beautiful green turf, surrounded on one side by the forest, and
fringed on the other by straggling oak-trees, some of which had grown to an
immense size. The ground, as if fashioned on purpose for the martial display
which was intended, sloped gradually down on all sides to a level bottom,
which was enclosed for the lists with strong palisades, forming a space of a
quarter of a mile in length, and about half as broad. The form of the enclosure
was an oblong square, save that the corners were considerably rounded off, in
order to afford more convenience for the spectators. The openings for the entry
of the combatants were at the northern and southern extremities of the lists,
accessible by strong wooden gates, each wide enough to admit two horsemen
riding abreast. At each of these portals were stationed two heralds, attended by
six trumpets, as many pursuivants, and a strong body of men-at-arms for
maintaining order, and ascertaining the quality of the knights who proposed to
engage in this martial game.
On a platform beyond the southern entrance, formed by a natural elevation of
the around, 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.
The central pavilion, as the place of honour, had been assigned to Brian be
Bois-Guilbert, whose renown in all games of chivalry, no less than his
connexions with the knights who had undertaken this Passage of Arms, had
occasioned him to be eagerly received into the company of the challengers,
and even adopted as their chief and leader, though he had so recently joined
them. On one side of his tent were pitched those of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf
and Richard de Malvoisin, and on the other was the pavilion of Hugh de
Grantmesnil, a noble baron in the vicinity, whose ancestor had been Lord High
Steward of England in the time of the Conqueror, and his son William Rufus.
Ralph de Vipont, a knight of St John of Jerusalem, who had some ancient
possessions at a place called Heather, near Ashby-de-la-Zouche, occupied the
fifth pavilion. From the entrance into the lists, a gently sloping passage, ten
yards in breadth, led up to the platform on which the tents were pitched. It was
strongly secured by a palisade on each side, as was the esplanade in front of
the pavilions, and the whole was guarded by men-at-arms.
The northern access to the lists terminated in a similar entrance of thirty feet in
breadth, at the extremity of which was a large enclosed space for such knights
as might be disposed to enter the lists with the challengers, behind which were
placed tents containing refreshments of every kind for their accommodation,
with armourers, tarriers, and other attendants, in readiness to give their
services wherever they might be necessary.
The exterior of the lists was in part occupied by temporary galleries, spread
with tapestry and carpets, and accommodated with cushions for the
convenience of those ladies and nobles who were expected to attend the
tournament. A narrow space, betwixt these galleries and the lists, gave
accommodation for yeomanry and spectators of a better degree than the mere
vulgar, and might be compared to the pit of a theatre. The promiscuous
multitude arranged themselves upon large banks of turf prepared for the
purpose, which, aided by the natural elevation of the ground, enabled them to
overlook the galleries, and obtain a fair view into the lists. Besides the
accommodation which these stations afforded, many hundreds had perched
themselves on the branches of the trees which surrounded the meadow; and
even the steeple of a country church, at some distance, was crowded with
spectators.
It only remains to notice respecting the general arrangement, that one gallery
in the very centre of the eastern side of the lists, and consequently exactly
opposite to the spot where the shock of the combat was to take place, was
raised higher than the others, more richly decorated, and graced by a sort of
throne and canopy, on which the royal arms were emblazoned. Squires, pages,
and yeomen in rich liveries, waited around this place of honour, which was
designed for Prince John and his attendants. Opposite to this royal gallery was
another, elevated to the same height, on the western side of the lists; and more
gaily, if less sumptuously decorated, than that destined for the Prince himself.
A train of pages and of young maidens, the most beautiful who could be
selected, gaily dressed in fancy habits of green and pink, surrounded a throne
decorated in the same colours. Among pennons and flags bearing wounded
hearts, burning hearts, bleeding hearts, bows and quivers, and all the
commonplace emblems of the triumphs of Cupid, a blazoned inscription
informed the spectators, that this seat of honour was designed for "La Royne
de las Beaulte et des Amours". But who was to represent the Queen of Beauty
and of Love on the present occasion no one was prepared to guess.
Meanwhile, spectators of every description thronged forward to occupy their
respective stations, and not without many quarrels concerning those which
they were entitled to hold. Some of these were settled by the men-at-arms with
brief ceremony; the shafts of their battle-axes, and pummels of their swords,
being readily employed as arguments to convince the more refractory. Others,
which involved the rival claims of more elevated persons, were determined by
the heralds, or by the two marshals of the field, William de Wyvil, and
Stephen de Martival, who, armed at all points, rode up and down the lists to
enforce and preserve good order among the spectators.
Gradually the galleries became filled with knights and nobles, in their robes of
peace, whose long and rich-tinted mantles were contrasted with the gayer and
more splendid habits of the ladies, who, in a greater proportion than even the
men themselves, thronged to witness a sport, which one would have thought
too bloody and dangerous to afford their sex much pleasure. The lower and
interior space was soon filled by substantial yeomen and burghers, and such of
the lesser gentry, as, from modesty, poverty, or dubious title, durst not assume
any higher place. It was of course amongst these that the most frequent
disputes for precedence occurred.
"Dog of an unbeliever," said an old man, whose threadbare tunic bore witness
to his poverty, as his sword, and dagger, and golden chain intimated his
pretensions to rank,—"whelp of a she-wolf! darest thou press upon a
Christian, and a Norman gentleman of the blood of Montdidier?"
This rough expostulation was addressed to no other than our acquaintance
Isaac, who, richly and even magnificently dressed in a gaberdine ornamented
with lace and lined with fur, was endeavouring to make place in the foremost
row beneath the gallery for his daughter, the beautiful Rebecca, who had
joined him at Ashby, and who was now hanging on her father's arm, not a little
terrified by the popular displeasure which seemed generally excited by her
parent's presumption. But Isaac, though we have seen him sufficiently timid
on other occasions, knew well that at present he had nothing to fear. It was not
in places of general resort, or where their equals were assembled, that any
avaricious or malevolent noble durst offer him injury. At such meetings the
Jews were under the protection of the general law; and if that proved a weak
assurance, it usually happened that there were among the persons assembled
some barons, who, for their own interested motives, were ready to act as their
protectors. On the present occasion, Isaac felt more than usually confident,
being aware that Prince John was even then in the very act of negotiating a
large loan from the Jews of York, to be secured upon certain jewels and lands.
Isaac's own share in this transaction was considerable, and he well knew that
the Prince's eager desire to bring it to a conclusion would ensure him his
protection in the dilemma in which he stood.
Emboldened by these considerations, the Jew pursued his point, and jostled
the Norman Christian, without respect either to his descent, quality, or
religion. The complaints of the old man, however, excited the indignation of
the bystanders. One of these, a stout well-set yeoman, arrayed in Lincoln
green, having twelve arrows stuck in his belt, with a baldric and badge of
silver, and a bow of six feet length in his hand, turned short round, and while
his countenance, which his constant exposure to weather had rendered brown
as a hazel nut, grew darker with anger, he advised the Jew to remember that all
the wealth he had acquired by sucking the blood of his miserable victims had
but swelled him like a bloated spider, which might be overlooked while he
kept in a 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."
Their escutcheons have long mouldered from the walls of their castles. Their
castles themselves are but green mounds and shattered ruins—the place that
once knew them, knows them no more—nay, many a race since theirs has died
out and been forgotten in the very land which they occupied, with all the
authority of feudal proprietors and feudal lords. What, then, would it avail the
reader to know their names, or the evanescent symbols of their martial rank!
Now, however, no whit anticipating the oblivion which awaited their names
and feats, the champions advanced through the lists, restraining their fiery
steeds, and compelling them to move slowly, while, at the same time, they
exhibited their paces, together with the grace and dexterity of the riders. As
the procession entered the lists, the sound of a wild Barbaric music was heard
from behind the tents of the challengers, where the performers were
concealed. It was of Eastern origin, having been brought from the Holy Land;
and the mixture of the cymbals and bells seemed to bid welcome at once, and
defiance, to the knights as they advanced. With the eyes of an immense
concourse of spectators fixed upon them, the five knights advanced up the
platform upon which the tents of the challengers stood, and there separating
themselves, each touched slightly, and with the reverse of his lance, the shield
of the antagonist to whom he wished to oppose himself. The lower orders of
spectators in general—nay, many of the higher class, and it is even said
several of the ladies, were rather disappointed at the champions choosing the
arms of courtesy. For the same sort of persons, who, in the present day,
applaud most highly the deepest tragedies, were then interested in a
tournament exactly in proportion to the danger incurred by the champions
engaged.
Having intimated their more pacific purpose, the champions retreated to the
extremity of the lists, where they remained drawn up in a line; while the
challengers, sallying each from his pavilion, mounted their horses, and, headed
by Brian de Bois-Guilbert, descended from the platform, and opposed
themselves individually to the knights who had touched their respective
shields.
At the flourish of clarions and trumpets, they started out against each other at
full gallop; and such was the superior dexterity or good fortune of the
challengers, that those opposed to Bois-Guilbert, Malvoisin, and Front-de-
Boeuf, rolled on the ground. The antagonist of Grantmesnil, instead of bearing
his lance-point fair against the crest or the shield of his enemy, swerved so
much from the direct line as to break the weapon athwart the person of his
opponent—a circumstance which was accounted more disgraceful than that of
being actually unhorsed; because the latter might happen from accident,
whereas the former evinced awkwardness and want of management of the
weapon and of the horse. The fifth knight alone maintained the honour of his
party, and parted fairly with the Knight of St John, both splintering their lances
without advantage on either side.
The shouts of the multitude, together with the acclamations of the heralds, and
the clangour of the trumpets, announced the triumph of the victors and the
defeat of the vanquished. The former retreated to their pavilions, and the latter,
gathering themselves up as they could, withdrew from the lists in disgrace and
dejection, to agree with their victors concerning the redemption of their arms
and their horses, which, according to the laws of the tournament, they had
forfeited. The fifth of their number alone tarried in the lists long enough to be
greeted by the applauses of the spectators, amongst whom he retreated, to the
aggravation, doubtless, of his companions' mortification.
A second and a third party of knights took the field; and although they had
various success, yet, upon the whole, the advantage decidedly remained with
the challengers, not one of whom lost his seat or swerved from his charge—
misfortunes which befell one or two of their antagonists in each encounter.
The spirits, therefore, of those opposed to them, seemed to be considerably
damped by their continued success. Three knights only appeared on the fourth
entry, who, avoiding the shields of Bois-Guilbert and Front-de-Boeuf,
contented themselves with touching those of the three other knights, who had
not altogether manifested the same strength and dexterity. This politic
selection did not alter the fortune of the field, the challengers were still
successful: one of their antagonists was overthrown, and both the others failed
in the "attaint", that is, in striking the helmet and shield of their antagonist
firmly and strongly, with the lance held in a direct line, so that the weapon
might break unless the champion was overthrown.
After this fourth encounter, there was a considerable pause; nor did it appear
that any one was very desirous of renewing the contest. The spectators
murmured among themselves; for, among the challengers, Malvoisin and
Front-de-Boeuf were unpopular from their characters, and the others, except
Grantmesnil, were disliked as strangers and foreigners.
But none shared the general feeling of dissatisfaction so keenly as Cedric the
Saxon, who saw, in each advantage gained by the Norman challengers, a
repeated triumph over the honour of England. His own education had taught
him no skill in the games of chivalry, although, with the arms of his Saxon
ancestors, he had manifested himself, on many occasions, a brave and
determined soldier. He looked anxiously to Athelstane, who had learned the
accomplishments of the age, as if desiring that he should make some personal
effort to recover the victory which was passing into the hands of the Templar
and his associates. But, though both stout of heart, and strong of person,
Athelstane had a disposition too inert and unambitious to make the exertions
which Cedric seemed to expect from him.
"The day is against England, my lord," said Cedric, in a marked tone; "are you
not tempted to take the lance?"
"I shall tilt to-morrow" answered Athelstane, "in the 'melee'; it is not worth
while for me to arm myself to-day."
Two things displeased Cedric in this speech. It contained the Norman word
"melee", (to express the general conflict,) and it evinced some indifference to
the honour of the country; but it was spoken by Athelstane, whom he held in
such profound respect, that he would not trust himself to canvass his motives
or his foibles. Moreover, he had no time to make any remark, for Wamba
thrust in his word, observing, "It was better, though scarce easier, to be the
best man among a hundred, than the best man of two."
Athelstane took the observation as a serious compliment; but Cedric, who
better understood the Jester's meaning, darted at him a severe and menacing
look; and lucky it was for Wamba, perhaps, that the time and place prevented
his receiving, notwithstanding his place and service, more sensible marks of
his master's resentment.
The pause in the tournament was still uninterrupted, excepting by the voices of
the heralds exclaiming—"Love of ladies, splintering of lances! stand forth
gallant knights, fair eyes look upon your deeds!"
The music also of the challengers breathed from time to time wild bursts
expressive of triumph or defiance, while the clowns grudged a holiday which
seemed to pass away in inactivity; and old knights and nobles lamented in
whispers the decay of martial spirit, spoke of the triumphs of their younger
days, but agreed that the land did not now supply dames of such transcendent
beauty as had animated the jousts of former times. Prince John began to talk to
his attendants about making ready the banquet, and the necessity of adjudging
the prize to Brian de Bois-Guilbert, who had, with a single spear, overthrown
two knights, and foiled a third.
At length, as the Saracenic music of the challengers concluded one of those
long and high flourishes with which they had broken the silence of the lists, it
was answered by a solitary trumpet, which breathed a note of defiance from
the northern extremity. All eyes were turned to see the new champion which
these sounds announced, and no sooner were the barriers opened than he
paced into the lists. As far as could be judged of a man sheathed in armour, the
new adventurer did not greatly exceed the middle size, and seemed to be rather
slender than strongly made. His suit of armour was formed of steel, richly
inlaid with gold, and the device on his shield was a young oak-tree pulled up
by the roots, with the Spanish word Desdichado, signifying Disinherited. He
was mounted on a gallant black horse, and as he passed through the lists he
gracefully saluted the Prince and the ladies by lowering his lance. The
dexterity with which he managed his steed, and something of youthful grace
which he displayed in his manner, won him the favour of the multitude, which
some of the lower classes expressed by calling out, "Touch Ralph de Vipont's
shield—touch the Hospitallers shield; he has the least sure seat, he is your
cheapest bargain."
The champion, moving onward amid these well-meant hints, ascended the
platform by the sloping alley which led to it from the lists, and, to the
astonishment of all present, riding straight up to the central pavilion, struck
with the sharp end of his spear the shield of Brian de Bois-Guilbert until it
rung again. All stood astonished at his presumption, but none more than the
redoubted Knight whom he had thus defied to mortal combat, and who, little
expecting so rude a challenge, was standing carelessly at the door of the
pavilion.
"Have you confessed yourself, brother," said the Templar, "and have you heard
mass this morning, that you peril your life so frankly?"
"I am fitter to meet death than thou art" answered the Disinherited Knight; for
by this name the stranger had recorded himself in the books of the tourney.
"Then take your place in the lists," said Bois-Guilbert, "and look your last
upon the sun; for this night thou shalt sleep in paradise."
"Gramercy for thy courtesy," replied the Disinherited Knight, "and to requite
it, I advise thee to take a fresh horse and a new lance, for by my honour you
will need both."
Having expressed himself thus confidently, he reined his horse backward
down the slope which he had ascended, and compelled him in the same
manner to move backward through the lists, till he reached the northern
extremity, where he remained stationary, in expectation of his antagonist. This
feat of horsemanship again attracted the applause of the multitude.
However incensed at his adversary for the precautions which he
recommended, Brian de Bois-Guilbert did not neglect his advice; for his
honour was too nearly concerned, to permit his neglecting any means which
might ensure victory over his presumptuous opponent. He changed his horse
for a proved and fresh one of great strength and spirit. He chose a new and a
tough spear, lest the wood of the former might have been strained in the
previous encounters he had sustained. Lastly, he laid aside his shield, which
had received some little damage, and received another from his squires. His
first had only borne the general device of his rider, representing two knights
riding upon one horse, an emblem expressive of the original humility and
poverty of the Templars, qualities which they had since exchanged for the
arrogance and wealth that finally occasioned their suppression. Bois-Guilbert's
new shield bore a raven in full flight, holding in its claws a skull, and bearing
the motto, "Gare le Corbeau".
When the two champions stood opposed to each other at the two extremities of
the lists, the public expectation was strained to the highest pitch. Few augured
the possibility that the encounter could terminate well for the Disinherited
Knight, yet his courage and gallantry secured the general good wishes of the
spectators.
The trumpets had no sooner given the signal, than the champions vanished
from their posts with the speed of lightning, and closed in the centre of the
lists with the shock of a thunderbolt. The lances burst into shivers up to the
very grasp, and it seemed at the moment that both knights had fallen, for the
shock had made each horse recoil backwards upon its haunches. The address
of the riders recovered their steeds by use of the bridle and spur; and having
glared on each other for an instant with eyes which seemed to flash fire
through the bars of their visors, each made a demi-volte, and, retiring to the
extremity of the lists, received a fresh lance from the attendants.
A loud shout from the spectators, waving of scarfs and handkerchiefs, and
general acclamations, attested the interest taken by the spectators in this
encounter; the most equal, as well as the best performed, which had graced the
day. But no sooner had the knights resumed their station, than the clamour of
applause was hushed into a silence, so deep and so dead, that it seemed the
multitude were afraid even to breathe.
A few minutes pause having been allowed, that the combatants and their
horses might recover breath, Prince John with his truncheon signed to the
trumpets to sound the onset. The champions a second time sprung from their
stations, and closed in the centre of the lists, with the same speed, the same
dexterity, the same violence, but not the same equal fortune as before.
In this second encounter, the Templar aimed at the centre of his antagonist's
shield, and struck it so fair and forcibly, that his spear went to shivers, and the
Disinherited Knight reeled in his saddle. On the other hand, that champion
had, in the beginning of his career, directed the point of his lance towards
Bois-Guilbert's shield, but, changing his aim almost in the moment of
encounter, he addressed it to the helmet, a mark more difficult to hit, but
which, if attained, rendered the shock more irresistible. Fair and true he hit the
Norman on the visor, where his lance's point kept hold of the bars. Yet, even at
this disadvantage, the Templar sustained his high reputation; and had not the
girths of his saddle burst, he might not have been unhorsed. As it chanced,
however, saddle, horse, and man, rolled on the ground under a cloud of dust.
To extricate himself from the stirrups and fallen steed, was to the Templar
scarce the work of a moment; and, stung with madness, both at his disgrace
and at the acclamations with which it was hailed by the spectators, he drew his
sword and waved it in defiance of his conqueror. The Disinherited Knight
sprung from his steed, and also unsheathed his sword. The marshals of the
field, however, spurred their horses between them, and reminded them, that
the laws of the tournament did not, on the present occasion, permit this species
of encounter.
"We shall meet again, I trust," said the Templar, casting a resentful glance at
his antagonist; "and where there are none to separate us."
"If we do not," said the Disinherited Knight, "the fault shall not be mine. On
foot or horseback, with spear, with axe, or with sword, I am alike ready to
encounter thee."
More and angrier words would have been exchanged, but the marshals,
crossing their lances betwixt them, compelled them to separate. The
Disinherited Knight returned to his first station, and Bois-Guilbert to his tent,
where he remained for the rest of the day in an agony of despair.
Without alighting from his horse, the conqueror called for a bowl of wine, and
opening the beaver, or lower part of his helmet, announced that he quaffed it,
"To all true English hearts, and to the confusion of foreign tyrants." He then
commanded his trumpet to sound a defiance to the challengers, and desired a
herald to announce to them, that he should make no election, but was willing
to encounter them in the order in which they pleased to advance against him.
The gigantic Front-de-Boeuf, armed in sable armour, was the first who took
the field. He bore on a white shield a black bull's head, half defaced by the
numerous encounters which he had undergone, and bearing the arrogant
motto, "Cave, Adsum". Over this champion the Disinherited Knight obtained a
slight but decisive advantage. Both Knights broke their lances fairly, but
Front-de-Boeuf, who lost a stirrup in the encounter, was adjudged to have the
disadvantage.
In the stranger's third encounter with Sir Philip Malvoisin, he was equally
successful; striking that baron so forcibly on the casque, that the laces of the
helmet broke, and Malvoisin, only saved from falling by being unhelmeted,
was declared vanquished like his companions.
In his fourth combat with De Grantmesnil, the Disinherited Knight showed as
much courtesy as he had hitherto evinced courage and dexterity. De
Grantmesnil's horse, which was young and violent, reared and plunged in the
course of the career so as to disturb the rider's aim, and the stranger, declining
to take the advantage which this accident afforded him, raised his lance, and
passing his antagonist without touching him, wheeled his horse and rode back
again to his own end of the lists, offering his antagonist, by a herald, the
chance of a second encounter. This De Grantmesnil declined, avowing himself
vanquished as much by the courtesy as by the address of his opponent.
Ralph de Vipont summed up the list of the stranger's triumphs, being hurled to
the ground with such force, that the blood gushed from his nose and his
mouth, and he was borne senseless from the lists.
The acclamations of thousands applauded the unanimous award of the Prince
and marshals, announcing that day's honours to the Disinherited Knight.

CHAPTER IX

——In the midst was seen

A lady of a more majestic mien,
By stature and by beauty mark'd their sovereign Queen.
 And as in beauty she surpass'd the choir,
So nobler than the rest was her attire;
A crown of ruddy gold enclosed her brow,
Plain without pomp, and rich without a show;
A branch of Agnus Castus in her hand,
She bore aloft her symbol of command.
The Flower and the Leaf
William de Wyvil and Stephen de Martival, the marshals of the field, were the
first to offer their congratulations to the victor, praying him, at the same time,
to suffer his helmet to be unlaced, or, at least, that he would raise his visor ere
they conducted him to receive the prize of the day's tourney from the hands of
Prince John. The Disinherited Knight, with all knightly courtesy, declined
their request, alleging, that he could not at this time suffer his face to be seen,
for reasons which he had assigned to the heralds when he entered the lists. The
marshals were perfectly satisfied by this reply; for amidst the frequent and
capricious vows by which knights were accustomed to bind themselves in the
days of chivalry, there were none more common than those by which they
engaged to remain incognito for a certain space, or until some particular
adventure was achieved. The marshals, therefore, pressed no farther into the
mystery of the Disinherited Knight, but, announcing to Prince John the
conqueror's desire to remain unknown, they requested permission to bring him
before his Grace, in order that he might receive the reward of his valour.
John's curiosity was excited by the mystery observed by the stranger; and,
being already displeased with the issue of the tournament, in which the
challengers whom he favoured had been successively defeated by one knight,
he answered haughtily to the marshals, "By the light of Our Lady's brow, this
same knight hath been disinherited as well of his courtesy as of his lands,
since he desires to appear before us without uncovering his face.—Wot ye, my
lords," he said, turning round to his train, "who this gallant can be, that bears
himself thus proudly?"
"I cannot guess," answered De Bracy, "nor did I think there had been within
the four seas that girth Britain a champion that could bear down these five
knights in one day's jousting. By my faith, I shall never forget the force with
which he shocked De Vipont. The poor Hospitaller was hurled from his saddle
like a stone from a sling."
"Boast not of that," said a Knight of St John, who was present; "your Temple
champion had no better luck. I saw your brave lance, Bois-Guilbert, roll thrice
over, grasping his hands full of sand at every turn."
De Bracy, being attached to the Templars, would have replied, but was
prevented by Prince John. "Silence, sirs!" he said; "what unprofitable debate
have we here?"
"The victor," said De Wyvil, "still waits the pleasure of your highness."
"It is our pleasure," answered John, "that he do so wait until we learn whether
there is not some one who can at least guess at his name and quality. Should
he remain there till night-fall, he has had work enough to keep him warm."
"Your Grace," said Waldemar Fitzurse, "will do less than due honour to the
victor, if you compel him to wait till we tell your highness that which we
cannot know; at least I can form no guess—unless he be one of the good
lances who accompanied King Richard to Palestine, and who are now
straggling homeward from the Holy Land."
"It may be the Earl of Salisbury," said De Bracy; "he is about the same pitch."
"Sir Thomas de Multon, the Knight of Gilsland, rather," said Fitzurse;
"Salisbury is bigger in the bones." A whisper arose among the train, but by
whom first suggested could not be ascertained. "It might be the King—it
might be Richard Coeur-de-Lion himself!"
"Over God's forbode!" said Prince John, involuntarily turning at the same time
as pale as death, and shrinking as if blighted by a flash of lightning;
"Waldemar!—De Bracy! brave knights and gentlemen, remember your
promises, and stand truly by me!"
"Here is no danger impending," said Waldemar Fitzurse; "are you so little
acquainted with the gigantic limbs of your father's son, as to think they can be
held within the circumference of yonder suit of armour?—De Wyvil and
Martival, you will best serve the Prince by bringing forward the victor to the
throne, and ending an error that has conjured all the blood from his cheeks.—
Look at him more closely," he continued, "your highness will see that he wants
three inches of King Richard's height, and twice as much of his shoulder-
breadth. The very horse he backs, could not have carried the ponderous weight
of King Richard through a single course."
While he was yet speaking, the marshals brought forward the Disinherited
Knight to the foot of a wooden flight of steps, which formed the ascent from
the lists to Prince John's throne. Still discomposed with the idea that his
brother, so much injured, and to whom he was so much indebted, had
suddenly arrived in his native kingdom, even the distinctions pointed out by
Fitzurse did not altogether remove the Prince's apprehensions; and while, with
a short and embarrassed eulogy upon his valour, he caused to be delivered to
him the war-horse assigned as the prize, he trembled lest from the barred visor
of the mailed form before him, an answer might be returned, in the deep and
awful accents of Richard the Lion-hearted.
But the Disinherited Knight spoke not a word in reply to the compliment of
the Prince, which he only acknowledged with a profound obeisance.
The horse was led into the lists by two grooms richly dressed, the animal itself
being fully accoutred with the richest war-furniture; which, however, scarcely
added to the value of the noble creature in the eyes of those who were judges.
Laying one hand upon the pommel of the saddle, the Disinherited Knight
vaulted at once upon the back of the steed without making use of the stirrup,
and, brandishing aloft his lance, rode twice around the lists, exhibiting the
points and paces of the horse with the skill of a perfect horseman.
The appearance of vanity, which might otherwise have been attributed to this
display, was removed by the propriety shown in exhibiting to the best
advantage the princely reward with which he had been just honoured, and the
Knight was again greeted by the acclamations of all present.
In the meanwhile, the bustling Prior of Jorvaulx had reminded Prince John, in
a whisper, that the victor must now display his good judgment, instead of his
valour, by selecting from among the beauties who graced the galleries a lady,
who should fill the throne of the Queen of Beauty and of Love, and deliver the
prize of the tourney upon the ensuing day. The Prince accordingly made a sign
with his truncheon, as the Knight passed him in his second career around the
lists. The Knight turned towards the throne, and, sinking his lance, until the
point was within a foot of the ground, remained motionless, as if expecting
John's commands; while all admired the sudden dexterity with which he
instantly reduced his fiery steed from a state of violent emotion and high
excitation to the stillness of an equestrian statue.
"Sir Disinherited Knight," said Prince John, "since that is the only title by
which we can address you, it is now your duty, as well as privilege, to name
the fair lady, who, as Queen of Honour and of Love, is to preside over next
day's festival. If, as a stranger in our land, you should require the aid of other
judgment to guide your own, we can only say that Alicia, the daughter of our
gallant knight Waldemar Fitzurse, has at our court been long held the first in
beauty as in place. Nevertheless, it is your undoubted prerogative to confer on
whom you please this crown, by the delivery of which to the lady of your
choice, the election of to-morrow's Queen will be formal and complete.—
Raise your lance."
The Knight obeyed; and Prince John placed upon its point a coronet of green
satin, having around its edge a circlet of gold, the upper edge of which was
relieved by arrow-points and hearts placed interchangeably, like the strawberry
leaves and balls upon a ducal crown.
In the broad hint which he dropped respecting the daughter of Waldemar
Fitzurse, John had more than one motive, each the offspring of a mind, which
was a strange mixture of carelessness and presumption with low artifice and
cunning. He wished to banish from the minds of the chivalry around him his
own indecent and unacceptable jest respecting the Jewess Rebecca; he was
desirous of conciliating Alicia's father Waldemar, of whom he stood in awe,
and who had more than once shown himself dissatisfied during the course of
the day's proceedings. He had also a wish to establish himself in the good
graces of the lady; for John was at least as licentious in his pleasures as
profligate in his ambition. But besides all these reasons, he was desirous to
raise up against the Disinherited Knight (towards whom he already entertained
a strong dislike) a powerful enemy in the person of Waldemar Fitzurse, who
was likely, he thought, highly to resent the injury done to his daughter, in case,
as was not unlikely, the victor should make another choice.
And so indeed it proved. For the Disinherited Knight passed the gallery close
to that of the Prince, in which the Lady Alicia was seated in the full pride of
triumphant beauty, and, pacing forwards as slowly as he had hitherto rode
swiftly around the lists, he seemed to exercise his right of examining the
numerous fair faces which adorned that splendid circle.
It was worth while to see the different conduct of the beauties who underwent
this examination, during the time it was proceeding. Some blushed, some
assumed an air of pride and dignity, some looked straight forward, and essayed
to seem utterly unconscious of what was going on, some drew back in alarm,
which was perhaps affected, some endeavoured to forbear smiling, and there
were two or three who laughed outright. There were also some who dropped
their veils over their charms; but, as the Wardour Manuscript says these were
fair ones of ten years standing, it may be supposed that, having had their full
share of such vanities, they were willing to withdraw their claim, in order to
give a fair chance to the rising beauties of the age.
At length the champion paused beneath the balcony in which the Lady
Rowena was placed, and the expectation of the spectators was excited to the
utmost.
It must be owned, that if an interest displayed in his success could have bribed
the Disinherited Knight, the part of the lists before which he paused had
merited his predilection. Cedric the Saxon, overjoyed at the discomfiture of
the Templar, and still more so at the miscarriage of his two malevolent
neighbours, Front-de-Boeuf and Malvoisin, had, with his body half stretched
over the balcony, accompanied the victor in each course, not with his eyes
only, but with his whole heart and soul. The Lady Rowena had watched the
progress of the day with equal attention, though without openly betraying the
same intense interest. Even the unmoved Athelstane had shown symptoms of
shaking off his apathy, when, calling for a huge goblet of muscadine, he
quaffed it to the health of the Disinherited Knight. Another group, stationed
under the gallery occupied by the Saxons, had shown no less interest in the
fate of the day.
"Father Abraham!" said Isaac of York, when the first course was run betwixt
the Templar and the Disinherited Knight, "how fiercely that Gentile rides! Ah,
the good horse that was brought all the long way from Barbary, he takes no
more care of him than if he were a wild ass's colt—and the noble armour, that
was worth so many zecchins to Joseph Pareira, the armourer of Milan, besides
seventy in the hundred of profits, he cares for it as little as if he had found it in
the highways!"
"If he risks his own person and limbs, father," said Rebecca, "in doing such a
dreadful battle, he can scarce be expected to spare his horse and armour."
"Child!" replied Isaac, somewhat heated, "thou knowest not what thou
speakest—His neck and limbs are his own, but his horse and armour belong to
—Holy Jacob! what was I about to say!—Nevertheless, it is a good youth—
See, Rebecca! see, he is again about to go up to battle against the Philistine—
Pray, child—pray for the safety of the good youth,—and of the speedy horse,
and the rich armour.—God of my fathers!" he again exclaimed, "he hath
conquered, and the uncircumcised Philistine hath fallen before his lance,—
even as Og the King of Bashan, and Sihon, King of the Amorites, fell before
the sword of our fathers!—Surely he shall take their gold and their silver, and
their war-horses, and their armour of brass and of steel, for a prey and for a
spoil."
The same anxiety did the worthy Jew display during every course that was
run, seldom failing to hazard a hasty calculation concerning the value of the
horse and armour which was forfeited to the champion upon each new
success. There had been therefore no small interest taken in the success of the
Disinherited Knight, by those who occupied the part of the lists before which
he now paused.
Whether from indecision, or some other motive of hesitation, the champion of
the day remained stationary for more than a minute, while the eyes of the
silent audience were riveted upon his motions; and then, gradually and
gracefully sinking the point of his lance, he deposited the coronet which it
supported at the feet of the fair Rowena. The trumpets instantly sounded,
while the heralds proclaimed the Lady Rowena the Queen of Beauty and of
Love for the ensuing day, menacing with suitable penalties those who should
be disobedient to her authority. They then repeated their cry of Largesse, to
which Cedric, in the height of his joy, replied by an ample donative, and to
which Athelstane, though less promptly, added one equally large.
There was some murmuring among the damsels of Norman descent, who were
as much unused to see the preference given to a Saxon beauty, as the Norman
nobles were to sustain defeat in the games of chivalry which they themselves
had introduced. But these sounds of disaffection were drowned by the popular
shout of "Long live the Lady Rowena, the chosen and lawful Queen of Love
and of Beauty!" To which many in the lower area added, "Long live the Saxon
Princess! long live the race of the immortal Alfred!"
However unacceptable these sounds might be to Prince John, and to those
around him, he saw himself nevertheless obliged to confirm the nomination of
the victor, and accordingly calling to horse, he left his throne; and mounting
his jennet, accompanied by his train, he again entered the lists. The Prince
paused a moment beneath the gallery of the Lady Alicia, to whom he paid his
compliments, observing, at the same time, to those around him—"By my
halidome, sirs! if the Knight's feats in arms have shown that he hath limbs and
sinews, his choice hath no less proved that his eyes are none of the clearest."
It was on this occasion, as during his whole life, John's misfortune, not
perfectly to understand the characters of those whom he wished to conciliate.
Waldemar Fitzurse was rather offended than pleased at the Prince stating thus
broadly an opinion, that his daughter had been slighted.
"I know no right of chivalry," he said, "more precious or inalienable than that
of each free knight to choose his lady-love by his own judgment. My daughter
courts distinction from no one; and in her own character, and in her own
sphere, will never fail to receive the full proportion of that which is her due."
Prince John replied not; but, spurring his horse, as if to give vent to his
vexation, he made the animal bound forward to the gallery where Rowena was
seated, with the crown still at her feet.
"Assume," he said, "fair lady, the mark of your sovereignty, to which none
vows homage more sincerely than ourself, John of Anjou; and if it please you
to-day, with your noble sire and friends, to grace our banquet in the Castle of
Ashby, we shall learn to know the empress to whose service we devote to-
morrow."
Rowena remained silent, and Cedric answered for her in his native Saxon.
"The Lady Rowena," he said, "possesses not the language in which to reply to
your courtesy, or to sustain her part in your festival. I also, and the noble
Athelstane of Coningsburgh, speak only the language, and practise only the
manners, of our fathers. We therefore decline with thanks your Highness's
courteous invitation to the banquet. To-morrow, the Lady Rowena will take
upon her the state to which she has been called by the free election of the
victor Knight, confirmed by the acclamations of the people."
So saying, he lifted the coronet, and placed it upon Rowena's head, in token of
her acceptance of the temporary authority assigned to her.
"What says he?" said Prince John, affecting not to understand the Saxon
language, in which, however, he was well skilled. The purport of Cedric's
speech was repeated to him in French. "It is well," he said; "to-morrow we will
ourself conduct this mute sovereign to her seat of dignity.—You, at least, Sir
Knight," he added, turning to the victor, who had remained near the gallery,
"will this day share our banquet?"
The Knight, speaking for the first time, in a low and hurried voice, excused
himself by pleading fatigue, and the necessity of preparing for to-morrow's
encounter.
"It is well," said Prince John, haughtily; "although unused to such refusals, we
will endeavour to digest our banquet as we may, though ungraced by the most
successful in arms, and his elected Queen of Beauty."
So saying, he prepared to leave the lists with his glittering train, and his
turning his steed for that purpose, was the signal for the breaking up and
dispersion of the spectators.
Yet, with the vindictive memory proper to offended pride, especially when
combined with conscious want of desert, John had hardly proceeded three
paces, ere again, turning around, he fixed an eye of stern resentment upon the
yeoman who had displeased him in the early part of the day, and issued his
commands to the men-at-arms who stood near—"On your life, suffer not that
fellow to escape."
The yeoman stood the angry glance of the Prince with the same unvaried
steadiness which had marked his former deportment, saying, with a smile, "I
have no intention to leave Ashby until the day after to-morrow—I must see
how Staffordshire and Leicestershire can draw their bows—the forests of
Needwood and Charnwood must rear good archers."
"I," said Prince John to his attendants, but not in direct reply,—"I will see how
he can draw his own; and woe betide him unless his skill should prove some
apology for his insolence!"
"It is full time," said De Bracy, "that the 'outrecuidance' of these peasants
should be restrained by some striking example."
Waldemar Fitzurse, who probably thought his patron was not taking the
readiest road to popularity, shrugged up his shoulders and was silent. Prince
John resumed his retreat from the lists, and the dispersion of the multitude
became general.
In various routes, according to the different quarters from which they came,
and in groups of various numbers, the spectators were seen retiring over the
plain. By far the most numerous part streamed towards the town of Ashby,
where many of the distinguished persons were lodged in the castle, and where
others found accommodation in the town itself. Among these were most of the
knights who had already appeared in the tournament, or who proposed to fight
there the ensuing day, and who, as they rode slowly along, talking over the
events of the day, were greeted with loud shouts by the populace. The same
acclamations were bestowed upon Prince John, although he was indebted for
them rather to the splendour of his appearance and train, than to the popularity
of his character.
A more sincere and more general, as well as a better-merited acclamation,
attended the victor of the day, until, anxious to withdraw himself from popular
notice, he accepted the accommodation of one of those pavilions pitched at the
extremities of the lists, the use of which was courteously tendered him by the
marshals of the field. On his retiring to his tent, many who had lingered in the
lists, to look upon and form conjectures concerning him, also dispersed.
The signs and sounds of a tumultuous concourse of men lately crowded
together in one place, and agitated by the same passing events, were now
exchanged for the distant hum of voices of different groups retreating in all
directions, and these speedily died away in silence. No other sounds were
heard save the voices of the menials who stripped the galleries of their
cushions and tapestry, in order to put them in safety for the night, and
wrangled among themselves for the half-used bottles of wine and relics of the
refreshment which had been served round to the spectators.
Beyond the precincts of the lists more than one forge was erected; and these
now began to glimmer through the twilight, announcing the toil of the
armourers, which was to continue through the whole night, in order to repair
or alter the suits of armour to be used again on the morrow.
A strong guard of men-at-arms, renewed at intervals, from two hours to two
hours, surrounded the lists, and kept watch during the night.

CHAPTER X
 Thus, like the sad presaging raven, that tolls
The sick man's passport in her hollow beak,
And in the shadow of the silent night
Doth shake contagion from her sable wings;
Vex'd and tormented, runs poor Barrabas,
With fatal curses towards these Christians.
—Jew of Malta
The Disinherited Knight had no sooner reached his pavilion, than squires and
pages in abundance tendered their services to disarm him, to bring fresh attire,
and to offer him the refreshment of the bath. Their zeal on this occasion was
perhaps sharpened by curiosity, since every one desired to know who the
knight was that had gained so many laurels, yet had refused, even at the
command of Prince John, to lift his visor or to name his name. But their
officious inquisitiveness was not gratified. The Disinherited Knight refused all
other assistance save that of his own squire, or rather yeoman—a clownish-
looking man, who, wrapt in a cloak of dark-coloured felt, and having his head
and face half-buried in a Norman bonnet made of black fur, seemed to affect
the incognito as much as his master. All others being excluded from the tent,
this attendant relieved his master from the more burdensome parts of his
armour, and placed food and wine before him, which the exertions of the day
rendered very acceptable.
The Knight had scarcely finished a hasty meal, ere his menial announced to
him that five men, each leading a barbed steed, desired to speak with him. The
Disinherited Knight had exchanged his armour for the long robe usually worn
by those of his condition, which, being furnished with a hood, concealed the
features, when such was the pleasure of the wearer, almost as completely as
the visor of the helmet itself, but the twilight, which was now fast darkening,
would of itself have rendered a disguise unnecessary, unless to persons to
whom the face of an individual chanced to be particularly well known.
The Disinherited Knight, therefore, stept boldly forth to the front of his tent,
and found in attendance the squires of the challengers, whom he easily knew
by their russet and black dresses, each of whom led his master's charger,
loaded with the armour in which he had that day fought.
"According to the laws of chivalry," said the foremost of these men, "I,
Baldwin de Oyley, squire to the redoubted Knight Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
make offer to you, styling yourself, for the present, the Disinherited Knight, of
the horse and armour used by the said Brian de Bois-Guilbert in this day's
Passage of Arms, leaving it with your nobleness to retain or to ransom the
same, according to your pleasure; for such is the law of arms."
The other squires repeated nearly the same formula, and then stood to await
the decision of the Disinherited Knight.
"To you four, sirs," replied the Knight, addressing those who had last spoken,
"and to your honourable and valiant masters, I have one common reply.
Commend me to the noble knights, your masters, and say, I should do ill to
deprive them of steeds and arms which can never be used by braver cavaliers.
—I would I could here end my message to these gallant knights; but being, as
I term myself, in truth and earnest, the Disinherited, I must be thus far bound
to your masters, that they will, of their courtesy, be pleased to ransom their
steeds and armour, since that which I wear I can hardly term mine own."
"We stand commissioned, each of us," answered the squire of Reginald Front-
de-Boeuf, "to offer a hundred zecchins in ransom of these horses and suits of
armour."
"It is sufficient," said the Disinherited Knight. "Half the sum my present
necessities compel me to accept; of the remaining half, distribute one moiety
among yourselves, sir squires, and divide the other half betwixt the heralds
and the pursuivants, and minstrels, and attendants."
The squires, with cap in hand, and low reverences, expressed their deep sense
of a courtesy and generosity not often practised, at least upon a scale so
extensive. The Disinherited Knight then addressed his discourse to Baldwin,
the squire of Brian de Bois-Guilbert. "From your master," said he, "I will
accept neither arms nor ransom. Say to him in my name, that our strife is not
ended—no, not till we have fought as well with swords as with lances—as
well on foot as on horseback. To this mortal quarrel he has himself defied me,
and I shall not forget the challenge.—Meantime, let him be assured, that I hold
him not as one of his companions, with whom I can with pleasure exchange
courtesies; but rather as one with whom I stand upon terms of mortal
defiance."
"My master," answered Baldwin, "knows how to requite scorn with scorn, and
blows with blows, as well as courtesy with courtesy. Since you disdain to
accept from him any share of the ransom at which you have rated the arms of
the other knights, I must leave his armour and his horse here, being well
assured that he will never deign to mount the one nor wear the other."
"You have spoken well, good squire," said the Disinherited Knight, "well and
boldly, as it beseemeth him to speak who answers for an absent master. Leave
not, however, the horse and armour here. Restore them to thy master; or, if he
scorns to accept them, retain them, good friend, for thine own use. So far as
they are mine, I bestow them upon you freely."
Baldwin made a deep obeisance, and retired with his companions; and the
Disinherited Knight entered the pavilion.
"Thus far, Gurth," said he, addressing his attendant, "the reputation of English
chivalry hath not suffered in my hands."
"And I," said Gurth, "for a Saxon swineherd, have not ill played the personage
of a Norman squire-at-arms."
"Yea, but," answered the Disinherited Knight, "thou hast ever kept me in
anxiety lest thy clownish bearing should discover thee."
"Tush!" said Gurth, "I fear discovery from none, saving my playfellow,
Wamba the Jester, of whom I could never discover whether he were most
knave or fool. Yet I could scarce choose but laugh, when my old master passed
so near to me, dreaming all the while that Gurth was keeping his porkers many
a mile off, in the thickets and swamps of Rotherwood. If I am discovered—-"
"Enough," said the Disinherited Knight, "thou knowest my promise."
"Nay, for that matter," said Gurth, "I will never fail my friend for fear of my
skin-cutting. I have a tough hide, that will bear knife or scourge as well as any
boar's hide in my herd."
"Trust me, I will requite the risk you run for my love, Gurth," said the Knight.
"Meanwhile, I pray you to accept these ten pieces of gold."
"I am richer," said Gurth, putting them into his pouch, "than ever was
swineherd or bondsman."
"Take this bag of gold to Ashby," continued his master, "and find out Isaac the
Jew of York, and let him pay himself for the horse and arms with which his
credit supplied me."
"Nay, by St Dunstan," replied Gurth, "that I will not do."
"How, knave," replied his master, "wilt thou not obey my commands?"
"So they be honest, reasonable, and Christian commands," replied Gurth; "but
this is none of these. To suffer the Jew to pay himself would be dishonest, for
it would be cheating my master; and unreasonable, for it were the part of a
fool; and unchristian, since it would be plundering a believer to enrich an
infidel."
"See him contented, however, thou stubborn varlet," said the Disinherited
Knight.
"I will do so," said Gurth, taking the bag under his cloak, and leaving the
apartment; "and it will go hard," he muttered, "but I content him with one-half
of his own asking." So saying, he departed, and left the Disinherited Knight to
his own perplexed ruminations; which, upon more accounts than it is now
possible to communicate to the reader, were of a nature peculiarly agitating
and painful.
We must now change the scene to the village of Ashby, or rather to a country
house in its vicinity belonging to a wealthy Israelite, with whom Isaac, his
daughter, and retinue, had taken up their quarters; the Jews, it is well known,
being as liberal in exercising the duties of hospitality and charity among their
own people, as they were alleged to be reluctant and churlish in extending
them to those whom they termed Gentiles, and whose treatment of them
certainly merited little hospitality at their hand.
In an apartment, small indeed, but richly furnished with decorations of an
Oriental taste, Rebecca was seated on a heap of embroidered cushions, which,
piled along a low platform that surrounded the chamber, served, like the
estrada of the Spaniards, instead of chairs and stools. She was watching the
motions of her father with a look of anxious and filial affection, while he
paced the apartment with a dejected mien and disordered step; sometimes
clasping his hands together—sometimes casting his eyes to the roof of the
apartment, as one who laboured under great mental tribulation. "O, Jacob!" he
exclaimed—"O, all ye twelve Holy Fathers of our tribe! what a losing venture
is this for one who hath duly kept every jot and tittle of the law of Moses—
Fifty zecchins wrenched from me at one clutch, and by the talons of a tyrant!"
"But, father," said Rebecca, "you seemed to give the gold to Prince John
willingly."
"Willingly? the blotch of Egypt upon him!—Willingly, saidst thou?—Ay, as
willingly as when, in the Gulf of Lyons, I flung over my merchandise to
lighten the ship, while she laboured in the tempest—robed the seething billows
in my choice silks—perfumed their briny foam with myrrh and aloes—
enriched their caverns with gold and silver work! And was not that an hour of
unutterable misery, though my own hands made the sacrifice?"
"But it was a sacrifice which Heaven exacted to save our lives," answered
Rebecca, "and the God of our fathers has since blessed your store and your
gettings."
"Ay," answered Isaac, "but if the tyrant lays hold on them as he did to-day, and
compels me to smile while he is robbing me?—O, daughter, disinherited and
wandering as we are, the worst evil which befalls our race is, that when we are
wronged and plundered, all the world laughs around, and we are compelled to
suppress our sense of injury, and to smile tamely, when we would revenge
bravely."
"Think not thus of it, my father," said Rebecca; "we also have advantages.
These Gentiles, cruel and oppressive as they are, are in some sort dependent
on the dispersed children of Zion, whom they despise and persecute. Without
the aid of our wealth, they could neither furnish forth their hosts in war, nor
their triumphs in peace, and the gold which we lend them returns with increase
to our coffers. We are like the herb which flourisheth most when it is most
trampled on. Even this day's pageant had not proceeded without the consent of
the despised Jew, who furnished the means."
"Daughter," said Isaac, "thou hast harped upon another string of sorrow. The
goodly steed and the rich armour, equal to the full profit of my adventure with
our Kirjath Jairam of Leicester—there is a dead loss too—ay, a loss which
swallows up the gains of a week; ay, of the space between two Sabbaths—and
yet it may end better than I now think, for 'tis a good youth."
"Assuredly," said Rebecca, "you shall not repent you of requiting the good
deed received of the stranger knight."
"I trust so, daughter," said Isaac, "and I trust too in the rebuilding of Zion; but
as well do I hope with my own bodily eyes to see the walls and battlements of
the new Temple, as to see a Christian, yea, the very best of Christians, repay a
debt to a Jew, unless under the awe of the judge and jailor."
So saying, he resumed his discontented walk through the apartment; and
Rebecca, perceiving that her attempts at consolation only served to awaken
new subjects of complaint, wisely desisted from her unavailing efforts—a
prudential line of conduct, and we recommend to all who set up for comforters
and advisers, to follow it in the like circumstances.
The evening was now becoming dark, when a Jewish servant entered the
apartment, and placed upon the table two silver lamps, fed with perfumed oil;
the richest wines, and the most delicate refreshments, were at the same time
displayed by another Israelitish domestic on a small ebony table, inlaid with
silver; for, in the interior of their houses, the Jews refused themselves no
expensive indulgences. At the same time the servant informed Isaac, that a
Nazarene (so they termed Christians, while conversing among themselves)
desired to speak with him. He that would live by traffic, must hold himself at
the disposal of every one claiming business with him. Isaac at once replaced
on the table the untasted glass of Greek wine which he had just raised to his
lips, and saying hastily to his daughter, "Rebecca, veil thyself," commanded
the stranger to be admitted.
Just as Rebecca had dropped over her fine features a screen of silver gauze
which reached to her feet, the door opened, and Gurth entered, wrapt in the
ample folds of his Norman mantle. His appearance was rather suspicious than
prepossessing, especially as, instead of doffing his bonnet, he pulled it still
deeper over his rugged brow.
"Art thou Isaac the Jew of York?" said Gurth, in Saxon.
"I am," replied Isaac, in the same language, (for his traffic had rendered every
tongue spoken in Britain familiar to him)—"and who art thou?"
"That is not to the purpose," answered Gurth.
"As much as my name is to thee," replied Isaac; "for without knowing thine,
how can I hold intercourse with thee?"
"Easily," answered Gurth; "I, being to pay money, must know that I deliver it
to the right person; thou, who are to receive it, will not, I think, care very
greatly by whose hands it is delivered."
"O," said the Jew, "you are come to pay moneys?—Holy Father Abraham! that
altereth our relation to each other. And from whom dost thou bring it?"
"From the Disinherited Knight," said Gurth, "victor in this day's tournament. It
is the price of the armour supplied to him by Kirjath Jairam of Leicester, on
thy recommendation. The steed is restored to thy stable. I desire to know the
amount of the sum which I am to pay for the armour."
"I said he was a good youth!" exclaimed Isaac with joyful exultation. "A cup
of wine will do thee no harm," he added, filling and handing to the swineherd
a richer drought than Gurth had ever before tasted. "And how much money,"
continued Isaac, "has thou brought with thee?"
"Holy Virgin!" said Gurth, setting down the cup, "what nectar these
unbelieving dogs drink, while true Christians are fain to quaff ale as muddy
and thick as the draff we give to hogs!—What money have I brought with
me?" continued the Saxon, when he had finished this uncivil ejaculation,
"even but a small sum; something in hand the whilst. What, Isaac! thou must
bear a conscience, though it be a Jewish one."
"Nay, but," said Isaac, "thy master has won goodly steeds and rich armours
with the strength of his lance, and of his right hand—but 'tis a good youth—
the Jew will take these in present payment, and render him back the surplus."
"My master has disposed of them already," said Gurth.
"Ah! that was wrong," said the Jew, "that was the part of a fool. No Christians
here could buy so many horses and armour—no Jew except myself would give
him half the values. But thou hast a hundred zecchins with thee in that bag,"
said Isaac, prying under Gurth's cloak, "it is a heavy one."
"I have heads for cross-bow bolts in it," said Gurth, readily.
"Well, then"—said Isaac, panting and hesitating between habitual love of gain
and a new-born desire to be liberal in the present instance, "if I should say that
I would take eighty zecchins for the good steed and the rich armour, which
leaves me not a guilder's profit, have you money to pay me?"
"Barely," said Gurth, though the sum demanded was more reasonable than he
expected, "and it will leave my master nigh penniless. Nevertheless, if such be
your least offer, I must be content."
"Fill thyself another goblet of wine," said the Jew. "Ah! eighty zecchins is too
little. It leaveth no profit for the usages of the moneys; and, besides, the good
horse may have suffered wrong in this day's encounter. O, it was a hard and a
dangerous meeting! man and steed rushing on each other like wild bulls of
Bashan! The horse cannot but have had wrong."
"And I say," replied Gurth, "he is sound, wind and limb; and you may see him
now, in your stable. And I say, over and above, that seventy zecchins is
enough for the armour, and I hope a Christian's word is as good as a Jew's. If
you will not take seventy, I will carry this bag" (and he shook it till the
contents jingled) "back to my master."
"Nay, nay!" said Isaac; "lay down the talents—the shekels—the eighty
zecchins, and thou shalt see I will consider thee liberally."
Gurth at length complied; and telling out eighty zecchins upon the table, the
Jew delivered out to him an acquittance for the horse and suit of armour. The
Jew's hand trembled for joy as he wrapped up the first seventy pieces of gold.
The last ten he told over with much deliberation, pausing, and saying
something as he took each piece from the table, and dropt it into his purse. It
seemed as if his avarice were struggling with his better nature, and compelling
him to pouch zecchin after zecchin while his generosity urged him to restore
some part at least to his benefactor, or as a donation to his agent. His whole
speech ran nearly thus:
"Seventy-one—seventy-two; thy master is a good youth—seventy-three, an
excellent youth—seventy-four—that piece hath been clipt within the ring—
seventy-five—and that looketh light of weight—seventy-six—when thy
master wants money, let him come to Isaac of York—seventy-seven—that is,
with reasonable security." Here he made a considerable pause, and Gurth had
good hope that the last three pieces might escape the fate of their comrades;
but the enumeration proceeded.—"Seventy-eight—thou art a good fellow—
seventy-nine—and deservest something for thyself—-"
Here the Jew paused again, and looked at the last zecchin, intending,
doubtless, to bestow it upon Gurth. He weighed it upon the tip of his finger,
and made it ring by dropping it upon the table. Had it rung too flat, or had it
felt a hair's breadth too light, generosity had carried the day; but, unhappily for
Gurth, the chime was full and true, the zecchin plump, newly coined, and a
grain above weight. Isaac could not find in his heart to part with it, so dropt it
into his purse as if in absence of mind, with the words, "Eighty completes the
tale, and I trust thy master will reward thee handsomely.—Surely," he added,
looking earnestly at the bag, "thou hast more coins in that pouch?"
Gurth grinned, which was his nearest approach to a laugh, as he replied,
"About the same quantity which thou hast just told over so carefully." He then
folded the quittance, and put it under his cap, adding,—"Peril of thy beard,
Jew, see that this be full and ample!" He filled himself unbidden, a third goblet
of wine, and left the apartment without ceremony.
"Rebecca," said the Jew, "that Ishmaelite hath gone somewhat beyond me.
Nevertheless his master is a good youth—ay, and I am well pleased that he
hath gained shekels of gold and shekels of silver, even by the speed of his
horse and by the strength of his lance, which, like that of Goliath the
Philistine, might vie with a weaver's beam."
As he turned to receive Rebecca's answer, he observed, that during his
chattering with Gurth, she had left the apartment unperceived.
In the meanwhile, Gurth had descended the stair, and, having reached the dark
antechamber or hall, was puzzling about to discover the entrance, when a
figure in white, shown by a small silver lamp which she held in her hand,
beckoned him into a side apartment. Gurth had some reluctance to obey the
summons. Rough and impetuous as a wild boar, where only earthly force was
to be apprehended, he had all the characteristic terrors of a Saxon respecting
fawns, forest-fiends, white women, and the whole of the superstitions which
his ancestors had brought with them from the wilds of Germany. He
remembered, moreover, that he was in the house of a Jew, a people who,
besides the other unamiable qualities which popular report ascribed to them,
were supposed to be profound necromancers and cabalists. Nevertheless, after
a moment's pause, he obeyed the beckoning summons of the apparition, and
followed her into the apartment which she indicated, where he found to his
joyful surprise that his fair guide was the beautiful Jewess whom he had seen
at the tournament, and a short time in her father's apartment.
She asked him the particulars of his transaction with Isaac, which he detailed
accurately.
"My father did but jest with thee, good fellow," said Rebecca; "he owes thy
master deeper kindness than these arms and steed could pay, were their value
tenfold. What sum didst thou pay my father even now?"
"Eighty zecchins," said Gurth, surprised at the question.
"In this purse," said Rebecca, "thou wilt find a hundred. Restore to thy master
that which is his due, and enrich thyself with the remainder. Haste—begone—
stay not to render thanks! and beware how you pass through this crowded
town, where thou mayst easily lose both thy burden and thy life.—Reuben,"
she added, clapping her hands together, "light forth this stranger, and fail not
to draw lock and bar behind him." Reuben, a dark-brow'd and black-bearded
Israelite, obeyed her summons, with a torch in his hand; undid the outward
door of the house, and conducting Gurth across a paved court, let him out
through a wicket in the entrance-gate, which he closed behind him with such
bolts and chains as would well have become that of a prison.
"By St Dunstan," said Gurth, as he stumbled up the dark avenue, "this is no
Jewess, but an angel from heaven! Ten zecchins from my brave young master
—twenty from this pearl of Zion—Oh, happy day!—Such another, Gurth, will
redeem thy bondage, and make thee a brother as free of thy guild as the best.
And then do I lay down my swineherd's horn and staff, and take the freeman's
sword and buckler, and follow my young master to the death, without hiding
either my face or my name."

CHAPTER XI

1st Outlaw: Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about you;
If not, we'll make you sit, and rifle you.
Speed: Sir, we are undone! these are the villains
That all the travellers do fear so much.
Val: My friends,—
1st Out: That's not so, sir, we are your enemies.
2d Out: Peace! we'll hear him.
3d Out: Ay, by my beard, will we;
For he's a proper man.
—Two Gentlemen of Verona
The nocturnal adventures of Gurth were not yet concluded; indeed he himself
became partly of that mind, when, after passing one or two straggling houses
which stood in the outskirts of the village, he found himself in a deep lane,
running between two banks overgrown with hazel and holly, while here and
there a dwarf oak flung its arms altogether across the path. The lane was
moreover much rutted and broken up by the carriages which had recently
transported articles of various kinds to the tournament; and it was dark, for the
banks and bushes intercepted the light of the harvest moon.
From the village were heard the distant sounds of revelry, mixed occasionally
with loud laughter, sometimes broken by screams, and sometimes by wild
strains of distant music. All these sounds, intimating the disorderly state of the
town, crowded with military nobles and their dissolute attendants, gave Gurth
some uneasiness. "The Jewess was right," he said to himself. "By heaven and
St Dunstan, I would I were safe at my journey's end with all this treasure!
Here are such numbers, I will not say of arrant thieves, but of errant knights
and errant squires, errant monks and errant minstrels, errant jugglers and
errant jesters, that a man with a single merk would be in danger, much more a
poor swineherd with a whole bagful of zecchins. Would I were out of the
shade of these infernal bushes, that I might at least see any of St Nicholas's
clerks before they spring on my shoulders."
Gurth accordingly hastened his pace, in order to gain the open common to
which the lane led, but was not so fortunate as to accomplish his object. Just as
he had attained the upper end of the lane, where the underwood was thickest,
four men sprung upon him, even as his fears anticipated, two from each side of
the road, and seized him so fast, that resistance, if at first practicable, would
have been now too late.—"Surrender your charge," said one of them; "we are
the deliverers of the commonwealth, who ease every man of his burden."
"You should not ease me of mine so lightly," muttered Gurth, whose surly
honesty could not be tamed even by the pressure of immediate violence,
—"had I it but in my power to give three strokes in its defence."
"We shall see that presently," said the robber; and, speaking to his
companions, he added, "bring along the knave. I see he would have his head
broken, as well as his purse cut, and so be let blood in two veins at once."
Gurth was hurried along agreeably to this mandate, and having been dragged
somewhat roughly over the bank, on the left-hand side of the lane, found
himself in a straggling thicket, which lay betwixt it and the open common. He
was compelled to follow his rough conductors into the very depth of this
cover, where they stopt unexpectedly in an irregular open space, free in a great
measure from trees, and on which, therefore, the beams of the moon fell
without much interruption from boughs and leaves. Here his captors were
joined by two other persons, apparently belonging to the gang. They had short
swords by their sides, and quarter-staves in their hands, and Gurth could now
observe that all six wore visors, which rendered their occupation a matter of
no question, even had their former proceedings left it in doubt.
"What money hast thou, churl?" said one of the thieves.
"Thirty zecchins of my own property," answered Gurth, doggedly.
"A forfeit—a forfeit," shouted the robbers; "a Saxon hath thirty zecchins, and
returns sober from a village! An undeniable and unredeemable forfeit of all he
hath about him."
"I hoarded it to purchase my freedom," said Gurth.
"Thou art an ass," replied one of the thieves "three quarts of double ale had
rendered thee as free as thy master, ay, and freer too, if he be a Saxon like
thyself."
"A sad truth," replied Gurth; "but if these same thirty zecchins will buy my
freedom from you, unloose my hands, and I will pay them to you."
"Hold," said one who seemed to exercise some authority over the others; "this
bag which thou bearest, as I can feel through thy cloak, contains more coin
than thou hast told us of."
"It is the good knight my master's," answered Gurth, "of which, assuredly, I
would not have spoken a word, had you been satisfied with working your will
upon mine own property."
"Thou art an honest fellow," replied the robber, "I warrant thee; and we
worship not St Nicholas so devoutly but what thy thirty zecchins may yet
escape, if thou deal uprightly with us. Meantime render up thy trust for a
time." So saying, he took from Gurth's breast the large leathern pouch, in
which the purse given him by Rebecca was enclosed, as well as the rest of the
zecchins, and then continued his interrogation.—"Who is thy master?"
"The Disinherited Knight," said Gurth.
"Whose good lance," replied the robber, "won the prize in to-day's tourney?
What is his name and lineage?"
"It is his pleasure," answered Gurth, "that they be concealed; and from me,
assuredly, you will learn nought of them."
"What is thine own name and lineage?"
"To tell that," said Gurth, "might reveal my master's."
"Thou art a saucy groom," said the robber, "but of that anon. How comes thy
master by this gold? is it of his inheritance, or by what means hath it accrued
to him?"
"By his good lance," answered Gurth.—"These bags contain the ransom of
four good horses, and four good suits of armour."
"How much is there?" demanded the robber.
"Two hundred zecchins."
"Only two hundred zecchins!" said the bandit; "your master hath dealt
liberally by the vanquished, and put them to a cheap ransom. Name those who
paid the gold."
Gurth did so.
"The armour and horse of the Templar Brian de Bois-Guilbert, at what ransom
were they held?—Thou seest thou canst not deceive me."
"My master," replied Gurth, "will take nought from the Templar save his life's-
blood. They are on terms of mortal defiance, and cannot hold courteous
intercourse together."
"Indeed!"—repeated the robber, and paused after he had said the word. "And
what wert thou now doing at Ashby with such a charge in thy custody?"
"I went thither to render to Isaac the Jew of York," replied Gurth, "the price of
a suit of armour with which he fitted my master for this tournament."
"And how much didst thou pay to Isaac?—Methinks, to judge by weight, there
is still two hundred zecchins in this pouch."
"I paid to Isaac," said the Saxon, "eighty zecchins, and he restored me a
hundred in lieu thereof."
"How! what!" exclaimed all the robbers at once; "darest thou trifle with us,
that thou tellest such improbable lies?"
"What I tell you," said Gurth, "is as true as the moon is in heaven. You will
find the just sum in a silken purse within the leathern pouch, and separate from
the rest of the gold."
"Bethink thee, man," said the Captain, "thou speakest of a Jew—of an
Israelite,—as unapt to restore gold, as the dry sand of his deserts to return the
cup of water which the pilgrim spills upon them."
"There is no more mercy in them," said another of the banditti, "than in an
unbribed sheriffs officer."
"It is, however, as I say," said Gurth.
"Strike a light instantly," said the Captain; "I will examine this said purse; and
if it be as this fellow says, the Jew's bounty is little less miraculous than the
stream which relieved his fathers in the wilderness."
A light was procured accordingly, and the robber proceeded to examine the
purse. The others crowded around him, and even two who had hold of Gurth
relaxed their grasp while they stretched their necks to see the issue of the
search. Availing himself of their negligence, by a sudden exertion of strength
and activity, Gurth shook himself free of their hold, and might have escaped,
could he have resolved to leave his master's property behind him. But such
was no part of his intention. He wrenched a quarter-staff from one of the
fellows, struck down the Captain, who was altogether unaware of his purpose,
and had well-nigh repossessed himself of the pouch and treasure. The thieves,
however, were too nimble for him, and again secured both the bag and the
trusty Gurth.
"Knave!" said the Captain, getting up, "thou hast broken my head; and with
other men of our sort thou wouldst fare the worse for thy insolence. But thou
shalt know thy fate instantly. First let us speak of thy master; the knight's
matters must go before the squire's, according to the due order of chivalry.
Stand thou fast in the meantime—if thou stir again, thou shalt have that will
make thee quiet for thy life—Comrades!" he then said, addressing his gang,
"this purse is embroidered with Hebrew characters, and I well believe the
yeoman's tale is true. The errant knight, his master, must needs pass us toll-
free. He is too like ourselves for us to make booty of him, since dogs should
not worry dogs where wolves and foxes are to be found in abundance."
"Like us?" answered one of the gang; "I should like to hear how that is made
good."
"Why, thou fool," answered the Captain, "is he not poor and disinherited as we
are?—Doth he not win his substance at the sword's point as we do?—Hath he
not beaten Front-de-Boeuf and Malvoisin, even as we would beat them if we
could? Is he not the enemy to life and death of Brian de Bois-Guilbert, whom
we have so much reason to fear? And were all this otherwise, wouldst thou
have us show a worse conscience than an unbeliever, a Hebrew Jew?"
"Nay, that were a shame," muttered the other fellow; "and yet, when I served
in the band of stout old Gandelyn, we had no such scruples of conscience. And
this insolent peasant,—he too, I warrant me, is to be dismissed scatheless?"
"Not if THOU canst scathe him," replied the Captain.—"Here, fellow,"
continued he, addressing Gurth, "canst thou use the staff, that thou starts to it
so readily?"
"I think," said Gurth, "thou shouldst be best able to reply to that question."
"Nay, by my troth, thou gavest me a round knock," replied the Captain; "do as
much for this fellow, and thou shalt pass scot-free; and if thou dost not—why,
by my faith, as thou art such a sturdy knave, I think I must pay thy ransom
myself.—Take thy staff, Miller," he added, "and keep thy head; and do you
others let the fellow go, and give him a staff—there is light enough to lay on
load by."
The two champions being alike armed with quarter-staves, stepped forward
into the centre of the open space, in order to have the full benefit of the
moonlight; the thieves in the meantime laughing, and crying to their comrade,
"Miller! beware thy toll-dish." The Miller, on the other hand, holding his
quarter-staff by the middle, and making it flourish round his head after the
fashion which the French call "faire le moulinet", exclaimed boastfully, "Come
on, churl, an thou darest: thou shalt feel the strength of a miller's thumb!"
"If thou be'st a miller," answered Gurth, undauntedly, making his weapon play
around his head with equal dexterity, "thou art doubly a thief, and I, as a true
man, bid thee defiance."
So saying, the two champions closed together, and for a few minutes they
displayed great equality in strength, courage, and skill, intercepting and
returning the blows of their adversary with the most rapid dexterity, while,
from the continued clatter of their weapons, a person at a distance might have
supposed that there were at least six persons engaged on each side. Less
obstinate, and even less dangerous combats, have been described in good
heroic verse; but that of Gurth and the Miller must remain unsung, for want of
a sacred poet to do justice to its eventful progress. Yet, though quarter-staff
play be out of date, what we can in prose we will do for these bold champions.
Long they fought equally, until the Miller began to lose temper at finding
himself so stoutly opposed, and at hearing the laughter of his companions,
who, as usual in such cases, enjoyed his vexation. This was not a state of mind
favourable to the noble game of quarter-staff, in which, as in ordinary cudgel-
playing, the utmost coolness is requisite; and it gave Gurth, whose temper was
steady, though surly, the opportunity of acquiring a decided advantage, in
availing himself of which he displayed great mastery.
The Miller pressed furiously forward, dealing blows with either end of his
weapon alternately, and striving to come to half-staff distance, while Gurth
defended himself against the attack, keeping his hands about a yard asunder,
and covering himself by shifting his weapon with great celerity, so as to
protect his head and body. Thus did he maintain the defensive, making his eye,
foot, and hand keep true time, until, observing his antagonist to lose wind, he
darted the staff at his face with his left hand; and, as the Miller endeavoured to
parry the thrust, he slid his right hand down to his left, and with the full swing
of the weapon struck his opponent on the left side of the head, who instantly
measured his length upon the green sward.
"Well and yeomanly done!" shouted the robbers; "fair play and Old England
for ever! The Saxon hath saved both his purse and his hide, and the Miller has
met his match."
"Thou mayst go thy ways, my friend," said the Captain, addressing Gurth, in
special confirmation of the general voice, "and I will cause two of my
comrades to guide thee by the best way to thy master's pavilion, and to guard
thee from night-walkers that might have less tender consciences than ours; for
there is many one of them upon the amble in such a night as this. Take heed,
however," he added sternly; "remember thou hast refused to tell thy name—
ask not after ours, nor endeavour to discover who or what we are; for, if thou
makest such an attempt, thou wilt come by worse fortune than has yet befallen
thee."
Gurth thanked the Captain for his courtesy, and promised to attend to his
recommendation. Two of the outlaws, taking up their quarter-staves, and
desiring Gurth to follow close in the rear, walked roundly forward along a by-
path, which traversed the thicket and the broken ground adjacent to it. On the
very verge of the thicket two men spoke to his conductors, and receiving an
answer in a whisper, withdrew into the wood, and suffered them to pass
unmolested. This circumstance induced Gurth to believe both that the gang
was strong in numbers, and that they kept regular guards around their place of
rendezvous.
When they arrived on the open heath, where Gurth might have had some
trouble in finding his road, the thieves guided him straight forward to the top
of a little eminence, whence he could see, spread beneath him in the
moonlight, the palisades of the lists, the glimmering pavilions pitched at either
end, with the pennons which adorned them fluttering in the moonbeams, and
from which could be heard the hum of the song with which the sentinels were
beguiling their night-watch.
Here the thieves stopt.
"We go with you no farther," said they; "it were not safe that we should do so.
—Remember the warning you have received—keep secret what has this night
befallen you, and you will have no room to repent it—neglect what is now told
you, and the Tower of London shall not protect you against our revenge."
"Good night to you, kind sirs," said Gurth; "I shall remember your orders, and
trust that there is no offence in wishing you a safer and an honester trade."
Thus they parted, the outlaws returning in the direction from whence they had
come, and Gurth proceeding to the tent of his master, to whom,
notwithstanding the injunction he had received, he communicated the whole
adventures of the evening.
The Disinherited Knight was filled with astonishment, no less at the generosity
of Rebecca, by which, however, he resolved he would not profit, than that of
the robbers, to whose profession such a quality seemed totally foreign. His
course of reflections upon these singular circumstances was, however,
interrupted by the necessity for taking repose, which the fatigue of the
preceding day, and the propriety of refreshing himself for the morrow's
encounter, rendered alike indispensable.
The knight, therefore, stretched himself for repose upon a rich couch with
which the tent was provided; and the faithful Gurth, extending his hardy limbs
upon a bear-skin which formed a sort of carpet to the pavilion, laid himself
across the opening of the tent, so that no one could enter without awakening
him.

CHAPTER XII

The heralds left their pricking up and down,

Now ringen trumpets loud and clarion.
There is no more to say, but east and west,
In go the speares sadly in the rest,
In goth the sharp spur into the side,
There see men who can just and who can ride;
There shiver shaftes upon shieldes thick,
He feeleth through the heart-spone the prick;
Up springen speares, twenty feet in height,
Out go the swordes to the silver bright;
The helms they to-hewn and to-shred;
Out burst the blood with stern streames red.
Chaucer.
Morning arose in unclouded splendour, and ere the sun was much above the
horizon, the idlest or the most eager of the spectators appeared on the
common, moving to the lists as to a general centre, in order to secure a
favourable situation for viewing the continuation of the expected games.
The marshals and their attendants appeared next on the field, together with the
heralds, for the purpose of receiving the names of the knights who intended to
joust, with the side which each chose to espouse. This was a necessary
precaution, in order to secure equality betwixt the two bodies who should be
opposed to each other.
According to due formality, the Disinherited Knight was to be considered as
leader of the one body, while Brian de Bois-Guilbert, who had been rated as
having done second-best in the preceding day, was named first champion of
the other band. Those who had concurred in the challenge adhered to his party
of course, excepting only Ralph de Vipont, whom his fall had rendered unfit
so soon to put on his armour. There was no want of distinguished and noble
candidates to fill up the ranks on either side.
In fact, although the general tournament, in which all knights fought at once,
was more dangerous than single encounters, they were, nevertheless, more
frequented and practised by the chivalry of the age. Many knights, who had
not sufficient confidence in their own skill to defy a single adversary of high
reputation, were, nevertheless, desirous of displaying their valour in the
general combat, where they might meet others with whom they were more
upon an equality. On the present occasion, about fifty knights were inscribed
as desirous of combating upon each side, when the marshals declared that no
more could be admitted, to the disappointment of several who were too late in
preferring their claim to be included.
About the hour of ten o'clock, the whole plain was crowded with horsemen,
horsewomen, and foot-passengers, hastening to the tournament; and shortly
after, a grand flourish of trumpets announced Prince John and his retinue,
attended by many of those knights who meant to take share in the game, as
well as others who had no such intention.
About the same time arrived Cedric the Saxon, with the Lady Rowena,
unattended, however, by Athelstane. This Saxon lord had arrayed his tall and
strong person in armour, in order to take his place among the combatants; and,
considerably to the surprise of Cedric, had chosen to enlist himself on the part
of the Knight Templar. The Saxon, indeed, had remonstrated strongly with his
friend upon the injudicious choice he had made of his party; but he had only
received that sort of answer usually given by those who are more obstinate in
following their own course, than strong in justifying it.
His best, if not his only reason, for adhering to the party of Brian de Bois-
Guilbert, Athelstane had the prudence to keep to himself. Though his apathy
of disposition prevented his taking any means to recommend himself to the
Lady Rowena, he was, nevertheless, by no means insensible to her charms,
and considered his union with her as a matter already fixed beyond doubt, by
the assent of Cedric and her other friends. It had therefore been with
smothered displeasure that the proud though indolent Lord of Coningsburgh
beheld the victor of the preceding day select Rowena as the object of that
honour which it became his privilege to confer. In order to punish him for a
preference which seemed to interfere with his own suit, Athelstane, confident
of his strength, and to whom his flatterers, at least, ascribed great skill in arms,
had determined not only to deprive the Disinherited Knight of his powerful
succour, but, if an opportunity should occur, to make him feel the weight of his
battle-axe.
De Bracy, and other knights attached to Prince John, in obedience to a hint
from him, had joined the party of the challengers, John being desirous to
secure, if possible, the victory to that side. On the other hand, many other
knights, both English and Norman, natives and strangers, took part against the
challengers, the more readily that the opposite band was to be led by so
distinguished a champion as the Disinherited Knight had approved himself.
As soon as Prince John observed that the destined Queen of the day had
arrived upon the field, assuming that air of courtesy which sat well upon him
when he was pleased to exhibit it, he rode forward to meet her, doffed his
bonnet, and, alighting from his horse, assisted the Lady Rowena from her
saddle, while his followers uncovered at the same time, and one of the most
distinguished dismounted to hold her palfrey.
"It is thus," said Prince John, "that we set the dutiful example of loyalty to the
Queen of Love and Beauty, and are ourselves her guide to the throne which
she must this day occupy.—Ladies," he said, "attend your Queen, as you wish
in your turn to be distinguished by like honours."
So saying, the Prince marshalled Rowena to the seat of honour opposite his
own, while the fairest and most distinguished ladies present crowded after her
to obtain places as near as possible to their temporary sovereign.
No sooner was Rowena seated, than a burst of music, half-drowned by the
shouts of the multitude, greeted her new dignity. Meantime, the sun shone
fierce and bright upon the polished arms of the knights of either side, who
crowded the opposite extremities of the lists, and held eager conference
together concerning the best mode of arranging their line of battle, and
supporting the conflict.
The heralds then proclaimed silence until the laws of the tourney should be
rehearsed. These were calculated in some degree to abate the dangers of the
day; a precaution the more necessary, as the conflict was to be maintained with
sharp swords and pointed lances.
The champions were therefore prohibited to thrust with the sword, and were
confined to striking. A knight, it was announced, might use a mace or battle-
axe at pleasure, but the dagger was a prohibited weapon. A knight unhorsed
might renew the fight on foot with any other on the opposite side in the same
predicament; but mounted horsemen were in that case forbidden to assail him.
When any knight could force his antagonist to the extremity of the lists, so as
to touch the palisade with his person or arms, such opponent was obliged to
yield himself vanquished, and his armour and horse were placed at the
disposal of the conqueror. A knight thus overcome was not permitted to take
farther share in the combat. If any combatant was struck down, and unable to
recover his feet, his squire or page might enter the lists, and drag his master
out of the press; but in that case the knight was adjudged vanquished, and his
arms and horse declared forfeited. The combat was to cease as soon as Prince
John should throw down his leading staff, or truncheon; another precaution
usually taken to prevent the unnecessary effusion of blood by the too long
endurance of a sport so desperate. Any knight breaking the rules of the
tournament, or otherwise transgressing the rules of honourable chivalry, was
liable to be stript of his arms, and, having his shield reversed to be placed in
that posture astride upon the bars of the palisade, and exposed to public
derision, in punishment of his unknightly conduct. Having announced these
precautions, the heralds concluded with an exhortation to each good knight to
do his duty, and to merit favour from the Queen of Beauty and of Love.
This proclamation having been made, the heralds withdrew to their stations.
The knights, entering at either end of the lists in long procession, arranged
themselves in a double file, precisely opposite to each other, the leader of each
party being in the centre of the foremost rank, a post which he did not occupy
until each had carefully marshalled the ranks of his party, and stationed every
one in his place.
It was a goodly, and at the same time an anxious, sight, to behold so many
gallant champions, mounted bravely, and armed richly, stand ready prepared
for an encounter so formidable, seated on their war-saddles like so many
pillars of iron, and awaiting the signal of encounter with the same ardour as
their generous steeds, which, by neighing and pawing the ground, gave signal
of their impatience.
As yet the knights held their long lances upright, their bright points glancing to
the sun, and the streamers with which they were decorated fluttering over the
plumage of the helmets. Thus they remained while the marshals of the field
surveyed their ranks with the utmost exactness, lest either party had more or
fewer than the appointed number. The tale was found exactly complete. The
marshals then withdrew from the lists, and William de Wyvil, with a voice of
thunder, pronounced the signal words—"Laissez aller!" The trumpets sounded
as he spoke—the spears of the champions were at once lowered and placed in
the rests—the spurs were dashed into the flanks of the horses, and the two
foremost ranks of either party rushed upon each other in full gallop, and met in
the middle of the lists with a shock, the sound of which was heard at a mile's
distance. The rear rank of each party advanced at a slower pace to sustain the
defeated, and follow up the success of the victors of their party.
The consequences of the encounter were not instantly seen, for the dust raised
by the trampling of so many steeds darkened the air, and it was a minute ere
the anxious spectator could see the fate of the encounter. When the fight
became visible, half the knights on each side were dismounted, some by the
dexterity of their adversary's lance,—some by the superior weight and strength
of opponents, which had borne down both horse and man,—some lay
stretched on earth as if never more to rise,—some had already gained their
feet, and were closing hand to hand with those of their antagonists who were
in the same predicament,—and several on both sides, who had received
wounds by which they were disabled, were stopping their blood by their
scarfs, and endeavouring to extricate themselves from the tumult. The
mounted knights, whose lances had been almost all broken by the fury of the
encounter, were now closely engaged with their swords, shouting their war-
cries, and exchanging buffets, as if honour and life depended on the issue of
the combat.
The tumult was presently increased by the advance of the second rank on
either side, which, acting as a reserve, now rushed on to aid their companions.
The followers of Brian de Bois-Guilbert shouted—"Ha! Beau-seant! Beau-
seant!
"—For the Temple—For the Temple!" The opposite party shouted in answer
—"Desdichado! Desdichado!"—which watch-word they took from the motto
upon their leader's shield.
The champions thus encountering each other with the utmost fury, and with
alternate success, the tide of battle seemed to flow now toward the southern,
now toward the northern extremity of the lists, as the one or the other party
prevailed. Meantime the clang of the blows, and the shouts of the combatants,
mixed fearfully with the sound of the trumpets, and drowned the groans of
those who fell, and lay rolling defenceless beneath the feet of the horses. The
splendid armour of the combatants was now defaced with dust and blood, and
gave way at every stroke of the sword and battle-axe. The gay plumage, shorn
from the crests, drifted upon the breeze like snow-flakes. All that was
beautiful and graceful in the martial array had disappeared, and what was now
visible was only calculated to awake terror or compassion.
Yet such is the force of habit, that not only the vulgar spectators, who are
naturally attracted by sights of horror, but even the ladies of distinction who
crowded the galleries, saw the conflict with a thrilling interest certainly, but
without a wish to withdraw their eyes from a sight so terrible. Here and there,
indeed, a fair cheek might turn pale, or a faint scream might be heard, as a
lover, a brother, or a husband, was struck from his horse. But, in general, the
ladies around encouraged the combatants, not only by clapping their hands and
waving their veils and kerchiefs, but even by exclaiming, "Brave lance! Good
sword!" when any successful thrust or blow took place under their
observation.
Such being the interest taken by the fair sex in this bloody game, that of the
men is the more easily understood. It showed itself in loud acclamations upon
every change of fortune, while all eyes were so riveted on the lists, that the
spectators seemed as if they themselves had dealt and received the blows
which were there so freely bestowed. And between every pause was heard the
voice of the heralds, exclaiming, "Fight on, brave knights! Man dies, but glory
lives!—Fight on—death is better than defeat!—Fight on, brave knights!—for
bright eyes behold your deeds!"
Amid the varied fortunes of the combat, the eyes of all endeavoured to
discover the leaders of each band, who, mingling in the thick of the fight,
encouraged their companions both by voice and example. Both displayed great
feats of gallantry, nor did either Bois-Guilbert or the Disinherited Knight find
in the ranks opposed to them a champion who could be termed their
unquestioned match. They repeatedly endeavoured to single out each other,
spurred by mutual animosity, and aware that the fall of either leader might be
considered as decisive of victory. Such, however, was the crowd and
confusion, that, during the earlier part of the conflict, their efforts to meet were
unavailing, and they were repeatedly separated by the eagerness of their
followers, each of whom was anxious to win honour, by measuring his
strength against the leader of the opposite party.
But when the field became thin by the numbers on either side who had yielded
themselves vanquished, had been compelled to the extremity of the lists, or
been otherwise rendered incapable of continuing the strife, the Templar and
the Disinherited Knight at length encountered hand to hand, with all the fury
that mortal animosity, joined to rivalry of honour, could inspire. Such was the
address of each in parrying and striking, that the spectators broke forth into a
unanimous and involuntary shout, expressive of their delight and admiration.
But at this moment the party of the Disinherited Knight had the worst; the
gigantic arm of Front-de-Boeuf on the one flank, and the ponderous strength
of Athelstane on the other, bearing down and dispersing those immediately
exposed to them. Finding themselves freed from their immediate antagonists,
it seems to have occurred to both these knights at the same instant, that they
would render the most decisive advantage to their party, by aiding the Templar
in his contest with his rival. Turning their horses, therefore, at the same
moment, the Norman spurred against the Disinherited Knight on the one side,
and the Saxon on the other. It was utterly impossible that the object of this
unequal and unexpected assault could have sustained it, had he not been
warned by a general cry from the spectators, who could not but take interest in
one exposed to such disadvantage.
"Beware! beware! Sir Disinherited!" was shouted so universally, that the
knight became aware of his danger; and, striking a full blow at the Templar, he
reined back his steed in the same moment, so as to escape the charge of
Athelstane and Front-de-Boeuf. These knights, therefore, their aim being thus
eluded, rushed from opposite sides betwixt the object of their attack and the
Templar, almost running their horses against each other ere they could stop
their career. Recovering their horses however, and wheeling them round, the
whole three pursued their united purpose of bearing to the earth the
Disinherited Knight.
Nothing could have saved him, except the remarkable strength and activity of
the noble horse which he had won on the preceding day.
This stood him in the more stead, as the horse of Bois-Guilbert was wounded,
and those of Front-de-Boeuf and Athelstane were both tired with the weight of
their gigantic masters, clad in complete armour, and with the preceding
exertions of the day. The masterly horsemanship of the Disinherited Knight,
and the activity of the noble animal which he mounted, enabled him for a few
minutes to keep at sword's point his three antagonists, turning and wheeling
with the agility of a hawk upon the wing, keeping his enemies as far separate
as he could, and rushing now against the one, now against the other, dealing
sweeping blows with his sword, without waiting to receive those which were
aimed at him in return.
But although the lists rang with the applauses of his dexterity, it was evident
that he must at last be overpowered; and the nobles around Prince John
implored him with one voice to throw down his warder, and to save so brave a
knight from the disgrace of being overcome by odds.
"Not I, by the light of Heaven!" answered Prince John; "this same springald,
who conceals his name, and despises our proffered hospitality, hath already
gained one prize, and may now afford to let others have their turn." As he
spoke thus, an unexpected incident changed the fortune of the day.
There was among the ranks of the Disinherited Knight a champion in black
armour, mounted on a black horse, large of size, tall, and to all appearance
powerful and strong, like the rider by whom he was mounted, This knight,
who bore on his shield no device of any kind, had hitherto evinced very little
interest in the event of the fight, beating off with seeming ease those
combatants who attacked him, but neither pursuing his advantages, nor
himself assailing any one. In short, he had hitherto acted the part rather of a
spectator than of a party in the tournament, a circumstance which procured
him among the spectators the name of "Le Noir Faineant", or the Black
Sluggard.
At once this knight seemed to throw aside his apathy, when he discovered the
leader of his party so hard bestead; for, setting spurs to his horse, which was
quite fresh, he came to his assistance like a thunderbolt, exclaiming, in a voice
like a trumpet-call, "Desdichado, to the rescue!" It was high time; for, while
the Disinherited Knight was pressing upon the Templar, Front-de-Boeuf had
got nigh to him with his uplifted sword; but ere the blow could descend, the
Sable Knight dealt a stroke on his head, which, glancing from the polished
helmet, lighted with violence scarcely abated on the "chamfron" of the steed,
and Front-de-Boeuf rolled on the ground, both horse and man equally stunned
by the fury of the blow. "Le Noir Faineant" then turned his horse upon
Athelstane of Coningsburgh; and his own sword having been broken in his
encounter with Front-de-Boeuf, he wrenched from the hand of the bulky
Saxon the battle-axe which he wielded, and, like one familiar with the use of
the weapon, bestowed him such a blow upon the crest, that Athelstane also lay
senseless on the field. Having achieved this double feat, for which he was the
more highly applauded that it was totally unexpected from him, the knight
seemed to resume the sluggishness of his character, returning calmly to the
northern extremity of the lists, leaving his leader to cope as he best could with
Brian de Bois-Guilbert. This was no longer matter of so much difficulty as
formerly. The Templars horse had bled much, and gave way under the shock
of the Disinherited Knight's charge. Brian de Bois-Guilbert rolled on the field,
encumbered with the stirrup, from which he was unable to draw his foot. His
antagonist sprung from horseback, waved his fatal sword over the head of his
adversary, and commanded him to yield himself; when Prince John, more
moved by the Templars dangerous situation than he had been by that of his
rival, saved him the mortification of confessing himself vanquished, by casting
down his warder, and putting an end to the conflict.
It was, indeed, only the relics and embers of the fight which continued to burn;
for of the few knights who still continued in the lists, the greater part had, by
tacit consent, forborne the conflict for some time, leaving it to be determined
by the strife of the leaders.
The squires, who had found it a matter of danger and difficulty to attend their
masters during the engagement, now thronged into the lists to pay their dutiful
attendance to the wounded, who were removed with the utmost care and
attention to the neighbouring pavilions, or to the quarters prepared for them in
the adjoining village.
Thus ended the memorable field of Ashby-de-la-Zouche, one of the most
gallantly contested tournaments of that age; for although only four knights,
including one who was smothered by the heat of his armour, had died upon the
field, yet upwards of thirty were desperately wounded, four or five of whom
never recovered. Several more were disabled for life; and those who escaped
best carried the marks of the conflict to the grave with them. Hence it is
always mentioned in the old records, as the Gentle and Joyous Passage of
Arms of Ashby.
It being now the duty of Prince John to name the knight who had done best, he
determined that the honour of the day remained with the knight whom the
popular voice had termed "Le Noir Faineant." It was pointed out to the Prince,
in impeachment of this decree, that the victory had been in fact won by the
Disinherited Knight, who, in the course of the day, had overcome six
champions with his own hand, and who had finally unhorsed and struck down
the leader of the opposite party. But Prince John adhered to his own opinion,
on the ground that the Disinherited Knight and his party had lost the day, but
for the powerful assistance of the Knight of the Black Armour, to whom,
therefore, he persisted in awarding the prize.
To the surprise of all present, however, the knight thus preferred was nowhere
to be found. He had left the lists immediately when the conflict ceased, and
had been observed by some spectators to move down one of the forest glades
with the same slow pace and listless and indifferent manner which had
procured him the epithet of the Black Sluggard. After he had been summoned
twice by sound of trumpet, and proclamation of the heralds, it became
necessary to name another to receive the honours which had been assigned to
him. Prince John had now no further excuse for resisting the claim of the
Disinherited Knight, whom, therefore, he named the champion of the day.
Through a field slippery with blood, and encumbered with broken armour and
the bodies of slain and wounded horses, the marshals of the lists again
conducted the victor to the foot of Prince John's throne.
"Disinherited Knight," said Prince John, "since by that title only you will
consent to be known to us, we a second time award to you the honours of this
tournament, and announce to you your right to claim and receive from the
hands of the Queen of Love and Beauty, the Chaplet of Honour which your
valour has justly deserved." The Knight bowed low and gracefully, but
returned no answer.
While the trumpets sounded, while the heralds strained their voices in
proclaiming honour to the brave and glory to the victor—while ladies waved
their silken kerchiefs and embroidered veils, and while all ranks joined in a
clamorous shout of exultation, the marshals conducted the Disinherited Knight
across the lists to the foot of that throne of honour which was occupied by the
Lady Rowena.
On the lower step of this throne the champion was made to kneel down.
Indeed his whole action since the fight had ended, seemed rather to have been
upon the impulse of those around him than from his own free will; and it was
observed that he tottered as they guided him the second time across the lists.
Rowena, descending from her station with a graceful and dignified step, was
about to place the chaplet which she held in her hand upon the helmet of the
champion, when the marshals exclaimed with one voice, "It must not be thus
—his head must be bare." The knight muttered faintly a few words, which
were lost in the hollow of his helmet, but their purport seemed to be a desire
that his casque might not be removed.
Whether from love of form, or from curiosity, the marshals paid no attention
to his expressions of reluctance, but unhelmed him by cutting the laces of his
casque, and undoing the fastening of his gorget. When the helmet was
removed, the well-formed, yet sun-burnt features of a young man of twenty-
five were seen, amidst a profusion of short fair hair. His countenance was as
pale as death, and marked in one or two places with streaks of blood.
Rowena had no sooner beheld him than she uttered a faint shriek; but at once
summoning up the energy of her disposition, and compelling herself, as it
were, to proceed, while her frame yet trembled with the violence of sudden
emotion, she placed upon the drooping head of the victor the splendid chaplet
which was the destined reward of the day, and pronounced, in a clear and
distinct tone, these words: "I bestow on thee this chaplet, Sir Knight, as the
meed of valour assigned to this day's victor:" Here she paused a moment, and
then firmly added, "And upon brows more worthy could a wreath of chivalry
never be placed!"
The knight stooped his head, and kissed the hand of the lovely Sovereign by
whom his valour had been rewarded; and then, sinking yet farther forward, lay
prostrate at her feet.
There was a general consternation. Cedric, who had been struck mute by the
sudden appearance of his banished son, now rushed forward, as if to separate
him from Rowena. But this had been already accomplished by the marshals of
the field, who, guessing the cause of Ivanhoe's swoon, had hastened to undo
his armour, and found that the head of a lance had penetrated his breastplate,
and inflicted a wound in his side.

CHAPTER XIII

"Heroes, approach!" Atrides thus aloud,

"Stand forth distinguish'd from the circling crowd,
Ye who by skill or manly force may claim,
Your rivals to surpass and merit fame.
This cow, worth twenty oxen, is decreed,
For him who farthest sends the winged reed."
—Iliad
The name of Ivanhoe was no sooner pronounced than it flew from mouth to
mouth, with all the celerity with which eagerness could convey and curiosity
receive it. It was not long ere it reached the circle of the Prince, whose brow
darkened as he heard the news. Looking around him, however, with an air of
scorn, "My Lords," said he, "and especially you, Sir Prior, what think ye of the
doctrine the learned tell us, concerning innate attractions and antipathies?
Methinks that I felt the presence of my brother's minion, even when I least
guessed whom yonder suit of armour enclosed."
"Front-de-Boeuf must prepare to restore his fief of Ivanhoe," said De Bracy,
who, having discharged his part honourably in the tournament, had laid his
shield and helmet aside, and again mingled with the Prince's retinue.
"Ay," answered Waldemar Fitzurse, "this gallant is likely to reclaim the castle
and manor which Richard assigned to him, and which your Highness's
generosity has since given to Front-de-Boeuf."
"Front-de-Boeuf," replied John, "is a man more willing to swallow three
manors such as Ivanhoe, than to disgorge one of them. For the rest, sirs, I hope
none here will deny my right to confer the fiefs of the crown upon the faithful
followers who are around me, and ready to perform the usual military service,
in the room of those who have wandered to foreign Countries, and can neither
render homage nor service when called upon."
The audience were too much interested in the question not to pronounce the
Prince's assumed right altogether indubitable. "A generous Prince!—a most
noble Lord, who thus takes upon himself the task of rewarding his faithful
followers!"
Such were the words which burst from the train, expectants all of them of
similar grants at the expense of King Richard's followers and favourites, if
indeed they had not as yet received such. Prior Aymer also assented to the
general proposition, observing, however, "That the blessed Jerusalem could
not indeed be termed a foreign country. She was 'communis mater'—the
mother of all Christians. But he saw not," he declared, "how the Knight of
Ivanhoe could plead any advantage from this, since he" (the Prior) "was
assured that the crusaders, under Richard, had never proceeded much farther
than Askalon, which, as all the world knew, was a town of the Philistines, and
entitled to none of the privileges of the Holy City."
Waldemar, whose curiosity had led him towards the place where Ivanhoe had
fallen to the ground, now returned. "The gallant," said he, "is likely to give
your Highness little disturbance, and to leave Front-de-Boeuf in the quiet
possession of his gains—he is severely wounded."
"Whatever becomes of him," said Prince John, "he is victor of the day; and
were he tenfold our enemy, or the devoted friend of our brother, which is
perhaps the same, his wounds must be looked to—our own physician shall
attend him."
A stern smile curled the Prince's lip as he spoke. Waldemar Fitzurse hastened
to reply, that Ivanhoe was already removed from the lists, and in the custody
of his friends.
"I was somewhat afflicted," he said, "to see the grief of the Queen of Love and
Beauty, whose sovereignty of a day this event has changed into mourning. I
am not a man to be moved by a woman's lament for her lover, but this same
Lady Rowena suppressed her sorrow with such dignity of manner, that it could
only be discovered by her folded hands, and her tearless eye, which trembled
as it remained fixed on the lifeless form before her."
"Who is this Lady Rowena," said Prince John, "of whom we have heard so
much?"
"A Saxon heiress of large possessions," replied the Prior Aymer; "a rose of
loveliness, and a jewel of wealth; the fairest among a thousand, a bundle of
myrrh, and a cluster of camphire."
"We shall cheer her sorrows," said Prince John, "and amend her blood, by
wedding her to a Norman. She seems a minor, and must therefore be at our
royal disposal in marriage.—How sayst thou, De Bracy? What thinkst thou of
gaining fair lands and livings, by wedding a Saxon, after the fashion of the
followers of the Conqueror?"
"If the lands are to my liking, my lord," answered De Bracy, "it will be hard to
displease me with a bride; and deeply will I hold myself bound to your
highness for a good deed, which will fulfil all promises made in favour of your
servant and vassal."
"We will not forget it," said Prince John; "and that we may instantly go to
work, command our seneschal presently to order the attendance of the Lady
Rowena and her company—that is, the rude churl her guardian, and the Saxon
ox whom the Black Knight struck down in the tournament, upon this evening's
banquet.—De Bigot," he added to his seneschal, "thou wilt word this our
second summons so courteously, as to gratify the pride of these Saxons, and
make it impossible for them again to refuse; although, by the bones of Becket,
courtesy to them is casting pearls before swine."
Prince John had proceeded thus far, and was about to give the signal for
retiring from the lists, when a small billet was put into his hand.
"From whence?" said Prince John, looking at the person by whom it was
delivered.
"From foreign parts, my lord, but from whence I know not" replied his
attendant. "A Frenchman brought it hither, who said, he had ridden night and
day to put it into the hands of your highness."
The Prince looked narrowly at the superscription, and then at the seal, placed
so as to secure the flex-silk with which the billet was surrounded, and which
bore the impression of three fleurs-de-lis. John then opened the billet with
apparent agitation, which visibly and greatly increased when he had perused
the contents, which were expressed in these words:
"Take heed to yourself for the Devil is unchained!"
The Prince turned as pale as death, looked first on the earth, and then up to
heaven, like a man who has received news that sentence of execution has been
passed upon him. Recovering from the first effects of his surprise, he took
Waldemar Fitzurse and De Bracy aside, and put the billet into their hands
successively. "It means," he added, in a faltering voice, "that my brother
Richard has obtained his freedom."
"This may be a false alarm, or a forged letter," said De Bracy.
"It is France's own hand and seal," replied Prince John.
"It is time, then," said Fitzurse, "to draw our party to a head, either at York, or
some other centrical place. A few days later, and it will be indeed too late.
Your highness must break short this present mummery."
"The yeomen and commons," said De Bracy, "must not be dismissed
discontented, for lack of their share in the sports."
"The day," said Waldemar, "is not yet very far spent—let the archers shoot a
few rounds at the target, and the prize be adjudged. This will be an abundant
fulfilment of the Prince's promises, so far as this herd of Saxon serfs is
concerned."
"I thank thee, Waldemar," said the Prince; "thou remindest me, too, that I have
a debt to pay to that insolent peasant who yesterday insulted our person. Our
banquet also shall go forward to-night as we proposed. Were this my last hour
of power, it should be an hour sacred to revenge and to pleasure—let new
cares come with to-morrow's new day."
The sound of the trumpets soon recalled those spectators who had already
begun to leave the field; and proclamation was made that Prince John,
suddenly called by high and peremptory public duties, held himself obliged to
discontinue the entertainments of to-morrow's festival: Nevertheless, that,
unwilling so many good yeoman should depart without a trial of skill, he was
pleased to appoint them, before leaving the ground, presently to execute the
competition of archery intended for the morrow. To the best archer a prize was
to be awarded, being a bugle-horn, mounted with silver, and a silken baldric
richly ornamented with a medallion of St Hubert, the patron of silvan sport.
More than thirty yeomen at first presented themselves as competitors, several
of whom were rangers and under-keepers in the royal forests of Needwood
and Charnwood. When, however, the archers understood with whom they
were to be matched, upwards of twenty withdrew themselves from the contest,
unwilling to encounter the dishonour of almost certain defeat. For in those
days the skill of each celebrated marksman was as well known for many miles
round him, as the qualities of a horse trained at Newmarket are familiar to
those who frequent that well-known meeting.
The diminished list of competitors for silvan fame still amounted to eight.
Prince John stepped from his royal seat to view more nearly the persons of
these chosen yeomen, several of whom wore the royal livery. Having satisfied
his curiosity by this investigation, he looked for the object of his resentment,
whom he observed standing on the same spot, and with the same composed
countenance which he had exhibited upon the preceding day.
"Fellow," said Prince John, "I guessed by thy insolent babble that thou wert no
true lover of the longbow, and I see thou darest not adventure thy skill among
such merry-men as stand yonder."
"Under favour, sir," replied the yeoman, "I have another reason for refraining
to shoot, besides the fearing discomfiture and disgrace."
"And what is thy other reason?" said Prince John, who, for some cause which
perhaps he could not himself have explained, felt a painful curiosity respecting
this individual.
"Because," replied the woodsman, "I know not if these yeomen and I are used
to shoot at the same marks; and because, moreover, I know not how your
Grace might relish the winning of a third prize by one who has unwittingly
fallen under your displeasure."
Prince John coloured as he put the question, "What is thy name, yeoman?"
"Locksley," answered the yeoman.
"Then, Locksley," said Prince John, "thou shalt shoot in thy turn, when these
yeomen have displayed their skill. If thou carriest the prize, I will add to it
twenty nobles; but if thou losest it, thou shalt be stript of thy Lincoln green,
and scourged out of the lists with bowstrings, for a wordy and insolent
braggart."
"And how if I refuse to shoot on such a wager?" said the yeoman.—"Your
Grace's power, supported, as it is, by so many men-at-arms, may indeed easily
strip and scourge me, but cannot compel me to bend or to draw my bow."
"If thou refusest my fair proffer," said the Prince, "the Provost of the lists shall
cut thy bowstring, break thy bow and arrows, and expel thee from the presence
as a faint-hearted craven."
"This is no fair chance you put on me, proud Prince," said the yeoman, "to
compel me to peril myself against the best archers of Leicester And
Staffordshire, under the penalty of infamy if they should overshoot me.
Nevertheless, I will obey your pleasure."
"Look to him close, men-at-arms," said Prince John, "his heart is sinking; I am
jealous lest he attempt to escape the trial.—And do you, good fellows, shoot
boldly round; a buck and a butt of wine are ready for your refreshment in
yonder tent, when the prize is won."
A target was placed at the upper end of the southern avenue which led to the
lists. The contending archers took their station in turn, at the bottom of the
southern access, the distance between that station and the mark allowing full
distance for what was called a shot at rovers. The archers, having previously
determined by lot their order of precedence, were to shoot each three shafts in
succession. The sports were regulated by an officer of inferior rank, termed the
Provost of the Games; for the high rank of the marshals of the lists would have
been held degraded, had they condescended to superintend the sports of the
yeomanry.
One by one the archers, stepping forward, delivered their shafts yeomanlike
and bravely. Of twenty-four arrows, shot in succession, ten were fixed in the
target, and the others ranged so near it, that, considering the distance of the
mark, it was accounted good archery. Of the ten shafts which hit the target,
two within the inner ring were shot by Hubert, a forester in the service of
Malvoisin, who was accordingly pronounced victorious.
"Now, Locksley," said Prince John to the bold yeoman, with a bitter smile,
"wilt thou try conclusions with Hubert, or wilt thou yield up bow, baldric, and
quiver, to the Provost of the sports?"
"Sith it be no better," said Locksley, "I am content to try my fortune; on
condition that when I have shot two shafts at yonder mark of Hubert's, he shall
be bound to shoot one at that which I shall propose."
"That is but fair," answered Prince John, "and it shall not be refused thee.—If
thou dost beat this braggart, Hubert, I will fill the bugle with silver-pennies for
thee."
"A man can do but his best," answered Hubert; "but my grandsire drew a good
long bow at Hastings, and I trust not to dishonour his memory."
The former target was now removed, and a fresh one of the same size placed
in its room. Hubert, who, as victor in the first trial of skill, had the right to
shoot first, took his aim with great deliberation, long measuring the distance
with his eye, while he held in his hand his bended bow, with the arrow placed
on the string. At length he made a step forward, and raising the bow at the full
stretch of his left arm, till the centre or grasping-place was nigh level with his
face, he drew his bowstring to his ear. The arrow whistled through the air, and
lighted within the inner ring of the target, but not exactly in the centre.
"You have not allowed for the wind, Hubert," said his antagonist, bending his
bow, "or that had been a better shot."
So saying, and without showing the least anxiety to pause upon his aim,
Locksley stept to the appointed station, and shot his arrow as carelessly in
appearance as if he had not even looked at the mark. He was speaking almost
at the instant that the shaft left the bowstring, yet it alighted in the target two
inches nearer to the white spot which marked the centre than that of Hubert.
"By the light of heaven!" said Prince John to Hubert, "an thou suffer that
runagate knave to overcome thee, thou art worthy of the gallows!"
Hubert had but one set speech for all occasions. "An your highness were to
hang me," he said, "a man can but do his best. Nevertheless, my grandsire
drew a good bow—"
"The foul fiend on thy grandsire and all his generation!" interrupted John,
"shoot, knave, and shoot thy best, or it shall be the worse for thee!"
Thus exhorted, Hubert resumed his place, and not neglecting the caution
which he had received from his adversary, he made the necessary allowance
for a very light air of wind, which had just arisen, and shot so successfully that
his arrow alighted in the very centre of the target.
"A Hubert! a Hubert!" shouted the populace, more interested in a known
person than in a stranger. "In the clout!—in the clout!—a Hubert for ever!"
"Thou canst not mend that shot, Locksley," said the Prince, with an insulting
smile.
"I will notch his shaft for him, however," replied Locksley.
And letting fly his arrow with a little more precaution than before, it lighted
right upon that of his competitor, which it split to shivers. The people who
stood around were so astonished at his wonderful dexterity, that they could not
even give vent to their surprise in their usual clamour. "This must be the devil,
and no man of flesh and blood," whispered the yeomen to each other; "such
archery was never seen since a bow was first bent in Britain."
"And now," said Locksley, "I will crave your Grace's permission to plant such
a mark as is used in the North Country; and welcome every brave yeoman who
shall try a shot at it to win a smile from the bonny lass he loves best."
He then turned to leave the lists. "Let your guards attend me," he said, "if you
please—I go but to cut a rod from the next willow-bush."
Prince John made a signal that some attendants should follow him in case of
his escape: but the cry of "Shame! shame!" which burst from the multitude,
induced him to alter his ungenerous purpose.
Locksley returned almost instantly with a willow wand about six feet in
length, perfectly straight, and rather thicker than a man's thumb. He began to
peel this with great composure, observing at the same time, that to ask a good
woodsman to shoot at a target so broad as had hitherto been used, was to put
shame upon his skill. "For his own part," he said, "and in the land where he
was bred, men would as soon take for their mark King Arthur's round-table,
which held sixty knights around it. A child of seven years old," he said, "might
hit yonder target with a headless shaft; but," added he, walking deliberately to
the other end of the lists, and sticking the willow wand upright in the ground,
"he that hits that rod at five-score yards, I call him an archer fit to bear both
bow and quiver before a king, an it were the stout King Richard himself."
"My grandsire," said Hubert, "drew a good bow at the battle of Hastings, and
never shot at such a mark in his life—and neither will I. If this yeoman can
cleave that rod, I give him the bucklers—or rather, I yield to the devil that is in
his jerkin, and not to any human skill; a man can but do his best, and I will not
shoot where I am sure to miss. I might as well shoot at the edge of our parson's
whittle, or at a wheat straw, or at a sunbeam, as at a twinkling white streak
which I can hardly see."
"Cowardly dog!" said Prince John.—"Sirrah Locksley, do thou shoot; but, if
thou hittest such a mark, I will say thou art the first man ever did so. However
it be, thou shalt not crow over us with a mere show of superior skill."
"I will do my best, as Hubert says," answered Locksley; "no man can do
more."
So saying, he again bent his bow, but on the present occasion looked with
attention to his weapon, and changed the string, which he thought was no
longer truly round, having been a little frayed by the two former shots. He then
took his aim with some deliberation, and the multitude awaited the event in
breathless silence. The archer vindicated their opinion of his skill: his arrow
split the willow rod against which it was aimed. A jubilee of acclamations
followed; and even Prince John, in admiration of Locksley's skill, lost for an
instant his dislike to his person. "These twenty nobles," he said, "which, with
the bugle, thou hast fairly won, are thine own; we will make them fifty, if thou
wilt take livery and service with us as a yeoman of our body guard, and be
near to our person. For never did so strong a hand bend a bow, or so true an
eye direct a shaft."
"Pardon me, noble Prince," said Locksley; "but I have vowed, that if ever I
take service, it should be with your royal brother King Richard. These twenty
nobles I leave to Hubert, who has this day drawn as brave a bow as his
grandsire did at Hastings. Had his modesty not refused the trial, he would have
hit the wand as well I."
Hubert shook his head as he received with reluctance the bounty of the
stranger, and Locksley, anxious to escape further observation, mixed with the
crowd, and was seen no more.
The victorious archer would not perhaps have escaped John's attention so
easily, had not that Prince had other subjects of anxious and more important
meditation pressing upon his mind at that instant. He called upon his
chamberlain as he gave the signal for retiring from the lists, and commanded
him instantly to gallop to Ashby, and seek out Isaac the Jew. "Tell the dog," he
said, "to send me, before sun-down, two thousand crowns. He knows the
security; but thou mayst show him this ring for a token. The rest of the money
must be paid at York within six days. If he neglects, I will have the
unbelieving villain's head. Look that thou pass him not on the way; for the
circumcised slave was displaying his stolen finery amongst us."
So saying, the Prince resumed his horse, and returned to Ashby, the whole
crowd breaking up and dispersing upon his retreat.

CHAPTER XIV

In rough magnificence array'd,

When ancient Chivalry display'd
The pomp of her heroic games,
And crested chiefs and tissued dames
Assembled, at the clarion's call,
In some proud castle's high arch'd hall.
—Warton
Prince John held his high festival in the Castle of Ashby. This was not the
same building of which the stately ruins still interest the traveller, and which
was erected at a later period by the Lord Hastings, High Chamberlain of
England, one of the first victims of the tyranny of Richard the Third, and yet
better known as one of Shakspeare's characters than by his historical fame.
The castle and town of Ashby, at this time, belonged to Roger de Quincy, Earl
of Winchester, who, during the period of our history, was absent in the Holy
Land. Prince John, in the meanwhile, occupied his castle, and disposed of his
domains without scruple; and seeking at present to dazzle men's eyes by his
hospitality and magnificence, had given orders for great preparations, in order
to render the banquet as splendid as possible.
The purveyors of the Prince, who exercised on this and other occasions the full
authority of royalty, had swept the country of all that could be collected which
was esteemed fit for their master's table. Guests also were invited in great
numbers; and in the necessity in which he then found himself of courting
popularity, Prince John had extended his invitation to a few distinguished
Saxon and Danish families, as well as to the Norman nobility and gentry of the
neighbourhood. However despised and degraded on ordinary occasions, the
great numbers of the Anglo-Saxons must necessarily render them formidable
in the civil commotions which seemed approaching, and it was an obvious
point of policy to secure popularity with their leaders.
It was accordingly the Prince's intention, which he for some time maintained,
to treat these unwonted guests with a courtesy to which they had been little
accustomed. But although no man with less scruple made his ordinary habits
and feelings bend to his interest, it was the misfortune of this Prince, that his
levity and petulance were perpetually breaking out, and undoing all that had
been gained by his previous dissimulation.
Of this fickle temper he gave a memorable example in Ireland, when sent
thither by his father, Henry the Second, with the purpose of buying golden
opinions of the inhabitants of that new and important acquisition to the
English crown. Upon this occasion the Irish chieftains contended which
should first offer to the young Prince their loyal homage and the kiss of peace.
But, instead of receiving their salutations with courtesy, John and his petulant
attendants could not resist the temptation of pulling the long beards of the Irish
chieftains; a conduct which, as might have been expected, was highly resented
by these insulted dignitaries, and produced fatal consequences to the English
domination in Ireland. It is necessary to keep these inconsistencies of John's
character in view, that the reader may understand his conduct during the
present evening.
In execution of the resolution which he had formed during his cooler
moments, Prince John received Cedric and Athelstane with distinguished
courtesy, and expressed his disappointment, without resentment, when the
indisposition of Rowena was alleged by the former as a reason for her not
attending upon his gracious summons. Cedric and Athelstane were both
dressed in the ancient Saxon garb, which, although not unhandsome in itself,
and in the present instance composed of costly materials, was so remote in
shape and appearance from that of the other guests, that Prince John took great
credit to himself with Waldemar Fitzurse for refraining from laughter at a sight
which the fashion of the day rendered ridiculous. Yet, in the eye of sober
judgment, the short close tunic and long mantle of the Saxons was a more
graceful, as well as a more convenient dress, than the garb of the Normans,
whose under garment was a long doublet, so loose as to resemble a shirt or
waggoner's frock, covered by a cloak of scanty dimensions, neither fit to
defend the wearer from cold or from rain, and the only purpose of which
appeared to be to display as much fur, embroidery, and jewellery work, as the
ingenuity of the tailor could contrive to lay upon it. The Emperor
Charlemagne, in whose reign they were first introduced, seems to have been
very sensible of the inconveniences arising from the fashion of this garment.
"In Heaven's name," said he, "to what purpose serve these abridged cloaks? If
we are in bed they are no cover, on horseback they are no protection from the
wind and rain, and when seated, they do not guard our legs from the damp or
the frost."
Nevertheless, spite of this imperial objurgation, the short cloaks continued in
fashion down to the time of which we treat, and particularly among the princes
of the House of Anjou. They were therefore in universal use among Prince
John's courtiers; and the long mantle, which formed the upper garment of the
Saxons, was held in proportional derision.
The guests were seated at a table which groaned under the quantity of good
cheer. The numerous cooks who attended on the Prince's progress, having
exerted all their art in varying the forms in which the ordinary provisions were
served up, had succeeded almost as well as the modern professors of the
culinary art in rendering them perfectly unlike their natural appearance.
Besides these dishes of domestic origin, there were various delicacies brought
from foreign parts, and a quantity of rich pastry, as well as of the simnel-bread
and wastle cakes, which were only used at the tables of the highest nobility.
The banquet was crowned with the richest wines, both foreign and domestic.
But, though luxurious, the Norman nobles were not generally speaking an
intemperate race. While indulging themselves in the pleasures of the table,
they aimed at delicacy, but avoided excess, and were apt to attribute gluttony
and drunkenness to the vanquished Saxons, as vices peculiar to their inferior
station. Prince John, indeed, and those who courted his pleasure by imitating
his foibles, were apt to indulge to excess in the pleasures of the trencher and
the goblet; and indeed it is well known that his death was occasioned by a
surfeit upon peaches and new ale. His conduct, however, was an exception to
the general manners of his countrymen.
With sly gravity, interrupted only by private signs to each other, the Norman
knights and nobles beheld the ruder demeanour of Athelstane and Cedric at a
banquet, to the form and fashion of which they were unaccustomed. And while
their manners were thus the subject of sarcastic observation, the untaught
Saxons unwittingly transgressed several of the arbitrary rules established for
the regulation of society. Now, it is well known, that a man may with more
impunity be guilty of an actual breach either of real good breeding or of good
morals, than appear ignorant of the most minute point of fashionable etiquette.
Thus Cedric, who dried his hands with a towel, instead of suffering the
moisture to exhale by waving them gracefully in the air, incurred more ridicule
than his companion Athelstane, when he swallowed to his own single share
the whole of a large pasty composed of the most exquisite foreign delicacies,
and termed at that time a "Karum-Pie". When, however, it was discovered, by
a serious cross-examination, that the Thane of Coningsburgh (or Franklin, as
the Normans termed him) had no idea what he had been devouring, and that he
had taken the contents of the Karum-pie for larks and pigeons, whereas they
were in fact beccaficoes and nightingales, his ignorance brought him in for an
ample share of the ridicule which would have been more justly bestowed on
his gluttony.
The long feast had at length its end; and, while the goblet circulated freely,
men talked of the feats of the preceding tournament,—of the unknown victor
in the archery games, of the Black Knight, whose self-denial had induced him
to withdraw from the honours he had won,—and of the gallant Ivanhoe, who
had so dearly bought the honours of the day. The topics were treated with
military frankness, and the jest and laugh went round the hall. The brow of
Prince John alone was overclouded during these discussions; some
overpowering care seemed agitating his mind, and it was only when he
received occasional hints from his attendants, that he seemed to take interest in
what was passing around him. On such occasions he would start up, quaff a
cup of wine as if to raise his spirits, and then mingle in the conversation by
some observation made abruptly or at random.
"We drink this beaker," said he, "to the health of Wilfred of Ivanhoe, champion
of this Passage of Arms, and grieve that his wound renders him absent from
our board—Let all fill to the pledge, and especially Cedric of Rotherwood, the
worthy father of a son so promising."
"No, my lord," replied Cedric, standing up, and placing on the table his
untasted cup, "I yield not the name of son to the disobedient youth, who at
once despises my commands, and relinquishes the manners and customs of his
fathers."
"'Tis impossible," cried Prince John, with well-feigned astonishment, "that so
gallant a knight should be an unworthy or disobedient son!"
"Yet, my lord," answered Cedric, "so it is with this Wilfred. He left my homely
dwelling to mingle with the gay nobility of your brother's court, where he
learned to do those tricks of horsemanship which you prize so highly. He left it
contrary to my wish and command; and in the days of Alfred that would have
been termed disobedience—ay, and a crime severely punishable."
"Alas!" replied Prince John, with a deep sigh of affected sympathy, "since
your son was a follower of my unhappy brother, it need not be enquired where
or from whom he learned the lesson of filial disobedience."
Thus spake Prince John, wilfully forgetting, that of all the sons of Henry the
Second, though no one was free from the charge, he himself had been most
distinguished for rebellion and ingratitude to his father.
"I think," said he, after a moment's pause, "that my brother proposed to confer
upon his favourite the rich manor of Ivanhoe."
"He did endow him with it," answered Cedric; "nor is it my least quarrel with
my son, that he stooped to hold, as a feudal vassal, the very domains which his
fathers possessed in free and independent right."
"We shall then have your willing sanction, good Cedric," said Prince John, "to
confer this fief upon a person whose dignity will not be diminished by holding
land of the British crown.—Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," he said, turning
towards that Baron, "I trust you will so keep the goodly Barony of Ivanhoe,
that Sir Wilfred shall not incur his father's farther displeasure by again
entering upon that fief."
"By St Anthony!" answered the black-brow'd giant, "I will consent that your
highness shall hold me a Saxon, if either Cedric or Wilfred, or the best that
ever bore English blood, shall wrench from me the gift with which your
highness has graced me."
"Whoever shall call thee Saxon, Sir Baron," replied Cedric, offended at a
mode of expression by which the Normans frequently expressed their habitual
contempt of the English, "will do thee an honour as great as it is undeserved."
Front-de-Boeuf would have replied, but Prince John's petulance and levity got
the start.
"Assuredly," said be, "my lords, the noble Cedric speaks truth; and his race
may claim precedence over us as much in the length of their pedigrees as in
the longitude of their cloaks."
"They go before us indeed in the field—as deer before dogs," said Malvoisin.
"And with good right may they go before us—forget not," said the Prior
Aymer, "the superior decency and decorum of their manners."
"Their singular abstemiousness and temperance," said De Bracy, forgetting the
plan which promised him a Saxon bride.
"Together with the courage and conduct," said Brian de Bois-Guilbert, "by
which they distinguished themselves at Hastings and elsewhere."
While, with smooth and smiling cheek, the courtiers, each in turn, followed
their Prince's example, and aimed a shaft of ridicule at Cedric, the face of the
Saxon became inflamed with passion, and he glanced his eyes fiercely from
one to another, as if the quick succession of so many injuries had prevented his
replying to them in turn; or, like a baited bull, who, surrounded by his
tormentors, is at a loss to choose from among them the immediate object of his
revenge. At length he spoke, in a voice half choked with passion; and,
addressing himself to Prince John as the head and front of the offence which
he had received, "Whatever," he said, "have been the follies and vices of our
race, a Saxon would have been held 'nidering'," (the most emphatic term for
abject worthlessness,) "who should in his own hall, and while his own wine-
cup passed, have treated, or suffered to be treated, an unoffending guest as
your highness has this day beheld me used; and whatever was the misfortune
of our fathers on the field of Hastings, those may at least be silent," here he
looked at Front-de-Boeuf and the Templar, "who have within these few hours
once and again lost saddle and stirrup before the lance of a Saxon."
"By my faith, a biting jest!" said Prince John. "How like you it, sirs?—Our
Saxon subjects rise in spirit and courage; become shrewd in wit, and bold in
bearing, in these unsettled times—What say ye, my lords?—By this good
light, I hold it best to take our galleys, and return to Normandy in time."
"For fear of the Saxons?" said De Bracy, laughing; "we should need no
weapon but our hunting spears to bring these boars to bay."
"A truce with your raillery, Sir Knights," said Fitzurse;—"and it were well," he
added, addressing the Prince, "that your highness should assure the worthy
Cedric there is no insult intended him by jests, which must sound but harshly
in the ear of a stranger."
"Insult?" answered Prince John, resuming his courtesy of demeanour; "I trust
it will not be thought that I could mean, or permit any, to be offered in my
presence. Here! I fill my cup to Cedric himself, since he refuses to pledge his
son's health."
The cup went round amid the well-dissembled applause of the courtiers,
which, however, failed to make the impression on the mind of the Saxon that
had been designed. He was not naturally acute of perception, but those too
much undervalued his understanding who deemed that this flattering
compliment would obliterate the sense of the prior insult. He was silent,
however, when the royal pledge again passed round, "To Sir Athelstane of
Coningsburgh."
The knight made his obeisance, and showed his sense of the honour by
draining a huge goblet in answer to it.
"And now, sirs," said Prince John, who began to be warmed with the wine
which he had drank, "having done justice to our Saxon guests, we will pray of
them some requital to our courtesy.—Worthy Thane," he continued,
addressing Cedric, "may we pray you to name to us some Norman whose
mention may least sully your mouth, and to wash down with a goblet of wine
all bitterness which the sound may leave behind it?"
Fitzurse arose while Prince John spoke, and gliding behind the seat of the
Saxon, whispered to him not to omit the opportunity of putting an end to
unkindness betwixt the two races, by naming Prince John. The Saxon replied
not to this politic insinuation, but, rising up, and filling his cup to the brim, he
addressed Prince John in these words: "Your highness has required that I
should name a Norman deserving to be remembered at our banquet. This,
perchance, is a hard task, since it calls on the slave to sing the praises of the
master—upon the vanquished, while pressed by all the evils of conquest, to
sing the praises of the conqueror. Yet I will name a Norman—the first in arms
and in place—the best and the noblest of his race. And the lips that shall refuse
to pledge me to his well-earned fame, I term false and dishonoured, and will
so maintain them with my life.—I quaff this goblet to the health of Richard the
Lion-hearted!"
Prince John, who had expected that his own name would have closed the
Saxon's speech, started when that of his injured brother was so unexpectedly
introduced. He raised mechanically the wine-cup to his lips, then instantly set
it down, to view the demeanour of the company at this unexpected proposal,
which many of them felt it as unsafe to oppose as to comply with. Some of
them, ancient and experienced courtiers, closely imitated the example of the
Prince himself, raising the goblet to their lips, and again replacing it before
them. There were many who, with a more generous feeling, exclaimed, "Long
live King Richard! and may he be speedily restored to us!" And some few,
among whom were Front-de-Boeuf and the Templar, in sullen disdain suffered
their goblets to stand untasted before them. But no man ventured directly to
gainsay a pledge filled to the health of the reigning monarch.
Having enjoyed his triumph for about a minute, Cedric said to his companion,
"Up, noble Athelstane! we have remained here long enough, since we have
requited the hospitable courtesy of Prince John's banquet. Those who wish to
know further of our rude Saxon manners must henceforth seek us in the homes
of our fathers, since we have seen enough of royal banquets, and enough of
Norman courtesy."
So saying, he arose and left the banqueting room, followed by Athelstane, and
by several other guests, who, partaking of the Saxon lineage, held themselves
insulted by the sarcasms of Prince John and his courtiers.
"By the bones of St Thomas," said Prince John, as they retreated, "the Saxon
churls have borne off the best of the day, and have retreated with triumph!"
"'Conclamatum est, poculatum est'," said Prior Aymer; "we have drunk and we
have shouted,—it were time we left our wine flagons."
"The monk hath some fair penitent to shrive to-night, that he is in such a hurry
to depart," said De Bracy.
"Not so, Sir Knight," replied the Abbot; "but I must move several miles
forward this evening upon my homeward journey."
"They are breaking up," said the Prince in a whisper to Fitzurse; "their fears
anticipate the event, and this coward Prior is the first to shrink from me."
"Fear not, my lord," said Waldemar; "I will show him such reasons as shall
induce him to join us when we hold our meeting at York.—Sir Prior," he said,
"I must speak with you in private, before you mount your palfrey."
The other guests were now fast dispersing, with the exception of those
immediately attached to Prince John's faction, and his retinue.
"This, then, is the result of your advice," said the Prince, turning an angry
countenance upon Fitzurse; "that I should be bearded at my own board by a
drunken Saxon churl, and that, on the mere sound of my brother's name, men
should fall off from me as if I had the leprosy?"
"Have patience, sir," replied his counsellor; "I might retort your accusation,
and blame the inconsiderate levity which foiled my design, and misled your
own better judgment. But this is no time for recrimination. De Bracy and I will
instantly go among these shuffling cowards, and convince them they have
gone too far to recede."
"It will be in vain," said Prince John, pacing the apartment with disordered
steps, and expressing himself with an agitation to which the wine he had drank
partly contributed—"It will be in vain—they have seen the handwriting on the
wall—they have marked the paw of the lion in the sand—they have heard his
approaching roar shake the wood—nothing will reanimate their courage."
"Would to God," said Fitzurse to De Bracy, "that aught could reanimate his
own! His brother's very name is an ague to him. Unhappy are the counsellors
of a Prince, who wants fortitude and perseverance alike in good and in evil!"

CHAPTER XV

And yet he thinks,—ha, ha, ha, ha,—he thinks

I am the tool and servant of his will.
Well, let it be; through all the maze of trouble
His plots and base oppression must create,
I'll shape myself a way to higher things,
And who will say 'tis wrong?
—Basil, a Tragedy
No spider ever took more pains to repair the shattered meshes of his web, than
did Waldemar Fitzurse to reunite and combine the scattered members of Prince
John's cabal. Few of these were attached to him from inclination, and none
from personal regard. It was therefore necessary, that Fitzurse should open to
them new prospects of advantage, and remind them of those which they at
present enjoyed. To the young and wild nobles, he held out the prospect of
unpunished license and uncontrolled revelry; to the ambitious, that of power,
and to the covetous, that of increased wealth and extended domains. The
leaders of the mercenaries received a donation in gold; an argument the most
persuasive to their minds, and without which all others would have proved in
vain. Promises were still more liberally distributed than money by this active
agent; and, in fine, nothing was left undone that could determine the wavering,
or animate the disheartened. The return of King Richard he spoke of as an
event altogether beyond the reach of probability; yet, when he observed, from
the doubtful looks and uncertain answers which he received, that this was the
apprehension by which the minds of his accomplices were most haunted, he
boldly treated that event, should it really take place, as one which ought not to
alter their political calculations.
"If Richard returns," said Fitzurse, "he returns to enrich his needy and
impoverished crusaders at the expense of those who did not follow him to the
Holy Land. He returns to call to a fearful reckoning, those who, during his
absence, have done aught that can be construed offence or encroachment upon
either the laws of the land or the privileges of the crown. He returns to avenge
upon the Orders of the Temple and the Hospital, the preference which they
showed to Philip of France during the wars in the Holy Land. He returns, in
fine, to punish as a rebel every adherent of his brother Prince John. Are ye
afraid of his power?" continued the artful confident of that Prince, "we
acknowledge him a strong and valiant knight; but these are not the days of
King Arthur, when a champion could encounter an army. If Richard indeed
comes back, it must be alone,—unfollowed—unfriended. The bones of his
gallant army have whitened the sands of Palestine. The few of his followers
who have returned have straggled hither like this Wilfred of Ivanhoe, beggared
and broken men.—And what talk ye of Richard's right of birth?" he
proceeded, in answer to those who objected scruples on that head. "Is
Richard's title of primogeniture more decidedly certain than that of Duke
Robert of Normandy, the Conqueror's eldest son? And yet William the Red,
and Henry, his second and third brothers, were successively preferred to him
by the voice of the nation, Robert had every merit which can be pleaded for
Richard; he was a bold knight, a good leader, generous to his friends and to the
church, and, to crown the whole, a crusader and a conqueror of the Holy
Sepulchre; and yet he died a blind and miserable prisoner in the Castle of
Cardiff, because he opposed himself to the will of the people, who chose that
he should not rule over them. It is our right," he said, "to choose from the
blood royal the prince who is best qualified to hold the supreme power—that
is," said he, correcting himself, "him whose election will best promote the
interests of the nobility. In personal qualifications," he added, "it was possible
that Prince John might be inferior to his brother Richard; but when it was
considered that the latter returned with the sword of vengeance in his hand,
while the former held out rewards, immunities, privileges, wealth, and
honours, it could not be doubted which was the king whom in wisdom the
nobility were called on to support."
These, and many more arguments, some adapted to the peculiar circumstances
of those whom he addressed, had the expected weight with the nobles of
Prince John's faction. Most of them consented to attend the proposed meeting
at York, for the purpose of making general arrangements for placing the crown
upon the head of Prince John.
It was late at night, when, worn out and exhausted with his various exertions,
however gratified with the result, Fitzurse, returning to the Castle of Ashby,
met with De Bracy, who had exchanged his banqueting garments for a short
green kirtle, with hose of the same cloth and colour, a leathern cap or head-
piece, a short sword, a horn slung over his shoulder, a long bow in his hand,
and a bundle of arrows stuck in his belt. Had Fitzurse met this figure in an
outer apartment, he would have passed him without notice, as one of the
yeomen of the guard; but finding him in the inner hall, he looked at him with
more attention, and recognised the Norman knight in the dress of an English
yeoman.
"What mummery is this, De Bracy?" said Fitzurse, somewhat angrily; "is this
a time for Christmas gambols and quaint maskings, when the fate of our
master, Prince John, is on the very verge of decision? Why hast thou not been,
like me, among these heartless cravens, whom the very name of King Richard
terrifies, as it is said to do the children of the Saracens?"
"I have been attending to mine own business," answered De Bracy calmly, "as
you, Fitzurse, have been minding yours."
"I minding mine own business!" echoed Waldemar; "I have been engaged in
that of Prince John, our joint patron."
"As if thou hadst any other reason for that, Waldemar," said De Bracy, "than
the promotion of thine own individual interest? Come, Fitzurse, we know each
other—ambition is thy pursuit, pleasure is mine, and they become our
different ages. Of Prince John thou thinkest as I do; that he is too weak to be a
determined monarch, too tyrannical to be an easy monarch, too insolent and
presumptuous to be a popular monarch, and too fickle and timid to be long a
monarch of any kind. But he is a monarch by whom Fitzurse and De Bracy
hope to rise and thrive; and therefore you aid him with your policy, and I with
the lances of my Free Companions."
"A hopeful auxiliary," said Fitzurse impatiently; "playing the fool in the very
moment of utter necessity.—What on earth dost thou purpose by this absurd
disguise at a moment so urgent?"
"To get me a wife," answered De Bracy coolly, "after the manner of the tribe
of Benjamin."
"The tribe of Benjamin?" said Fitzurse; "I comprehend thee not."
"Wert thou not in presence yester-even," said De Bracy, "when we heard the
Prior Aymer tell us a tale in reply to the romance which was sung by the
Minstrel?—He told how, long since in Palestine, a deadly feud arose between
the tribe of Benjamin and the rest of the Israelitish nation; and how they cut to
pieces well-nigh all the chivalry of that tribe; and how they swore by our
blessed Lady, that they would not permit those who remained to marry in their
lineage; and how they became grieved for their vow, and sent to consult his
holiness the Pope how they might be absolved from it; and how, by the advice
of the Holy Father, the youth of the tribe of Benjamin carried off from a
superb tournament all the ladies who were there present, and thus won them
wives without the consent either of their brides or their brides' families."
"I have heard the story," said Fitzurse, "though either the Prior or thou has
made some singular alterations in date and circumstances."
"I tell thee," said De Bracy, "that I mean to purvey me a wife after the fashion
of the tribe of Benjamin; which is as much as to say, that in this same
equipment I will fall upon that herd of Saxon bullocks, who have this night
left the castle, and carry off from them the lovely Rowena."
"Art thou mad, De Bracy?" said Fitzurse. "Bethink thee that, though the men
be Saxons, they are rich and powerful, and regarded with the more respect by
their countrymen, that wealth and honour are but the lot of few of Saxon
descent."
"And should belong to none," said De Bracy; "the work of the Conquest
should be completed."
"This is no time for it at least," said Fitzurse "the approaching crisis renders
the favour of the multitude indispensable, and Prince John cannot refuse
justice to any one who injures their favourites."
"Let him grant it, if he dare," said De Bracy; "he will soon see the difference
betwixt the support of such a lusty lot of spears as mine, and that of a heartless
mob of Saxon churls. Yet I mean no immediate discovery of myself. Seem I
not in this garb as bold a forester as ever blew horn? The blame of the violence
shall rest with the outlaws of the Yorkshire forests. I have sure spies on the
Saxon's motions—To-night they sleep in the convent of Saint Wittol, or
Withold, or whatever they call that churl of a Saxon Saint at Burton-on-Trent.
Next day's march brings them within our reach, and, falcon-ways, we swoop
on them at once. Presently after I will appear in mine own shape, play the
courteous knight, rescue the unfortunate and afflicted fair one from the hands
of the rude ravishers, conduct her to Front-de-Boeuf's Castle, or to Normandy,
if it should be necessary, and produce her not again to her kindred until she be
the bride and dame of Maurice de Bracy."
"A marvellously sage plan," said Fitzurse, "and, as I think, not entirely of thine
own device.—Come, be frank, De Bracy, who aided thee in the invention? and
who is to assist in the execution? for, as I think, thine own band lies as far off
as York."
"Marry, if thou must needs know," said De Bracy, "it was the Templar Brian de
Bois-Guilbert that shaped out the enterprise, which the adventure of the men
of Benjamin suggested to me. He is to aid me in the onslaught, and he and his
followers will personate the outlaws, from whom my valorous arm is, after
changing my garb, to rescue the lady."
"By my halidome," said Fitzurse, "the plan was worthy of your united
wisdom! and thy prudence, De Bracy, is most especially manifested in the
project of leaving the lady in the hands of thy worthy confederate. Thou
mayst, I think, succeed in taking her from her Saxon friends, but how thou wilt
rescue her afterwards from the clutches of Bois-Guilbert seems considerably
more doubtful—He is a falcon well accustomed to pounce on a partridge, and
to hold his prey fast."
"He is a Templar," said De Bracy, "and cannot therefore rival me in my plan of
wedding this heiress;—and to attempt aught dishonourable against the
intended bride of De Bracy—By Heaven! were he a whole Chapter of his
Order in his single person, he dared not do me such an injury!"
"Then since nought that I can say," said Fitzurse, "will put this folly from thy
imagination, (for well I know the obstinacy of thy disposition,) at least waste
as little time as possible—let not thy folly be lasting as well as untimely."
"I tell thee," answered De Bracy, "that it will be the work of a few hours, and I
shall be at York—at the head of my daring and valorous fellows, as ready to
support any bold design as thy policy can be to form one.—But I hear my
comrades assembling, and the steeds stamping and neighing in the outer court.
—Farewell.—I go, like a true knight, to win the smiles of beauty."
"Like a true knight?" repeated Fitzurse, looking after him; "like a fool, I
should say, or like a child, who will leave the most serious and needful
occupation, to chase the down of the thistle that drives past him.—But it is
with such tools that I must work;—and for whose advantage?—For that of a
Prince as unwise as he is profligate, and as likely to be an ungrateful master as
he has already proved a rebellious son and an unnatural brother.—But he—he,
too, is but one of the tools with which I labour; and, proud as he is, should he
presume to separate his interest from mine, this is a secret which he shall soon
learn."
The meditations of the statesman were here interrupted by the voice of the
Prince from an interior apartment, calling out, "Noble Waldemar Fitzurse!"
and, with bonnet doffed, the future Chancellor (for to such high preferment did
the wily Norman aspire) hastened to receive the orders of the future sovereign.

CHAPTER XVI

Far in a wild, unknown to public view,

From youth to age a reverend hermit grew;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well
Remote from man, with God he pass'd his days,
Prayer all his business—all his pleasure praise.
—Parnell
The reader cannot have forgotten that the event of the tournament was decided
by the exertions of an unknown knight, whom, on account of the passive and
indifferent conduct which he had manifested on the former part of the day, the
spectators had entitled, "Le Noir Faineant". This knight had left the field
abruptly when the victory was achieved; and when he was called upon to
receive the reward of his valour, he was nowhere to be found. In the
meantime, while summoned by heralds and by trumpets, the knight was
holding his course northward, avoiding all frequented paths, and taking the
shortest road through the woodlands. He paused for the night at a small
hostelry lying out of the ordinary route, where, however, he obtained from a
wandering minstrel news of the event of the tourney.
On the next morning the knight departed early, with the intention of making a
long journey; the condition of his horse, which he had carefully spared during
the preceding morning, being such as enabled him to travel far without the
necessity of much repose. Yet his purpose was baffled by the devious paths
through which he rode, so that when evening closed upon him, he only found
himself on the frontiers of the West Riding of Yorkshire. By this time both
horse and man required refreshment, and it became necessary, moreover, to
look out for some place in which they might spend the night, which was now
fast approaching.
The place where the traveller found himself seemed unpropitious for obtaining
either shelter or refreshment, and he was likely to be reduced to the usual
expedient of knights-errant, who, on such occasions, turned their horses to
graze, and laid themselves down to meditate on their lady-mistress, with an
oak-tree for a canopy. But the Black Knight either had no mistress to meditate
upon, or, being as indifferent in love as he seemed to be in war, was not
sufficiently occupied by passionate reflections upon her beauty and cruelty, to
be able to parry the effects of fatigue and hunger, and suffer love to act as a
substitute for the solid comforts of a bed and supper. He felt dissatisfied,
therefore, when, looking around, he found himself deeply involved in woods,
through which indeed there were many open glades, and some paths, but such
as seemed only formed by the numerous herds of cattle which grazed in the
forest, or by the animals of chase, and the hunters who made prey of them.
The sun, by which the knight had chiefly directed his course, had now sunk
behind the Derbyshire hills on his left, and every effort which he might make
to pursue his journey was as likely to lead him out of his road as to advance
him on his route. After having in vain endeavoured to select the most beaten
path, in hopes it might lead to the cottage of some herdsman, or the silvan
lodge of a forester, and having repeatedly found himself totally unable to
determine on a choice, the knight resolved to trust to the sagacity of his horse;
experience having, on former occasions, made him acquainted with the
wonderful talent possessed by these animals for extricating themselves and
their riders on such emergencies.
The good steed, grievously fatigued with so long a day's journey under a rider
cased in mail, had no sooner found, by the slackened reins, that he was
abandoned to his own guidance, than he seemed to assume new strength and
spirit; and whereas, formerly he had scarce replied to the spur, otherwise than
by a groan, he now, as if proud of the confidence reposed in him, pricked up
his ears, and assumed, of his own accord, a more lively motion. The path
which the animal adopted rather turned off from the course pursued by the
knight during the day; but as the horse seemed confident in his choice, the
rider abandoned himself to his discretion.
He was justified by the event; for the footpath soon after appeared a little
wider and more worn, and the tinkle of a small bell gave the knight to
understand that he was in the vicinity of some chapel or hermitage.
Accordingly, he soon reached an open plat of turf, on the opposite side of
which, a rock, rising abruptly from a gently sloping plain, offered its grey and
weatherbeaten front to the traveller. Ivy mantled its sides in some places, and
in others oaks and holly bushes, whose roots found nourishment in the cliffs of
the crag, waved over the precipices below, like the plumage of the warrior
over his steel helmet, giving grace to that whose chief expression was terror.
At the bottom of the rock, and leaning, as it were, against it, was constructed a
rude hut, built chiefly of the trunks of trees felled in the neighbouring forest,
and secured against the weather by having its crevices stuffed with moss
mingled with clay. The stem of a young fir-tree lopped of its branches, with a
piece of wood tied across near the top, was planted upright by the door, as a
rude emblem of the holy cross. At a little distance on the right hand, a fountain
of the purest water trickled out of the rock, and was received in a hollow
stone, which labour had formed into a rustic basin. Escaping from thence, the
stream murmured down the descent by a channel which its course had long
worn, and so wandered through the little plain to lose itself in the
neighbouring wood.
Beside this fountain were the ruins of a very small chapel, of which the roof
had partly fallen in. The building, when entire, had never been above sixteen
feet long by twelve feet in breadth, and the roof, low in proportion, rested
upon four concentric arches which sprung from the four corners of the
building, each supported upon a short and heavy pillar. The ribs of two of
these arches remained, though the roof had fallen down betwixt them; over the
others it remained entire. The entrance to this ancient place of devotion was
under a very low round arch, ornamented by several courses of that zig-zag
moulding, resembling shark's teeth, which appears so often in the more ancient
Saxon architecture. A belfry rose above the porch on four small pillars, within
which hung the green and weatherbeaten bell, the feeble sounds of which had
been some time before heard by the Black Knight.
The whole peaceful and quiet scene lay glimmering in twilight before the eyes
of the traveller, giving him good assurance of lodging for the night; since it
was a special duty of those hermits who dwelt in the woods, to exercise
hospitality towards benighted or bewildered passengers.
Accordingly, the knight took no time to consider minutely the particulars
which we have detailed, but thanking Saint Julian (the patron of travellers)
who had sent him good harbourage, he leaped from his horse and assailed the
door of the hermitage with the butt of his lance, in order to arouse attention
and gain admittance.
It was some time before he obtained any answer, and the reply, when made,
was unpropitious.
"Pass on, whosoever thou art," was the answer given by a deep hoarse voice
from within the hut, "and disturb not the servant of God and St Dunstan in his
evening devotions."
"Worthy father," answered the knight, "here is a poor wanderer bewildered in
these woods, who gives thee the opportunity of exercising thy charity and
hospitality."
"Good brother," replied the inhabitant of the hermitage, "it has pleased Our
Lady and St Dunstan to destine me for the object of those virtues, instead of
the exercise thereof. I have no provisions here which even a dog would share
with me, and a horse of any tenderness of nurture would despise my couch—
pass therefore on thy way, and God speed thee."
"But how," replied the knight, "is it possible for me to find my way through
such a wood as this, when darkness is coming on? I pray you, reverend father
as you are a Christian, to undo your door, and at least point out to me my
road."
"And I pray you, good Christian brother," replied the anchorite, "to disturb me
no more. You have already interrupted one 'pater', two 'aves', and a 'credo',
which I, miserable sinner that I am, should, according to my vow, have said
before moonrise."
"The road—the road!" vociferated the knight, "give me directions for the road,
if I am to expect no more from thee."
"The road," replied the hermit, "is easy to hit. The path from the wood leads to
a morass, and from thence to a ford, which, as the rains have abated, may now
be passable. When thou hast crossed the ford, thou wilt take care of thy
footing up the left bank, as it is somewhat precipitous; and the path, which
hangs over the river, has lately, as I learn, (for I seldom leave the duties of my
chapel,) given way in sundry places. Thou wilt then keep straight forward—-"
"A broken path—a precipice—a ford, and a morass!" said the knight
interrupting him,—"Sir Hermit, if you were the holiest that ever wore beard or
told bead, you shall scarce prevail on me to hold this road to-night. I tell thee,
that thou, who livest by the charity of the country—ill deserved, as I doubt it is
—hast no right to refuse shelter to the wayfarer when in distress. Either open
the door quickly, or, by the rood, I will beat it down and make entry for
myself."
"Friend wayfarer," replied the hermit, "be not importunate; if thou puttest me
to use the carnal weapon in mine own defence, it will be e'en the worse for
you."
At this moment a distant noise of barking and growling, which the traveller
had for some time heard, became extremely loud and furious, and made the
knight suppose that the hermit, alarmed by his threat of making forcible entry,
had called the dogs who made this clamour to aid him in his defence, out of
some inner recess in which they had been kennelled. Incensed at this
preparation on the hermit's part for making good his inhospitable purpose, the
knight struck the door so furiously with his foot, that posts as well as staples
shook with violence.
The anchorite, not caring again to expose his door to a similar shock, now
called out aloud, "Patience, patience—spare thy strength, good traveller, and I
will presently undo the door, though, it may be, my doing so will be little to
thy pleasure."
The door accordingly was opened; and the hermit, a large, strong-built man, in
his sackcloth gown and hood, girt with a rope of rushes, stood before the
knight. He had in one hand a lighted torch, or link, and in the other a baton of
crab-tree, so thick and heavy, that it might well be termed a club. Two large
shaggy dogs, half greyhound half mastiff, stood ready to rush upon the
traveller as soon as the door should be opened. But when the torch glanced
upon the lofty crest and golden spurs of the knight, who stood without, the
hermit, altering probably his original intentions, repressed the rage of his
auxiliaries, and, changing his tone to a sort of churlish courtesy, invited the
knight to enter his hut, making excuse for his unwillingness to open his lodge
after sunset, by alleging the multitude of robbers and outlaws who were
abroad, and who gave no honour to Our Lady or St Dunstan, nor to those holy
men who spent life in their service.
"The poverty of your cell, good father," said the knight, looking around him,
and seeing nothing but a bed of leaves, a crucifix rudely carved in oak, a
missal, with a rough-hewn table and two stools, and one or two clumsy articles
of furniture—"the poverty of your cell should seem a sufficient defence
against any risk of thieves, not to mention the aid of two trusty dogs, large and
strong enough, I think, to pull down a stag, and of course, to match with most
men."
"The good keeper of the forest," said the hermit, "hath allowed me the use of
these animals, to protect my solitude until the times shall mend."
Having said this, he fixed his torch in a twisted branch of iron which served
for a candlestick; and, placing the oaken trivet before the embers of the fire,
which he refreshed with some dry wood, he placed a stool upon one side of the
table, and beckoned to the knight to do the same upon the other.
They sat down, and gazed with great gravity at each other, each thinking in his
heart that he had seldom seen a stronger or more athletic figure than was
placed opposite to him.
"Reverend hermit," said the knight, after looking long and fixedly at his host,
"were it not to interrupt your devout meditations, I would pray to know three
things of your holiness; first, where I am to put my horse?—secondly, what I
can have for supper?—thirdly, where I am to take up my couch for the night?"
"I will reply to you," said the hermit, "with my finger, it being against my rule
to speak by words where signs can answer the purpose." So saying, he pointed
successively to two corners of the hut. "Your stable," said he, "is there—your
bed there; and," reaching down a platter with two handfuls of parched pease
upon it from the neighbouring shelf, and placing it upon the table, he added,
"your supper is here."
The knight shrugged his shoulders, and leaving the hut, brought in his horse,
(which in the interim he had fastened to a tree,) unsaddled him with much
attention, and spread upon the steed's weary back his own mantle.
The hermit was apparently somewhat moved to compassion by the anxiety as
well as address which the stranger displayed in tending his horse; for,
muttering something about provender left for the keeper's palfrey, he dragged
out of a recess a bundle of forage, which he spread before the knight's charger,
and immediately afterwards shook down a quantity of dried fern in the corner
which he had assigned for the rider's couch. The knight returned him thanks
for his courtesy; and, this duty done, both resumed their seats by the table,
whereon stood the trencher of pease placed between them. The hermit, after a
long grace, which had once been Latin, but of which original language few
traces remained, excepting here and there the long rolling termination of some
word or phrase, set example to his guest, by modestly putting into a very large
mouth, furnished with teeth which might have ranked with those of a boar
both in sharpness and whiteness, some three or four dried pease, a miserable
grist as it seemed for so large and able a mill.
The knight, in order to follow so laudable an example, laid aside his helmet,
his corslet, and the greater part of his armour, and showed to the hermit a head
thick-curled with yellow hair, high features, blue eyes, remarkably bright and
sparkling, a mouth well formed, having an upper lip clothed with mustachoes
darker than his hair, and bearing altogether the look of a bold, daring, and
enterprising man, with which his strong form well corresponded.
The hermit, as if wishing to answer to the confidence of his guest, threw back
his cowl, and showed a round bullet head belonging to a man in the prime of
life. His close-shaven crown, surrounded by a circle of stiff curled black hair,
had something the appearance of a parish pinfold begirt by its high hedge. The
features expressed nothing of monastic austerity, or of ascetic privations; on
the contrary, it was a bold bluff countenance, with broad black eyebrows, a
well-turned forehead, and cheeks as round and vermilion as those of a
trumpeter, from which descended a long and curly black beard. Such a visage,
joined to the brawny form of the holy man, spoke rather of sirloins and
haunches, than of pease and pulse. This incongruity did not escape the guest.
After he had with great difficulty accomplished the mastication of a mouthful
of the dried pease, he found it absolutely necessary to request his pious
entertainer to furnish him with some liquor; who replied to his request by
placing before him a large can of the purest water from the fountain.
"It is from the well of St Dunstan," said he, "in which, betwixt sun and sun, he
baptized five hundred heathen Danes and Britons—blessed be his name!" And
applying his black beard to the pitcher, he took a draught much more moderate
in quantity than his encomium seemed to warrant.
"It seems to me, reverend father," said the knight, "that the small morsels
which you eat, together with this holy, but somewhat thin beverage, have
thriven with you marvellously. You appear a man more fit to win the ram at a
wrestling match, or the ring at a bout at quarter-staff, or the bucklers at a
sword-play, than to linger out your time in this desolate wilderness, saying
masses, and living upon parched pease and cold water."
"Sir Knight," answered the hermit, "your thoughts, like those of the ignorant
laity, are according to the flesh. It has pleased Our Lady and my patron saint to
bless the pittance to which I restrain myself, even as the pulse and water was
blessed to the children Shadrach, Meshech, and Abednego, who drank the
same rather than defile themselves with the wine and meats which were
appointed them by the King of the Saracens."
"Holy father," said the knight, "upon whose countenance it hath pleased
Heaven to work such a miracle, permit a sinful layman to crave thy name?"
"Thou mayst call me," answered the hermit, "the Clerk of Copmanhurst, for so
I am termed in these parts—They add, it is true, the epithet holy, but I stand
not upon that, as being unworthy of such addition.—And now, valiant knight,
may I pray ye for the name of my honourable guest?"
"Truly," said the knight, "Holy Clerk of Copmanhurst, men call me in these
parts the Black Knight,—many, sir, add to it the epithet of Sluggard, whereby I
am no way ambitious to be distinguished."
The hermit could scarcely forbear from smiling at his guest's reply.
"I see," said he, "Sir Sluggish Knight, that thou art a man of prudence and of
counsel; and moreover, I see that my poor monastic fare likes thee not,
accustomed, perhaps, as thou hast been, to the license of courts and of camps,
and the luxuries of cities; and now I bethink me, Sir Sluggard, that when the
charitable keeper of this forest-walk left those dogs for my protection, and also
those bundles of forage, he left me also some food, which, being unfit for my
use, the very recollection of it had escaped me amid my more weighty
meditations."
"I dare be sworn he did so," said the knight; "I was convinced that there was
better food in the cell, Holy Clerk, since you first doffed your cowl.—Your
keeper is ever a jovial fellow; and none who beheld thy grinders contending
with these pease, and thy throat flooded with this ungenial element, could see
thee doomed to such horse-provender and horse-beverage," (pointing to the
provisions upon the table,) "and refrain from mending thy cheer. Let us see the
keeper's bounty, therefore, without delay."
The hermit cast a wistful look upon the knight, in which there was a sort of
comic expression of hesitation, as if uncertain how far he should act prudently
in trusting his guest. There was, however, as much of bold frankness in the
knight's countenance as was possible to be expressed by features. His smile,
too, had something in it irresistibly comic, and gave an assurance of faith and
loyalty, with which his host could not refrain from sympathizing.
After exchanging a mute glance or two, the hermit went to the further side of
the hut, and opened a hutch, which was concealed with great care and some
ingenuity. Out of the recesses of a dark closet, into which this aperture gave
admittance, he brought a large pasty, baked in a pewter platter of unusual
dimensions. This mighty dish he placed before his guest, who, using his
poniard to cut it open, lost no time in making himself acquainted with its
contents.
"How long is it since the good keeper has been here?" said the knight to his
host, after having swallowed several hasty morsels of this reinforcement to the
hermit's good cheer.
"About two months," answered the father hastily.
"By the true Lord," answered the knight, "every thing in your hermitage is
miraculous, Holy Clerk! for I would have been sworn that the fat buck which
furnished this venison had been running on foot within the week."
The hermit was somewhat discountenanced by this observation; and,
moreover, he made but a poor figure while gazing on the diminution of the
pasty, on which his guest was making desperate inroads; a warfare in which
his previous profession of abstinence left him no pretext for joining.
"I have been in Palestine, Sir Clerk," said the knight, stopping short of a
sudden, "and I bethink me it is a custom there that every host who entertains a
guest shall assure him of the wholesomeness of his food, by partaking of it
along with him. Far be it from me to suspect so holy a man of aught
inhospitable; nevertheless I will be highly bound to you would you comply
with this Eastern custom."
"To ease your unnecessary scruples, Sir Knight, I will for once depart from my
rule," replied the hermit. And as there were no forks in those days, his clutches
were instantly in the bowels of the pasty.
The ice of ceremony being once broken, it seemed matter of rivalry between
the guest and the entertainer which should display the best appetite; and
although the former had probably fasted longest, yet the hermit fairly
surpassed him.
"Holy Clerk," said the knight, when his hunger was appeased, "I would gage
my good horse yonder against a zecchin, that that same honest keeper to
whom we are obliged for the venison has left thee a stoup of wine, or a runlet
of canary, or some such trifle, by way of ally to this noble pasty. This would
be a circumstance, doubtless, totally unworthy to dwell in the memory of so
rigid an anchorite; yet, I think, were you to search yonder crypt once more,
you would find that I am right in my conjecture."
The hermit only replied by a grin; and returning to the hutch, he produced a
leathern bottle, which might contain about four quarts. He also brought forth
two large drinking cups, made out of the horn of the urus, and hooped with
silver. Having made this goodly provision for washing down the supper, he
seemed to think no farther ceremonious scruple necessary on his part; but
filling both cups, and saying, in the Saxon fashion, "'Waes hael', Sir Sluggish
Knight!" he emptied his own at a draught.
"'Drink hael', Holy Clerk of Copmanhurst!" answered the warrior, and did his
host reason in a similar brimmer.
"Holy Clerk," said the stranger, after the first cup was thus swallowed, "I
cannot but marvel that a man possessed of such thews and sinews as thine, and
who therewithal shows the talent of so goodly a trencher-man, should think of
abiding by himself in this wilderness. In my judgment, you are fitter to keep a
castle or a fort, eating of the fat and drinking of the strong, than to live here
upon pulse and water, or even upon the charity of the keeper. At least, were I
as thou, I should find myself both disport and plenty out of the king's deer.
There is many a goodly herd in these forests, and a buck will never be missed
that goes to the use of Saint Dunstan's chaplain."
"Sir Sluggish Knight," replied the Clerk, "these are dangerous words, and I
pray you to forbear them. I am true hermit to the king and law, and were I to
spoil my liege's game, I should be sure of the prison, and, an my gown saved
me not, were in some peril of hanging."
"Nevertheless, were I as thou," said the knight, "I would take my walk by
moonlight, when foresters and keepers were warm in bed, and ever and anon,
—as I pattered my prayers,—I would let fly a shaft among the herds of dun
deer that feed in the glades—Resolve me, Holy Clerk, hast thou never
practised such a pastime?"
"Friend Sluggard," answered the hermit, "thou hast seen all that can concern
thee of my housekeeping, and something more than he deserves who takes up
his quarters by violence. Credit me, it is better to enjoy the good which God
sends thee, than to be impertinently curious how it comes. Fill thy cup, and
welcome; and do not, I pray thee, by further impertinent enquiries, put me to
show that thou couldst hardly have made good thy lodging had I been earnest
to oppose thee."
"By my faith," said the knight, "thou makest me more curious than ever! Thou
art the most mysterious hermit I ever met; and I will know more of thee ere we
part. As for thy threats, know, holy man, thou speakest to one whose trade it is
to find out danger wherever it is to be met with."
"Sir Sluggish Knight, I drink to thee," said the hermit; "respecting thy valour
much, but deeming wondrous slightly of thy discretion. If thou wilt take equal
arms with me, I will give thee, in all friendship and brotherly love, such
sufficing penance and complete absolution, that thou shalt not for the next
twelve months sin the sin of excess of curiosity."
The knight pledged him, and desired him to name his weapons.
"There is none," replied the hermit, "from the scissors of Delilah, and the
tenpenny nail of Jael, to the scimitar of Goliath, at which I am not a match for
thee—But, if I am to make the election, what sayst thou, good friend, to these
trinkets?"
Thus speaking, he opened another hutch, and took out from it a couple of
broadswords and bucklers, such as were used by the yeomanry of the period.
The knight, who watched his motions, observed that this second place of
concealment was furnished with two or three good long-bows, a cross-bow, a
bundle of bolts for the latter, and half-a-dozen sheaves of arrows for the
former. A harp, and other matters of a very uncanonical appearance, were also
visible when this dark recess was opened.
"I promise thee, brother Clerk," said he, "I will ask thee no more offensive
questions. The contents of that cupboard are an answer to all my enquiries;
and I see a weapon there" (here he stooped and took out the harp) "on which I
would more gladly prove my skill with thee, than at the sword and buckler."
"I hope, Sir Knight," said the hermit, "thou hast given no good reason for thy
surname of the Sluggard. I do promise thee I suspect thee grievously.
Nevertheless, thou art my guest, and I will not put thy manhood to the proof
without thine own free will. Sit thee down, then, and fill thy cup; let us drink,
sing, and be merry. If thou knowest ever a good lay, thou shalt be welcome to
a nook of pasty at Copmanhurst so long as I serve the chapel of St Dunstan,
which, please God, shall be till I change my grey covering for one of green
turf. But come, fill a flagon, for it will crave some time to tune the harp; and
nought pitches the voice and sharpens the ear like a cup of wine. For my part, I
love to feel the grape at my very finger-ends before they make the harp-strings
tinkle."

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.
"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.
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 will be altogether
spoiled."
The travellers, however, used such speed as to reach the convent of St
Withold's before the apprehended evil took place. The Abbot, himself of
ancient Saxon descent, received the noble Saxons with the profuse and
exuberant hospitality of their nation, wherein they indulged to a late, or rather
an early hour; nor did they take leave of their reverend host the next morning
until they had shared with him a sumptuous refection.
As the cavalcade left the court of the monastery, an incident happened
somewhat alarming to the Saxons, who, of all people of Europe, were most
addicted to a superstitious observance of omens, and to whose opinions can be
traced most of those notions upon such subjects, still to be found among our
popular antiquities. For the Normans being a mixed race, and better informed
according to the information of the times, had lost most of the superstitious
prejudices which their ancestors had brought from Scandinavia, and piqued
themselves upon thinking freely on such topics.
In the present instance, the apprehension of impending evil was inspired by no
less respectable a prophet than a large lean black dog, which, sitting upright,
howled most piteously as the foremost riders left the gate, and presently
afterwards, barking wildly, and jumping to and fro, seemed bent upon
attaching itself to the party.
"I like not that music, father Cedric," said Athelstane; for by this title of
respect he was accustomed to address him.
"Nor I either, uncle," said Wamba; "I greatly fear we shall have to pay the
piper."
"In my mind," said Athelstane, upon whose memory the Abbot's good ale (for
Burton was already famous for that genial liquor) had made a favourable
impression,—"in my mind we had better turn back, and abide with the Abbot
until the afternoon. It is unlucky to travel where your path is crossed by a
monk, a hare, or a howling dog, until you have eaten your next meal."
"Away!" said Cedric, impatiently; "the day is already too short for our journey.
For the dog, I know it to be the cur of the runaway slave Gurth, a useless
fugitive like its master."
So saying, and rising at the same time in his stirrups, impatient at the
interruption of his journey, he launched his javelin at poor Fangs—for Fangs it
was, who, having traced his master thus far upon his stolen expedition, had
here lost him, and was now, in his uncouth way, rejoicing at his reappearance.
The javelin inflicted a wound upon the animal's shoulder, and narrowly missed
pinning him to the earth; and Fangs fled howling from the presence of the
enraged thane. Gurth's heart swelled within him; for he felt this meditated
slaughter of his faithful adherent in a degree much deeper than the harsh
treatment he had himself received. Having in vain attempted to raise his hand
to his eyes, he said to Wamba, who, seeing his master's ill humour had
prudently retreated to the rear, "I pray thee, do me the kindness to wipe my
eyes with the skirt of thy mantle; the dust offends me, and these bonds will not
let me help myself one way or another."
Wamba did him the service he required, and they rode side by side for some
time, during which Gurth maintained a moody silence. At length he could
repress his feelings no longer.
"Friend Wamba," said he, "of all those who are fools enough to serve Cedric,
thou alone hast dexterity enough to make thy folly acceptable to him. Go to
him, therefore, and tell him that neither for love nor fear will Gurth serve him
longer. He may strike the head from me—he may scourge me—he may load
me with irons—but henceforth he shall never compel me either to love or to
obey him. Go to him, then, and tell him that Gurth the son of Beowulph
renounces his service."
"Assuredly," said Wamba, "fool as I am, I shall not do your fool's errand.
Cedric hath another javelin stuck into his girdle, and thou knowest he does not
always miss his mark."
"I care not," replied Gurth, "how soon he makes a mark of me. Yesterday he
left Wilfred, my young master, in his blood. To-day he has striven to kill
before my face the only other living creature that ever showed me kindness.
By St Edmund, St Dunstan, St Withold, St Edward the Confessor, and every
other Saxon saint in the calendar," (for Cedric never swore by any that was not
of Saxon lineage, and all his household had the same limited devotion,) "I will
never forgive him!"
"To my thinking now," said the Jester, who was frequently wont to act as
peace-maker in the family, "our master did not propose to hurt Fangs, but only
to affright him. For, if you observed, he rose in his stirrups, as thereby
meaning to overcast the mark; and so he would have done, but Fangs
happening to bound up at the very moment, received a scratch, which I will be
bound to heal with a penny's breadth of tar."
"If I thought so," said Gurth—"if I could but think so—but no—I saw the
javelin was well aimed—I heard it whizz through the air with all the wrathful
malevolence of him who cast it, and it quivered after it had pitched in the
ground, as if with regret for having missed its mark. By the hog dear to St
Anthony, I renounce him!"
And the indignant swineherd resumed his sullen silence, which no efforts of
the Jester could again induce him to break.
Meanwhile Cedric and Athelstane, the leaders of the troop, conversed together
on the state of the land, on the dissensions of the royal family, on the feuds and
quarrels among the Norman nobles, and on the chance which there was that
the oppressed Saxons might be able to free themselves from the yoke of the
Normans, or at least to elevate themselves into national consequence and
independence, during the civil convulsions which were likely to ensue. On this
subject Cedric was all animation. The restoration of the independence of his
race was the idol of his heart, to which he had willingly sacrificed domestic
happiness and the interests of his own son. But, in order to achieve this great
revolution in favour of the native English, it was necessary that they should be
united among themselves, and act under an acknowledged head. The necessity
of choosing their chief from the Saxon blood-royal was not only evident in
itself, but had been made a solemn condition by those whom Cedric had
intrusted with his secret plans and hopes. Athelstane had this quality at least;
and though he had few mental accomplishments or talents to recommend him
as a leader, he had still a goodly person, was no coward, had been accustomed
to martial exercises, and seemed willing to defer to the advice of counsellors
more wise than himself. Above all, he was known to be liberal and hospitable,
and believed to be good-natured. But whatever pretensions Athelstane had to
be considered as head of the Saxon confederacy, many of that nation were
disposed to prefer to the title of the Lady Rowena, who drew her descent from
Alfred, and whose father having been a chief renowned for wisdom, courage,
and generosity, his memory was highly honoured by his oppressed
countrymen.
It would have been no difficult thing for Cedric, had he been so disposed, to
have placed himself at the head of a third party, as formidable at least as any
of the others. To counterbalance their royal descent, he had courage, activity,
energy, and, above all, that devoted attachment to the cause which had
procured him the epithet of The Saxon, and his birth was inferior to none,
excepting only that of Athelstane and his ward. These qualities, however, were
unalloyed by the slightest shade of selfishness; and, instead of dividing yet
farther his weakened nation by forming a faction of his own, it was a leading
part of Cedric's plan to extinguish that which already existed, by promoting a
marriage betwixt Rowena and Athelstane. An obstacle occurred to this his
favourite project, in the mutual attachment of his ward and his son and hence
the original cause of the banishment of Wilfred from the house of his father.
This stern measure Cedric had adopted, in hopes that, during Wilfred's
absence, Rowena might relinquish her preference, but in this hope he was
disappointed; a disappointment which might be attributed in part to the mode
in which his ward had been educated. Cedric, to whom the name of Alfred was
as that of a deity, had treated the sole remaining scion of that great monarch
with a degree of observance, such as, perhaps, was in those days scarce paid to
an acknowledged princess. Rowena's will had been in almost all cases a law to
his household; and Cedric himself, as if determined that her sovereignty
should be fully acknowledged within that little circle at least, seemed to take a
pride in acting as the first of her subjects. Thus trained in the exercise not only
of free will, but despotic authority, Rowena was, by her previous education,
disposed both to resist and to resent any attempt to control her affections, or
dispose of her hand contrary to her inclinations, and to assert her
independence in a case in which even those females who have been trained up
to obedience and subjection, are not infrequently apt to dispute the authority of
guardians and parents. The opinions which she felt strongly, she avowed
boldly; and Cedric, who could not free himself from his habitual deference to
her opinions, felt totally at a loss how to enforce his authority of guardian.
It was in vain that he attempted to dazzle her with the prospect of a visionary
throne. Rowena, who possessed strong sense, neither considered his plan as
practicable, nor as desirable, so far as she was concerned, could it have been
achieved. Without attempting to conceal her avowed preference of Wilfred of
Ivanhoe, she declared that, were that favoured knight out of question, she
would rather take refuge in a convent, than share a throne with Athelstane,
whom, having always despised, she now began, on account of the trouble she
received on his account, thoroughly to detest.
Nevertheless, Cedric, whose opinions of women's constancy was far from
strong, persisted in using every means in his power to bring about the
proposed match, in which he conceived he was rendering an important service
to the Saxon cause. The sudden and romantic appearance of his son in the lists
at Ashby, he had justly regarded as almost a death's blow to his hopes. His
paternal affection, it is true, had for an instant gained the victory over pride
and patriotism; but both had returned in full force, and under their joint
operation, he was now bent upon making a determined effort for the union of
Athelstane and Rowena, together with expediting those other measures which
seemed necessary to forward the restoration of Saxon independence.
On this last subject, he was now labouring with Athelstane, not without having
reason, every now and then, to lament, like Hotspur, that he should have
moved such a dish of skimmed milk to so honourable an action. Athelstane, it
is true, was vain enough, and loved to have his ears tickled with tales of his
high descent, and of his right by inheritance to homage and sovereignty. But
his petty vanity was sufficiently gratified by receiving this homage at the
hands of his immediate attendants, and of the Saxons who approached him. If
he had the courage to encounter danger, he at least hated the trouble of going
to seek it; and while he agreed in the general principles laid down by Cedric
concerning the claim of the Saxons to independence, and was still more easily
convinced of his own title to reign over them when that independence should
be attained, yet when the means of asserting these rights came to be discussed,
he was still "Athelstane the Unready," slow, irresolute, procrastinating, and
unenterprising. The warm and impassioned exhortations of Cedric had as little
effect upon his impassive temper, as red-hot balls alighting in the water, which
produce a little sound and smoke, and are instantly extinguished.
If, leaving this task, which might be compared to spurring a tired jade, or to
hammering upon cold iron, Cedric fell back to his ward Rowena, he received
little more satisfaction from conferring with her. For, as his presence
interrupted the discourse between the lady and her favourite attendant upon
the gallantry and fate of Wilfred, Elgitha failed not to revenge both her
mistress and herself, by recurring to the overthrow of Athelstane in the lists,
the most disagreeable subject which could greet the ears of Cedric. To this
sturdy Saxon, therefore, the day's journey was fraught with all manner of
displeasure and discomfort; so that he more than once internally cursed the
tournament, and him who had proclaimed it, together with his own folly in
ever thinking of going thither.
At noon, upon the motion of Athelstane, the travellers paused in a woodland
shade by a fountain, to repose their horses and partake of some provisions,
with which the hospitable Abbot had loaded a sumpter mule. Their repast was
a pretty long one; and these several interruptions rendered it impossible for
them to hope to reach Rotherwood without travelling all night, a conviction
which induced them to proceed on their way at a more hasty pace than they
had hitherto used.

CHAPTER XIX

A train of armed men, some noble dame

Escorting, (so their scatter'd words discover'd,
As unperceived I hung upon their rear,)
Are close at hand, and mean to pass the night
 Within the castle.
—Orra, a Tragedy
The travellers had now reached the verge of the wooded country, and were
about to plunge into its recesses, held dangerous at that time from the number
of outlaws whom oppression and poverty had driven to despair, and who
occupied the forests in such large bands as could easily bid defiance to the
feeble police of the period. From these rovers, however, notwithstanding the
lateness of the hour Cedric and Athelstane accounted themselves secure, as
they had in attendance ten servants, besides Wamba and Gurth, whose aid
could not be counted upon, the one being a jester and the other a captive. It
may be added, that in travelling thus late through the forest, Cedric and
Athelstane relied on their descent and character, as well as their courage. The
outlaws, whom the severity of the forest laws had reduced to this roving and
desperate mode of life, were chiefly peasants and yeomen of Saxon descent,
and were generally supposed to respect the persons and property of their
countrymen.
As the travellers journeyed on their way, they were alarmed by repeated cries
for assistance; and when they rode up to the place from whence they came,
they were surprised to find a horse-litter placed upon the ground, beside which
sat a young woman, richly dressed in the Jewish fashion, while an old man,
whose yellow cap proclaimed him to belong to the same nation, walked up and
down with gestures expressive of the deepest despair, and wrung his hands, as
if affected by some strange disaster.
To the enquiries of Athelstane and Cedric, the old Jew could for some time
only answer by invoking the protection of all the patriarchs of the Old
Testament successively against the sons of Ishmael, who were coming to smite
them, hip and thigh, with the edge of the sword. When he began to come to
himself out of this agony of terror, Isaac of York (for it was our old friend) was
at length able to explain, that he had hired a body-guard of six men at Ashby,
together with mules for carrying the litter of a sick friend. This party had
undertaken to escort him as far as Doncaster. They had come thus far in safety;
but having received information from a wood-cutter that there was a strong
band of outlaws lying in wait in the woods before them, Isaac's mercenaries
had not only taken flight, but had carried off with them the horses which bore
the litter and left the Jew and his daughter without the means either of defence
or of retreat, to be plundered, and probably murdered, by the banditti, who
they expected every moment would bring down upon them. "Would it but
please your valours," added Isaac, in a tone of deep humiliation, "to permit the
poor Jews to travel under your safeguard, I swear by the tables of our law, that
never has favour been conferred upon a child of Israel since the days of our
captivity, which shall be more gratefully acknowledged."
"Dog of a Jew!" said Athelstane, whose memory was of that petty kind which
stores up trifles of all kinds, but particularly trifling offences, "dost not
remember how thou didst beard us in the gallery at the tilt-yard? Fight or flee,
or compound with the outlaws as thou dost list, ask neither aid nor company
from us; and if they rob only such as thee, who rob all the world, I, for mine
own share, shall hold them right honest folk."
Cedric did not assent to the severe proposal of his companion. "We shall do
better," said he, "to leave them two of our attendants and two horses to convey
them back to the next village. It will diminish our strength but little; and with
your good sword, noble Athelstane, and the aid of those who remain, it will be
light work for us to face twenty of those runagates."
Rowena, somewhat alarmed by the mention of outlaws in force, and so near
them, strongly seconded the proposal of her guardian. But Rebecca suddenly
quitting her dejected posture, and making her way through the attendants to
the palfrey of the Saxon lady, knelt down, and, after the Oriental fashion in
addressing superiors, kissed the hem of Rowena's garment. Then rising, and
throwing back her veil, she implored her in the great name of the God whom
they both worshipped, and by that revelation of the Law upon Mount Sinai, in
which they both believed, that she would have compassion upon them, and
suffer them to go forward under their safeguard. "It is not for myself that I
pray this favour," said Rebecca; "nor is it even for that poor old man. I know
that to wrong and to spoil our nation is a light fault, if not a merit, with the
Christians; and what is it to us whether it be done in the city, in the desert, or
in the field? But it is in the name of one dear to many, and dear even to you,
that I beseech you to let this sick person be transported with care and
tenderness under your protection. For, if evil chance him, the last moment of
your life would be embittered with regret for denying that which I ask of you."
The noble and solemn air with which Rebecca made this appeal, gave it
double weight with the fair Saxon.
"The man is old and feeble," she said to her guardian, "the maiden young and
beautiful, their friend sick and in peril of his life—Jews though they be, we
cannot as Christians leave them in this extremity. Let them unload two of the
sumpter-mules, and put the baggage behind two of the serfs. The mules may
transport the litter, and we have led horses for the old man and his daughter."
Cedric readily assented to what she proposed, and Athelstane only added the
condition, "that they should travel in the rear of the whole party, where
Wamba," he said, "might attend them with his shield of boar's brawn."
"I have left my shield in the tilt-yard," answered the Jester, "as has been the
fate of many a better knight than myself."
Athelstane coloured deeply, for such had been his own fate on the last day of
the tournament; while Rowena, who was pleased in the same proportion, as if
to make amends for the brutal jest of her unfeeling suitor, requested Rebecca
to ride by her side.
"It were not fit I should do so," answered Rebecca, with proud humility,
"where my society might be held a disgrace to my protectress."
By this time the change of baggage was hastily achieved; for the single word
"outlaws" rendered every one sufficiently alert, and the approach of twilight
made the sound yet more impressive. Amid the bustle, Gurth was taken from
horseback, in the course of which removal he prevailed upon the Jester to
slack the cord with which his arms were bound. It was so negligently
refastened, perhaps intentionally, on the part of Wamba, that Gurth found no
difficulty in freeing his arms altogether from bondage, and then, gliding into
the thicket, he made his escape from the party.
The bustle had been considerable, and it was some time before Gurth was
missed; for, as he was to be placed for the rest of the journey behind a servant,
every one supposed that some other of his companions had him under his
custody, and when it began to be whispered among them that Gurth had
actually disappeared, they were under such immediate expectation of an attack
from the outlaws, that it was not held convenient to pay much attention to the
circumstance.
The path upon which the party travelled was now so narrow, as not to admit,
with any sort of convenience, above two riders abreast, and began to descend
into a dingle, traversed by a brook whose banks were broken, swampy, and
overgrown with dwarf willows. Cedric and Athelstane, who were at the head
of their retinue, saw the risk of being attacked at this pass; but neither of them
having had much practice in war, no better mode of preventing the danger
occurred to them than that they should hasten through the defile as fast as
possible. Advancing, therefore, without much order, they had just crossed the
brook with a part of their followers, when they were assailed in front, flank,
and rear at once, with an impetuosity to which, in their confused and ill-
prepared condition, it was impossible to offer effectual resistance. The shout
of "A white dragon!—a white dragon!—Saint George for merry England!"
war-cries adopted by the assailants, as belonging to their assumed character of
Saxon outlaws, was heard on every side, and on every side enemies appeared
with a rapidity of advance and attack which seemed to multiply their numbers.
Both the Saxon chiefs were made prisoners at the same moment, and each
under circumstances expressive of his character. Cedric, the instant that an
enemy appeared, launched at him his remaining javelin, which, taking better
effect than that which he had hurled at Fangs, nailed the man against an oak-
tree that happened to be close behind him. Thus far successful, Cedric spurred
his horse against a second, drawing his sword at the same time, and striking
with such inconsiderate fury, that his weapon encountered a thick branch
which hung over him, and he was disarmed by the violence of his own blow.
He was instantly made prisoner, and pulled from his horse by two or three of
the banditti who crowded around him. Athelstane shared his captivity, his
bridle having been seized, and he himself forcibly dismounted, long before he
could draw his weapon, or assume any posture of effectual defence.
The attendants, embarrassed with baggage, surprised and terrified at the fate of
their masters, fell an easy prey to the assailants; while the Lady Rowena, in the
centre of the cavalcade, and the Jew and his daughter in the rear, experienced
the same misfortune.
Of all the train none escaped except Wamba, who showed upon the occasion
much more courage than those who pretended to greater sense. He possessed
himself of a sword belonging to one of the domestics, who was just drawing it
with a tardy and irresolute hand, laid it about him like a lion, drove back
several who approached him, and made a brave though ineffectual attempt to
succour his master. Finding himself overpowered, the Jester at length threw
himself from his horse, plunged into the thicket, and, favoured by the general
confusion, escaped from the scene of action. Yet the valiant Jester, as soon as
he found himself safe, hesitated more than once whether he should not turn
back and share the captivity of a master to whom he was sincerely attached.
"I have heard men talk of the blessings of freedom," he said to himself, "but I
wish any wise man would teach me what use to make of it now that I have it."
As he pronounced these words aloud, a voice very near him called out in a low
and cautious tone, "Wamba!" and, at the same time, a dog, which he
recognised to be Fangs, jumped up and fawned upon him. "Gurth!" answered
Wamba, with the same caution, and the swineherd immediately stood before
him.
"What is the matter?" said he eagerly; "what mean these cries, and that
clashing of swords?"
"Only a trick of the times," said Wamba; "they are all prisoners."
"Who are prisoners?" exclaimed Gurth, impatiently.
"My lord, and my lady, and Athelstane, and Hundibert, and Oswald."
"In the name of God!" said Gurth, "how came they prisoners?—and to
whom?"
"Our master was too ready to fight," said the Jester; "and Athelstane was not
ready enough, and no other person was ready at all. And they are prisoners to
green cassocks, and black visors. And they lie all tumbled about on the green,
like the crab-apples that you shake down to your swine. And I would laugh at
it," said the honest Jester, "if I could for weeping." And he shed tears of
unfeigned sorrow.
Gurth's countenance kindled—"Wamba," he said, "thou hast a weapon, and
thy heart was ever stronger than thy brain,—we are only two—but a sudden
attack from men of resolution will do much—follow me!"
"Whither?—and for what purpose?" said the Jester.
"To rescue Cedric."
"But you have renounced his service but now," said Wamba.
"That," said Gurth, "was but while he was fortunate—follow me!"
As the Jester was about to obey, a third person suddenly made his appearance,
and commanded them both to halt. From his dress and arms, Wamba would
have conjectured him to be one of those outlaws who had just assailed his
master; but, besides that he wore no mask, the glittering baldric across his
shoulder, with the rich bugle-horn which it supported, as well as the calm and
commanding expression of his voice and manner, made him, notwithstanding
the twilight, recognise Locksley the yeoman, who had been victorious, under
such disadvantageous circumstances, in the contest for the prize of archery.
"What is the meaning of all this," said he, "or who is it that rifle, and ransom,
and make prisoners, in these forests?"
"You may look at their cassocks close by," said Wamba, "and see whether they
be thy children's coats or no—for they are as like thine own, as one green pea-
cod is to another."
"I will learn that presently," answered Locksley; "and I charge ye, on peril of
your lives, not to stir from the place where ye stand, until I have returned.
Obey me, and it shall be the better for you and your masters.—Yet stay, I must
render myself as like these men as possible."
So saying he unbuckled his baldric with the bugle, took a feather from his cap,
and gave them to Wamba; then drew a vizard from his pouch, and, repeating
his charges to them to stand fast, went to execute his purposes of
reconnoitring.
"Shall we stand fast, Gurth?" said Wamba; "or shall we e'en give him leg-bail?
In my foolish mind, he had all the equipage of a thief too much in readiness, to
be himself a true man."
"Let him be the devil," said Gurth, "an he will. We can be no worse of waiting
his return. If he belong to that party, he must already have given them the
alarm, and it will avail nothing either to fight or fly. Besides, I have late
experience, that errant thieves are not the worst men in the world to have to
deal with."
The yeoman returned in the course of a few minutes.
"Friend Gurth," he said, "I have mingled among yon men, and have learnt to
whom they belong, and whither they are bound. There is, I think, no chance
that they will proceed to any actual violence against their prisoners. For three
men to attempt them at this moment, were little else than madness; for they are
good men of war, and have, as such, placed sentinels to give the alarm when
any one approaches. But I trust soon to gather such a force, as may act in
defiance of all their precautions; you are both servants, and, as I think, faithful
servants, of Cedric the Saxon, the friend of the rights of Englishmen. He shall
not want English hands to help him in this extremity. Come then with me, until
I gather more aid."
So saying, he walked through the wood at a great pace, followed by the jester
and the swineherd. It was not consistent with Wamba's humour to travel long
in silence.
"I think," said he, looking at the baldric and bugle which he still carried, "that I
saw the arrow shot which won this gay prize, and that not so long since as
Christmas."
"And I," said Gurth, "could take it on my halidome, that I have heard the voice
of the good yeoman who won it, by night as well as by day, and that the moon
is not three days older since I did so."
"Mine honest friends," replied the yeoman, "who, or what I am, is little to the
present purpose; should I free your master, you will have reason to think me
the best friend you have ever had in your lives. And whether I am known by
one name or another—or whether I can draw a bow as well or better than a
cow-keeper, or whether it is my pleasure to walk in sunshine or by moonlight,
are matters, which, as they do not concern you, so neither need ye busy
yourselves respecting them."
"Our heads are in the lion's mouth," said Wamba, in a whisper to Gurth, "get
them out how we can."
"Hush—be silent," said Gurth. "Offend him not by thy folly, and I trust
sincerely that all will go well."
 CHAPTER XX

When autumn nights were long and drear,

And forest walks were dark and dim,
How sweetly on the pilgrim's ear
Was wont to steal the hermit's hymn
Devotion borrows Music's tone,
And Music took Devotion's wing;
And, like the bird that hails the sun,
They soar to heaven, and soaring sing.
The Hermit of St Clement's Well
It was after three hours' good walking that the servants of Cedric, with their
mysterious guide, arrived at a small opening in the forest, in the centre of
which grew an oak-tree of enormous magnitude, throwing its twisted branches
in every direction. Beneath this tree four or five yeomen lay stretched on the
ground, while another, as sentinel, walked to and fro in the moonlight shade.
Upon hearing the sound of feet approaching, the watch instantly gave the
alarm, and the sleepers as suddenly started up and bent their bows. Six arrows
placed on the string were pointed towards the quarter from which the travellers
approached, when their guide, being recognised, was welcomed with every
token of respect and attachment, and all signs and fears of a rough reception at
once subsided.
"Where is the Miller?" was his first question.
"On the road towards Rotherham."
"With how many?" demanded the leader, for such he seemed to be.
"With six men, and good hope of booty, if it please St Nicholas."
"Devoutly spoken," said Locksley; "and where is Allan-a-Dale?"
"Walked up towards the Watling-street, to watch for the Prior of Jorvaulx."
"That is well thought on also," replied the Captain;—"and where is the Friar?"
"In his cell."
"Thither will I go," said Locksley. "Disperse and seek your companions.
Collect what force you can, for there's game afoot that must be hunted hard,
and will turn to bay. Meet me here by daybreak.—And stay," he added, "I have
forgotten what is most necessary of the whole—Two of you take the road
quickly towards Torquilstone, the Castle of Front-de-Boeuf. A set of gallants,
who have been masquerading in such guise as our own, are carrying a band of
prisoners thither—Watch them closely, for even if they reach the castle before
we collect our force, our honour is concerned to punish them, and we will find
means to do so. Keep a close watch on them therefore; and dispatch one of
your comrades, the lightest of foot, to bring the news of the yeomen
thereabout."
They promised implicit obedience, and departed with alacrity on their different
errands. In the meanwhile, their leader and his two companions, who now
looked upon him with great respect, as well as some fear, pursued their way to
the Chapel of Copmanhurst.
When they had reached the little moonlight glade, having in front the
reverend, though ruinous chapel, and the rude hermitage, so well suited to
ascetic devotion, Wamba whispered to Gurth, "If this be the habitation of a
thief, it makes good the old proverb, The nearer the church the farther from
God.—And by my coxcomb," he added, "I think it be even so—Hearken but
to the black sanctus which they are singing in the hermitage!"
In fact the anchorite and his guest were performing, at the full extent of their
very powerful lungs, an old drinking song, of which this was the burden:—
"Come, trowl the brown bowl to me,
Bully boy, bully boy,
Come, trowl the brown bowl to me:
Ho! jolly Jenkin, I spy a knave in drinking,
Come, trowl the brown bowl to me."
"Now, that is not ill sung," said Wamba, who had thrown in a few of his own
flourishes to help out the chorus. "But who, in the saint's name, ever expected
to have heard such a jolly chant come from out a hermit's cell at midnight!"
"Marry, that should I," said Gurth, "for the jolly Clerk of Copmanhurst is a
known man, and kills half the deer that are stolen in this walk. Men say that
the keeper has complained to his official, and that he will be stripped of his
cowl and cope altogether, if he keeps not better order."
While they were thus speaking, Locksley's loud and repeated knocks had at
length disturbed the anchorite and his guest. "By my beads," said the hermit,
stopping short in a grand flourish, "here come more benighted guests. I would
not for my cowl that they found us in this goodly exercise. All men have their
enemies, good Sir Sluggard; and there be those malignant enough to construe
the hospitable refreshment which I have been offering to you, a weary
traveller, for the matter of three short hours, into sheer drunkenness and
debauchery, vices alike alien to my profession and my disposition."
"Base calumniators!" replied the knight; "I would I had the chastising of them.
Nevertheless, Holy Clerk, it is true that all have their enemies; and there be
those in this very land whom I would rather speak to through the bars of my
helmet than barefaced."
"Get thine iron pot on thy head then, friend Sluggard, as quickly as thy nature
will permit," said the hermit, "while I remove these pewter flagons, whose late
contents run strangely in mine own pate; and to drown the clatter—for, in
faith, I feel somewhat unsteady—strike into the tune which thou hearest me
sing; it is no matter for the words—I scarce know them myself."
So saying, he struck up a thundering "De profundis clamavi", under cover of
which he removed the apparatus of their banquet: while the knight, laughing
heartily, and arming himself all the while, assisted his host with his voice from
time to time as his mirth permitted.
"What devil's matins are you after at this hour?" said a voice from without.
"Heaven forgive you, Sir Traveller!" said the hermit, whose own noise, and
perhaps his nocturnal potations, prevented from recognising accents which
were tolerably familiar to him—"Wend on your way, in the name of God and
Saint Dunstan, and disturb not the devotions of me and my holy brother."
"Mad priest," answered the voice from without, "open to Locksley!"
"All's safe—all's right," said the hermit to his companion.
"But who is he?" said the Black Knight; "it imports me much to know."
"Who is he?" answered the hermit; "I tell thee he is a friend."
"But what friend?" answered the knight; "for he may be friend to thee and
none of mine?"
"What friend?" replied the hermit; "that, now, is one of the questions that is
more easily asked than answered. What friend?—why, he is, now that I
bethink me a little, the very same honest keeper I told thee of a while since."
"Ay, as honest a keeper as thou art a pious hermit," replied the knight, "I doubt
it not. But undo the door to him before he beat it from its hinges."
The dogs, in the meantime, which had made a dreadful baying at the
commencement of the disturbance, seemed now to recognise the voice of him
who stood without; for, totally changing their manner, they scratched and
whined at the door, as if interceding for his admission. The hermit speedily
unbolted his portal, and admitted Locksley, with his two companions.
"Why, hermit," was the yeoman's first question as soon as he beheld the
knight, "what boon companion hast thou here?"
"A brother of our order," replied the friar, shaking his head; "we have been at
our orisons all night."
"He is a monk of the church militant, I think," answered Locksley; "and there
be more of them abroad. I tell thee, friar, thou must lay down the rosary and
take up the quarter-staff; we shall need every one of our merry men, whether
clerk or layman.—But," he added, taking him a step aside, "art thou mad? to
give admittance to a knight thou dost not know? Hast thou forgot our
articles?"
"Not know him!" replied the friar, boldly, "I know him as well as the beggar
knows his dish."
"And what is his name, then?" demanded Locksley.
"His name," said the hermit—"his name is Sir Anthony of Scrabelstone—as if
I would drink with a man, and did not know his name!"
"Thou hast been drinking more than enough, friar," said the woodsman, "and, I
fear, prating more than enough too."
"Good yeoman," said the knight, coming forward, "be not wroth with my
merry host. He did but afford me the hospitality which I would have
compelled from him if he had refused it."
"Thou compel!" said the friar; "wait but till have changed this grey gown for a
green cassock, and if I make not a quarter-staff ring twelve upon thy pate, I am
neither true clerk nor good woodsman."
While he spoke thus, he stript off his gown, and appeared in a close black
buckram doublet and drawers, over which he speedily did on a cassock of
green, and hose of the same colour. "I pray thee truss my points," said he to
Wamba, "and thou shalt have a cup of sack for thy labour."
"Gramercy for thy sack," said Wamba; "but think'st thou it is lawful for me to
aid you to transmew thyself from a holy hermit into a sinful forester?"
"Never fear," said the hermit; "I will but confess the sins of my green cloak to
my greyfriar's frock, and all shall be well again."
"Amen!" answered the Jester; "a broadcloth penitent should have a sackcloth
confessor, and your frock may absolve my motley doublet into the bargain."
So saying, he accommodated the friar with his assistance in tying the endless
number of points, as the laces which attached the hose to the doublet were
then termed.
While they were thus employed, Locksley led the knight a little apart, and
addressed him thus:—"Deny it not, Sir Knight—you are he who decided the
victory to the advantage of the English against the strangers on the second day
of the tournament at Ashby."
"And what follows if you guess truly, good yeoman?" replied the knight.
"I should in that case hold you," replied the yeoman, "a friend to the weaker
party."
"Such is the duty of a true knight at least," replied the Black Champion; "and I
would not willingly that there were reason to think otherwise of me."
"But for my purpose," said the yeoman, "thou shouldst be as well a good
Englishman as a good knight; for that, which I have to speak of, concerns,
indeed, the duty of every honest man, but is more especially that of a true-born
native of England."
"You can speak to no one," replied the knight, "to whom England, and the life
of every Englishman, can be dearer than to me."
"I would willingly believe so," said the woodsman, "for never had this country
such need to be supported by those who love her. Hear me, and I will tell thee
of an enterprise, in which, if thou be'st really that which thou seemest, thou
mayst take an honourable part. A band of villains, in the disguise of better men
than themselves, have made themselves master of the person of a noble
Englishman, called Cedric the Saxon, together with his ward, and his friend
Athelstane of Coningsburgh, and have transported them to a castle in this
forest, called Torquilstone. I ask of thee, as a good knight and a good
Englishman, wilt thou aid in their rescue?"
"I am bound by my vow to do so," replied the knight; "but I would willingly
know who you are, who request my assistance in their behalf?"
"I am," said the forester, "a nameless man; but I am the friend of my country,
and of my country's friends—With this account of me you must for the present
remain satisfied, the more especially since you yourself desire to continue
unknown. Believe, however, that my word, when pledged, is as inviolate as if
I wore golden spurs."
"I willingly believe it," said the knight; "I have been accustomed to study
men's countenances, and I can read in thine honesty and resolution. I will,
therefore, ask thee no further questions, but aid thee in setting at freedom these
oppressed captives; which done, I trust we shall part better acquainted, and
well satisfied with each other."
"So," said Wamba to Gurth,—for the friar being now fully equipped, the
Jester, having approached to the other side of the hut, had heard the conclusion
of the conversation,—"So we have got a new ally?—l trust the valour of the
knight will be truer metal than the religion of the hermit, or the honesty of the
yeoman; for this Locksley looks like a born deer-stealer, and the priest like a
lusty hypocrite."
"Hold thy peace, Wamba," said Gurth; "it may all be as thou dost guess; but
were the horned devil to rise and proffer me his assistance to set at liberty
Cedric and the Lady Rowena, I fear I should hardly have religion enough to
refuse the foul fiend's offer, and bid him get behind me."
The friar was now completely accoutred as a yeoman, with sword and buckler,
bow, and quiver, and a strong partisan over his shoulder. He left his cell at the
head of the party, and, having carefully locked the door, deposited the key
under the threshold.
"Art thou in condition to do good service, friar," said Locksley, "or does the
brown bowl still run in thy head?"
"Not more than a drought of St Dunstan's fountain will allay," answered the
priest; "something there is of a whizzing in my brain, and of instability in my
legs, but you shall presently see both pass away."
So saying, he stepped to the stone basin, in which the waters of the fountain as
they fell formed bubbles which danced in the white moonlight, and took so
long a drought as if he had meant to exhaust the spring.
"When didst thou drink as deep a drought of water before, Holy Clerk of
Copmanhurst?" said the Black Knight.
"Never since my wine-butt leaked, and let out its liquor by an illegal vent,"
replied the friar, "and so left me nothing to drink but my patron's bounty here."
Then plunging his hands and head into the fountain, he washed from them all
marks of the midnight revel.
Thus refreshed and sobered, the jolly priest twirled his heavy partisan round
his head with three fingers, as if he had been balancing a reed, exclaiming at
the same time, "Where be those false ravishers, who carry off wenches against
their will? May the foul fiend fly off with me, if I am not man enough for a
dozen of them."
"Swearest thou, Holy Clerk?" said the Black Knight.
"Clerk me no Clerks," replied the transformed priest; "by Saint George and the
Dragon, I am no longer a shaveling than while my frock is on my back—
When I am cased in my green cassock, I will drink, swear, and woo a lass,
with any blithe forester in the West Riding."
"Come on, Jack Priest," said Locksley, "and be silent; thou art as noisy as a
whole convent on a holy eve, when the Father Abbot has gone to bed.—Come
on you, too, my masters, tarry not to talk of it—I say, come on, we must
collect all our forces, and few enough we shall have, if we are to storm the
Castle of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf."
"What! is it Front-de-Boeuf," said the Black Knight, "who has stopt on the
king's highway the king's liege subjects?—Is he turned thief and oppressor?"
"Oppressor he ever was," said Locksley.
"And for thief," said the priest, "I doubt if ever he were even half so honest a
man as many a thief of my acquaintance."
"Move on, priest, and be silent," said the yeoman; "it were better you led the
way to the place of rendezvous, than say what should be left unsaid, both in
decency and prudence."

CHAPTER XXI

Alas, how many hours and years have past,

Since human forms have round this table sate,
Or lamp, or taper, on its surface gleam'd!
Methinks, I hear the sound of time long pass'd
Still murmuring o'er us, in the lofty void
Of these dark arches, like the ling'ring voices
Of those who long within their graves have slept.
Orra, a Tragedy
While these measures were taking in behalf of Cedric and his companions, the
armed men by whom the latter had been seized, hurried their captives along
towards the place of security, where they intended to imprison them. But
darkness came on fast, and the paths of the wood seemed but imperfectly
known to the marauders. They were compelled to make several long halts, and
once or twice to return on their road to resume the direction which they wished
to pursue. The summer morn had dawned upon them ere they could travel in
full assurance that they held the right path. But confidence returned with light,
and the cavalcade now moved rapidly forward. Meanwhile, the following
dialogue took place between the two leaders of the banditti.
"It is time thou shouldst leave us, Sir Maurice," said the Templar to De Bracy,
"in order to prepare the second part of thy mystery. Thou art next, thou
knowest, to act the Knight Deliverer."
"I have thought better of it," said De Bracy; "I will not leave thee till the prize
is fairly deposited in Front-de-Boeuf's castle. There will I appear before the
Lady Rowena in mine own shape, and trust that she will set down to the
vehemence of my passion the violence of which I have been guilty."
"And what has made thee change thy plan, De Bracy?" replied the Knight
Templar.
"That concerns thee nothing," answered his companion.
"I would hope, however, Sir Knight," said the Templar, "that this alteration of
measures arises from no suspicion of my honourable meaning, such as
Fitzurse endeavoured to instil into thee?"
"My thoughts are my own," answered De Bracy; "the fiend laughs, they say,
when one thief robs another; and we know, that were he to spit fire and
brimstone instead, it would never prevent a Templar from following his bent."
"Or the leader of a Free Company," answered the Templar, "from dreading at
the hands of a comrade and friend, the injustice he does to all mankind."
"This is unprofitable and perilous recrimination," answered De Bracy; "suffice
it to say, I know the morals of the Temple-Order, and I will not give thee the
power of cheating me out of the fair prey for which I have run such risks."
"Psha," replied the Templar, "what hast thou to fear?—Thou knowest the vows
of our order."
"Right well," said De Bracy, "and also how they are kept. Come, Sir Templar,
the laws of gallantry have a liberal interpretation in Palestine, and this is a case
in which I will trust nothing to your conscience."
"Hear the truth, then," said the Templar; "I care not for your blue-eyed beauty.
There is in that train one who will make me a better mate."
"What! wouldst thou stoop to the waiting damsel?" said De Bracy.
"No, Sir Knight," said the Templar, haughtily. "To the waiting-woman will I
not stoop. I have a prize among the captives as lovely as thine own."
"By the mass, thou meanest the fair Jewess!" said De Bracy.
"And if I do," said Bois-Guilbert, "who shall gainsay me?"
"No one that I know," said De Bracy, "unless it be your vow of celibacy, or a
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-Boeuf, who will not lend us the use
of his castle for nothing. I must have something that I can term exclusively my
own by this foray of ours, and I have fixed on the lovely Jewess as my
peculiar prize. But, now thou knowest my drift, thou wilt resume thine own
original plan, wilt thou not?—Thou hast nothing, thou seest, to fear from my
interference."
"No," replied De Bracy, "I will remain beside my prize. What thou sayst is
passing true, but I like not the privileges acquired by the dispensation of the
Grand Master, and the merit acquired by the slaughter of three hundred
Saracens. You have too good a right to a free pardon, to render you very
scrupulous about peccadilloes."
While this dialogue was proceeding, Cedric was endeavouring to wring out of
those who guarded him an avowal of their character and purpose. "You should
be Englishmen," said he; "and yet, sacred Heaven! you prey upon your
countrymen as if you were very Normans. You should be my neighbours, and,
if so, my friends; for which of my English neighbours have reason to be
otherwise? I tell ye, yeomen, that even those among ye who have been
branded with outlawry have had from me protection; for I have pitied their
miseries, and curst the oppression of their tyrannic nobles. What, then, would
you have of me? or in what can this violence serve ye?—Ye are worse than
brute beasts in your actions, and will you imitate them in their very
dumbness?"
It was in vain that Cedric expostulated with his guards, who had too many
good reasons for their silence to be induced to break it either by his wrath or
his expostulations. They continued to hurry him along, travelling at a very
rapid rate, until, at the end of an avenue of huge trees, arose Torquilstone, now
the hoary and ancient castle of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf. It was a fortress of
no great size, consisting of a donjon, or large and high square tower,
surrounded by buildings of inferior height, which were encircled by an inner
court-yard. Around the exterior wall was a deep moat, supplied with water
from a neighbouring rivulet. Front-de-Boeuf, whose character placed him
often at feud with his enemies, had made considerable additions to the strength
of his castle, by building towers upon the outward wall, so as to flank it at
every angle. The access, as usual in castles of the period, lay through an
arched barbican, or outwork, which was terminated and defended by a small
turret at each corner.
Cedric no sooner saw the turrets of Front-de-Boeuf's castle raise their grey and
moss-grown battlements, glimmering in the morning sun above the wood by
which they were surrounded, than he instantly augured more truly concerning
the cause of his misfortune.
"I did injustice," he said, "to the thieves and outlaws of these woods, when I
supposed such banditti to belong to their bands; I might as justly have
confounded the foxes of these brakes with the ravening wolves of France. Tell
me, dogs—is it my life or my wealth that your master aims at? Is it too much
that two Saxons, myself and the noble Athelstane, should hold land in the
country which was once the patrimony of our race?—Put us then to death, and
complete your tyranny by taking our lives, as you began with our liberties. If
the Saxon Cedric cannot rescue England, he is willing to die for her. Tell your
tyrannical master, I do only beseech him to dismiss the Lady Rowena in
honour and safety. She is a woman, and he need not dread her; and with us
will die all who dare fight in her cause."
The attendants remained as mute to this address as to the former, and they now
stood before the gate of the castle. De Bracy winded his horn three times, and
the archers and cross-bow men, who had manned the wall upon seeing their
approach, hastened to lower the drawbridge, and admit them. The prisoners
were compelled by their guards to alight, and were conducted to an apartment
where a hasty repast was offered them, of which none but Athelstane felt any
inclination to partake. Neither had the descendant of the Confessor much time
to do justice to the good cheer placed before them, for their guards gave him
and Cedric to understand that they were to be imprisoned in a chamber apart
from Rowena. Resistance was vain; and they were compelled to follow to a
large room, which, rising on clumsy Saxon pillars, resembled those refectories
and chapter-houses which may be still seen in the most ancient parts of our
most ancient monasteries.
The Lady Rowena was next separated from her train, and conducted, with
courtesy, indeed, but still without consulting her inclination, to a distant
apartment. The same alarming distinction was conferred on Rebecca, in spite
of her father's entreaties, who offered even money, in this extremity of
distress, that she might be permitted to abide with him. "Base unbeliever,"
answered one of his guards, "when thou hast seen thy lair, thou wilt not wish
thy daughter to partake it." And, without farther discussion, the old Jew was
forcibly dragged off in a different direction from the other prisoners. The
domestics, after being carefully searched and disarmed, were confined in
another part of the castle; and Rowena was refused even the comfort she might
have derived from the attendance of her handmaiden Elgitha.
The apartment in which the Saxon chiefs were confined, for to them we turn
our first attention, although at present used as a sort of guard-room, had
formerly been the great hall of the castle. It was now abandoned to meaner
purposes, because the present lord, among other additions to the convenience,
security, and beauty of his baronial residence, had erected a new and noble
hall, whose vaulted roof was supported by lighter and more elegant pillars, and
fitted up with that higher degree of ornament, which the Normans had already
introduced into architecture.
Cedric paced the apartment, filled with indignant reflections on the past and
on the present, while the apathy of his companion served, instead of patience
and philosophy, to defend him against every thing save the inconvenience of
the present moment; and so little did he feel even this last, that he was only
from time to time roused to a reply by Cedric's animated and impassioned
appeal to him.
"Yes," said Cedric, half speaking to himself, and half addressing himself to
Athelstane, "it was in this very hall that my father feasted with Torquil
Wolfganger, when he entertained the valiant and unfortunate Harold, then
advancing against the Norwegians, who had united themselves to the rebel
Tosti. It was in this hall that Harold returned the magnanimous answer to the
ambassador of his rebel brother. Oft have I heard my father kindle as he told
the tale. The envoy of Tosti was admitted, when this ample room could scarce
contain the crowd of noble Saxon leaders, who were quaffing the blood-red
wine around their monarch."
"I hope," said Athelstane, somewhat moved by this part of his friend's
discourse, "they will not forget to send us some wine and refactions at noon—
we had scarce a breathing-space allowed to break our fast, and I never have
the benefit of my food when I eat immediately after dismounting from
horseback, though the leeches recommend that practice."
Cedric went on with his story without noticing this interjectional observation
of his friend.
"The envoy of Tosti," he said, "moved up the hall, undismayed by the
frowning countenances of all around him, until he made his obeisance before
the throne of King Harold.
"'What terms,' he said, 'Lord King, hath thy brother Tosti to hope, if he should
lay down his arms, and crave peace at thy hands?'
"'A brother's love,' cried the generous Harold, 'and the fair earldom of
Northumberland.'
"'But should Tosti accept these terms,' continued the envoy, 'what lands shall
be assigned to his faithful ally, Hardrada, King of Norway?'
"'Seven feet of English ground,' answered Harold, fiercely, 'or, as Hardrada is
said to be a giant, perhaps we may allow him twelve inches more.'
"The hall rung with acclamations, and cup and horn was filled to the
Norwegian, who should be speedily in possession of his English territory."
"I could have pledged him with all my soul," said Athelstane, "for my tongue
cleaves to my palate."
"The baffled envoy," continued Cedric, pursuing with animation his tale,
though it interested not the listener, "retreated, to carry to Tosti and his ally the
ominous answer of his injured brother. It was then that the distant towers of
York, and the bloody streams of the Derwent, beheld that direful conflict, in
which, after displaying the most undaunted valour, the King of Norway, and
Tosti, both fell, with ten thousand of their bravest followers. Who would have
thought that upon the proud day when this battle was won, the very gale which
waved the Saxon banners in triumph, was filling the Norman sails, and
impelling them to the fatal shores of Sussex?—Who would have thought that
Harold, within a few brief days, would himself possess no more of his
kingdom, than the share which he allotted in his wrath to the Norwegian
invader?—Who would have thought that you, noble Athelstane—that you,
descended of Harold's blood, and that I, whose father was not the worst
defender of the Saxon crown, should be prisoners to a vile Norman, in the very
hall in which our ancestors held such high festival?"
"It is sad enough," replied Athelstane; "but I trust they will hold us to a
moderate ransom—At any rate it cannot be their purpose to starve us outright;
and yet, although it is high noon, I see no preparations for serving dinner.
Look up at the window, noble Cedric, and judge by the sunbeams if it is not on
the verge of noon."
"It may be so," answered Cedric; "but I cannot look on that stained lattice
without its awakening other reflections than those which concern the passing
moment, or its privations. When that window was wrought, my noble friend,
our hardy fathers knew not the art of making glass, or of staining it—The
pride of Wolfganger's father brought an artist from Normandy to adorn his hall
with this new species of emblazonment, that breaks the golden light of God's
blessed day into so many fantastic hues. The foreigner came here poor,
beggarly, cringing, and subservient, ready to doff his cap to the meanest native
of the household. He returned pampered and proud, to tell his rapacious
countrymen of the wealth and the simplicity of the Saxon nobles—a folly, oh,
Athelstane, foreboded of old, as well as foreseen, by those descendants of
Hengist and his hardy tribes, who retained the simplicity of their manners. We
made these strangers our bosom friends, our confidential servants; we
borrowed their artists and their arts, and despised the honest simplicity and
hardihood with which our brave ancestors supported themselves, and we
became enervated by Norman arts long ere we fell under Norman arms. Far
better was our homely diet, eaten in peace and liberty, than the luxurious
dainties, the love of which hath delivered us as bondsmen to the foreign
conqueror!"
"I should," replied Athelstane, "hold very humble diet a luxury at present; and
it astonishes me, noble Cedric, that you can bear so truly in mind the memory
of past deeds, when it appeareth you forget the very hour of dinner."
"It is time lost," muttered Cedric apart and impatiently, "to speak to him of
aught else but that which concerns his appetite! The soul of Hardicanute hath
taken possession of him, and he hath no pleasure save to fill, to swill, and to
call for more.—Alas!" said he, looking at Athelstane with compassion, "that
so dull a spirit should be lodged in so goodly a form! Alas! that such an
enterprise as the regeneration of England should turn on a hinge so imperfect!
Wedded to Rowena, indeed, her nobler and more generous soul may yet awake
the better nature which is torpid within him. Yet how should this be, while
Rowena, Athelstane, and I myself, remain the prisoners of this brutal marauder
and have been made so perhaps from a sense of the dangers which our liberty
might bring to the usurped power of his nation?"
While the Saxon was plunged in these painful reflections, the door of their
prison opened, and gave entrance to a sewer, holding his white rod of office.
This important person advanced into the chamber with a grave pace, followed
by four attendants, bearing in a table covered with dishes, the sight and smell
of which seemed to be an instant compensation to Athelstane for all the
inconvenience he had undergone. The persons who attended on the feast were
masked and cloaked.
"What mummery is this?" said Cedric; "think you that we are ignorant whose
prisoners we are, when we are in the castle of your master? Tell him," he
continued, willing to use this opportunity to open a negotiation for his
freedom,—"Tell your master, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, that we know no
reason he can have for withholding our liberty, excepting his unlawful desire
to enrich himself at our expense. Tell him that we yield to his rapacity, as in
similar circumstances we should do to that of a literal robber. Let him name
the ransom at which he rates our liberty, and it shall be paid, providing the
exaction is suited to our means." The sewer made no answer, but bowed his
head.
"And tell Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," said Athelstane, "that I send him my
mortal defiance, and challenge him to combat with me, on foot or horseback,
at any secure place, within eight days after our liberation; which, if he be a
true knight, he will not, under these circumstances, venture to refuse or to
delay."
"I shall deliver to the knight your defiance," answered the sewer; "meanwhile I
leave you to your food."
The challenge of Athelstane was delivered with no good grace; for a large
mouthful, which required the exercise of both jaws at once, added to a natural
hesitation, considerably damped the effect of the bold defiance it contained.
Still, however, his speech was hailed by Cedric as an incontestible token of
reviving spirit in his companion, whose previous indifference had begun,
notwithstanding his respect for Athelstane's descent, to wear out his patience.
But he now cordially shook hands with him in token of his approbation, and
was somewhat grieved when Athelstane observed, "that he would fight a
dozen such men as Front-de-Boeuf, if, by so doing, he could hasten his
departure from a dungeon where they put so much garlic into their pottage."
Notwithstanding this intimation of a relapse into the apathy of sensuality,
Cedric placed himself opposite to Athelstane, and soon showed, that if the
distresses of his country could banish the recollection of food while the table
was uncovered, yet no sooner were the victuals put there, than he proved that
the appetite of his Saxon ancestors had descended to him along with their
other qualities.
The captives had not long enjoyed their refreshment, however, ere their
attention was disturbed even from this most serious occupation by the blast of
a horn winded before the gate. It was repeated three times, with as much
violence as if it had been blown before an enchanted castle by the destined
knight, at whose summons halls and towers, barbican and battlement, were to
roll off like a morning vapour. The Saxons started from the table, and hastened
to the window. But their curiosity was disappointed; for these outlets only
looked upon the court of the castle, and the sound came from beyond its
precincts. The summons, however, seemed of importance, for a considerable
degree of bustle instantly took place in the castle.
 CHAPTER XXII

My daughter—O my ducats—O my daughter!

———O my Christian ducats!
Justice—the Law—my ducats, and my daughter!
—Merchant of Venice
Leaving the Saxon chiefs to return to their banquet as soon as their ungratified
curiosity should permit them to attend to the calls of their half-satiated
appetite, we have to look in upon the yet more severe imprisonment of Isaac
of York. The poor Jew had been hastily thrust into a dungeon-vault of the
castle, the floor of which was deep beneath the level of the ground, and very
damp, being lower than even the moat itself. The only light was received
through one or two loop-holes far above the reach of the captive's hand. These
apertures admitted, even at mid-day, only a dim and uncertain light, which was
changed for utter darkness long before the rest of the castle had lost the
blessing of day. Chains and shackles, which had been the portion of former
captives, from whom active exertions to escape had been apprehended, hung
rusted and empty on the walls of the prison, and in the rings of one of those
sets of fetters there remained two mouldering bones, which seemed to have
been once those of the human leg, as if some prisoner had been left not only to
perish there, but to be consumed to a skeleton.
At one end of this ghastly apartment was a large fire-grate, over the top of
which were stretched some transverse iron bars, half devoured with rust.
The whole appearance of the dungeon might have appalled a stouter heart than
that of Isaac, who, nevertheless, was more composed under the imminent
pressure of danger, than he had seemed to be while affected by terrors, of
which the cause was as yet remote and contingent. The lovers of the chase say
that the hare feels more agony during the pursuit of the greyhounds, than when
she is struggling in their fangs.
And thus it is probable, that the Jews, by the very frequency of their fear on all
occasions, had their minds in some degree prepared for every effort of tyranny
which could be practised upon them; so that no aggression, when it had taken
place, could bring with it that surprise which is the most disabling quality of
terror. Neither was it the first time that Isaac had been placed in circumstances
so dangerous. He had therefore experience to guide him, as well as hope, that
he might again, as formerly, be delivered as a prey from the fowler. Above all,
he had upon his side the unyielding obstinacy of his nation, and that
unbending resolution, with which Israelites have been frequently known to
submit to the uttermost evils which power and violence can inflict upon them,
rather than gratify their oppressors by granting their demands.
In this humour of passive resistance, and with his garment collected beneath
him to keep his limbs from the wet pavement, Isaac sat in a corner of his
dungeon, where his folded hands, his dishevelled hair and beard, his furred
cloak and high cap, seen by the wiry and broken light, would have afforded a
study for Rembrandt, had that celebrated painter existed at the period. The Jew
remained, without altering his position, for nearly three hours, at the expiry of
which steps were heard on the dungeon stair. The bolts screamed as they were
withdrawn—the hinges creaked as the wicket opened, and Reginald Front-de-
Boeuf, followed by the two Saracen slaves of the Templar, entered the prison.
Front-de-Boeuf, a tall and strong man, whose life had been spent in public war
or in private feuds and broils, and who had hesitated at no means of extending
his feudal power, had features corresponding to his character, and which
strongly expressed the fiercer and more malignant passions of the mind. The
scars with which his visage was seamed, would, on features of a different cast,
have excited the sympathy and veneration due to the marks of honourable
valour; but, in the peculiar case of Front-de-Boeuf, they only added to the
ferocity of his countenance, and to the dread which his presence inspired. This
formidable baron was clad in a leathern doublet, fitted close to his body, which
was frayed and soiled with the stains of his armour. He had no weapon,
excepting a poniard at his belt, which served to counterbalance the weight of
the bunch of rusty keys that hung at his right side.
The black slaves who attended Front-de-Boeuf were stripped of their gorgeous
apparel, and attired in jerkins and trowsers of coarse linen, their sleeves being
tucked up above the elbow, like those of butchers when about to exercise their
function in the slaughter-house. Each had in his hand a small pannier; and,
when they entered the dungeon, they stopt at the door until Front-de-Boeuf
himself carefully locked and double-locked it. Having taken this precaution,
he advanced slowly up the apartment towards the Jew, upon whom he kept his
eye fixed, as if he wished to paralyze him with his glance, as some animals are
said to fascinate their prey. It seemed indeed as if the sullen and malignant eye
of Front-de-Boeuf possessed some portion of that supposed power over his
unfortunate prisoner. The Jew sat with his mouth agape, and his eyes fixed on
the savage baron with such earnestness of terror, that his frame seemed
literally to shrink together, and to diminish in size while encountering the
fierce Norman's fixed and baleful gaze. The unhappy Isaac was deprived not
only of the power of rising to make the obeisance which his terror dictated, but
he could not even doff his cap, or utter any word of supplication; so strongly
was he agitated by the conviction that tortures and death were impending over
him.
On the other hand, the stately form of the Norman appeared to dilate in
magnitude, like that of the eagle, which ruffles up its plumage when about to
pounce on its defenceless prey. He paused within three steps of the corner in
which the unfortunate Jew had now, as it were, coiled himself up into the
smallest possible space, and made a sign for one of the slaves to approach. The
black satellite came forward accordingly, and, producing from his basket a
large pair of scales and several weights, he laid them at the feet of Front-de-
Boeuf, and again retired to the respectful distance, at which his companion had
already taken his station.
The motions of these men were slow and solemn, as if there impended over
their souls some preconception of horror and of cruelty. Front-de-Boeuf
himself opened the scene by thus addressing his ill-fated captive.
"Most accursed dog of an accursed race," he said, awaking with his deep and
sullen voice the sullen echoes of his dungeon vault, "seest thou these scales?"
The unhappy Jew returned a feeble affirmative.
"In these very scales shalt thou weigh me out," said the relentless Baron, "a
thousand silver pounds, after the just measure and weight of the Tower of
London."
"Holy Abraham!" returned the Jew, finding voice through the very extremity
of his danger, "heard man ever such a demand?—Who ever heard, even in a
minstrel's tale, of such a sum as a thousand pounds of silver?—What human
sight was ever blessed with the vision of such a mass of treasure?—Not within
the walls of York, ransack my house and that of all my tribe, wilt thou find the
tithe of that huge sum of silver that thou speakest of."
"I am reasonable," answered Front-de-Boeuf, "and if silver be scant, I refuse
not gold. At the rate of a mark of gold for each six pounds of silver, thou shalt
free thy unbelieving carcass from such punishment as thy heart has never even
conceived."
"Have mercy on me, noble knight!" exclaimed Isaac; "I am old, and poor, and
helpless. It were unworthy to triumph over me—It is a poor deed to crush a
worm."
"Old thou mayst be," replied the knight; "more shame to their folly who have
suffered thee to grow grey in usury and knavery—Feeble thou mayst be, for
when had a Jew either heart or hand—But rich it is well known thou art."
"I swear to you, noble knight," said the Jew "by all which I believe, and by all
which we believe in common—-"
"Perjure not thyself," said the Norman, interrupting him, "and let not thine
obstinacy seal thy doom, until thou hast seen and well considered the fate that
awaits thee. Think not I speak to thee only to excite thy terror, and practise on
the base cowardice thou hast derived from thy tribe. I swear to thee by that
which thou dost NOT believe, by the gospel which our church teaches, and by
the keys which are given her to bind and to loose, that my purpose is deep and
peremptory. This dungeon is no place for trifling. Prisoners ten thousand times
more distinguished than thou have died within these walls, and their fate hath
never been known! But for thee is reserved a long and lingering death, to
which theirs were luxury."
He again made a signal for the slaves to approach, and spoke to them apart, in
their own language; for he also had been in Palestine, where perhaps, he had
learnt his lesson of cruelty. The Saracens produced from their baskets a
quantity of charcoal, a pair of bellows, and a flask of oil. While the one struck
a light with a flint and steel, the other disposed the charcoal in the large rusty
grate which we have already mentioned, and exercised the bellows until the
fuel came to a red glow.
"Seest thou, Isaac," said Front-de-Boeuf, "the range of iron bars above the
glowing charcoal?— on that warm couch thou shalt lie, stripped of thy clothes
as if thou wert to rest on a bed of down. One of these slaves shall maintain the
fire beneath thee, while the other shall anoint thy wretched limbs with oil, lest
the roast should burn.—Now, choose betwixt such a scorching bed and the
payment of a thousand pounds of silver; for, by the head of my father, thou
hast no other option."
"It is impossible," exclaimed the miserable Jew—"it is impossible that your
purpose can be real! The good God of nature never made a heart capable of
exercising such cruelty!"
"Trust not to that, Isaac," said Front-de-Boeuf, "it were a fatal error. Dost thou
think that I, who have seen a town sacked, in which thousands of my Christian
countrymen perished by sword, by flood, and by fire, will blench from my
purpose for the outcries or screams of one single wretched Jew?—or thinkest
thou that these swarthy slaves, who have neither law, country, nor conscience,
but their master's will—who use the poison, or the stake, or the poniard, or the
cord, at his slightest wink—thinkest thou that THEY will have mercy, who do
not even understand the language in which it is asked?—Be wise, old man;
discharge thyself of a portion of thy superfluous wealth; repay to the hands of
a Christian a part of what thou hast acquired by the usury thou hast practised
on those of his religion. Thy cunning may soon swell out once more thy
shrivelled purse, but neither leech nor medicine can restore thy scorched hide
and flesh wert thou once stretched on these bars. Tell down thy ransom, I say,
and rejoice that at such rate thou canst redeem thee from a dungeon, the
secrets of which few have returned to tell. I waste no more words with thee—
choose between thy dross and thy flesh and blood, and as thou choosest, so
shall it be."
"So may Abraham, Jacob, and all the fathers of our people assist me," said
Isaac, "I cannot make the choice, because I have not the means of satisfying
your exorbitant demand!"
"Seize him and strip him, slaves," said the knight, "and let the fathers of his
race assist him if they can."
The assistants, taking their directions more from the Baron's eye and his hand
than his tongue, once more stepped forward, laid hands on the unfortunate
Isaac, plucked him up from the ground, and, holding him between them,
waited the hard-hearted Baron's farther signal. The unhappy Jew eyed their
countenances and that of Front-de-Boeuf, in hope of discovering some
symptoms of relenting; but that of the Baron exhibited the same cold, half-
sullen, half-sarcastic smile which had been the prelude to his cruelty; and the
savage eyes of the Saracens, rolling gloomily under their dark brows,
acquiring a yet more sinister expression by the whiteness of the circle which
surrounds the pupil, evinced rather the secret pleasure which they expected
from the approaching scene, than any reluctance to be its directors or agents.
The Jew then looked at the glowing furnace, over which he was presently to
be stretched, and seeing no chance of his tormentor's relenting, his resolution
gave way.
"I will pay," he said, "the thousand pounds of silver—That is," he added, after
a moment's pause, "I will pay it with the help of my brethren; for I must beg as
a mendicant at the door of our synagogue ere I make up so unheard-of a sum.
—When and where must it be delivered?"
"Here," replied Front-de-Boeuf, "here it must be delivered—weighed it must
be—weighed and told down on this very dungeon floor.—Thinkest thou I will
part with thee until thy ransom is secure?"
"And what is to be my surety," said the Jew, "that I shall be at liberty after this
ransom is paid?"
"The word of a Norman noble, thou pawn-broking slave," answered Front-de-
Boeuf; "the faith of a Norman nobleman, more pure than the gold and silver of
thee and all thy tribe."
"I crave pardon, noble lord," said Isaac timidly, "but wherefore should I rely
wholly on the word of one who will trust nothing to mine?"
"Because thou canst not help it, Jew," said the knight, sternly. "Wert thou now
in thy treasure-chamber at York, and were I craving a loan of thy shekels, it
would be thine to dictate the time of payment, and the pledge of security. This
is MY treasure-chamber. Here I have thee at advantage, nor will I again deign
to repeat the terms on which I grant thee liberty."
The Jew groaned deeply.—"Grant me," he said, "at least with my own liberty,
that of the companions with whom I travel. They scorned me as a Jew, yet
they pitied my desolation, and because they tarried to aid me by the way, a
share of my evil hath come upon them; moreover, they may contribute in some
sort to my ransom."
"If thou meanest yonder Saxon churls," said Front-de-Boeuf, "their ransom
will depend upon other terms than thine. Mind thine own concerns, Jew, I
warn thee, and meddle not with those of others."
"I am, then," said Isaac, "only to be set at liberty, together with mine wounded
friend?"
"Shall I twice recommend it," said Front-de-Boeuf, "to a son of Israel, to
meddle with his own concerns, and leave those of others alone?—Since thou
hast made thy choice, it remains but that thou payest down thy ransom, and
that at a short day."
"Yet hear me," said the Jew—"for the sake of that very wealth which thou
wouldst obtain at the expense of thy—-" Here he stopt short, afraid of
irritating the savage Norman. But Front-de-Boeuf only laughed, and himself
filled up the blank at which the Jew had hesitated.
"At the expense of my conscience, thou wouldst say, Isaac; speak it out—I tell
thee, I am reasonable. I can bear the reproaches of a loser, even when that
loser is a Jew. Thou wert not so patient, Isaac, when thou didst invoke justice
against Jacques Fitzdotterel, for calling thee a usurious blood-sucker, when thy
exactions had devoured his patrimony."
"I swear by the Talmud," said the Jew, "that your valour has been misled in
that matter. Fitzdotterel drew his poniard upon me in mine own chamber,
because I craved him for mine own silver. The term of payment was due at the
Passover."
"I care not what he did," said Front-de-Boeuf; "the question is, when shall I
have mine own?—when shall I have the shekels, Isaac?"
"Let my daughter Rebecca go forth to York," answered Isaac, "with your safe
conduct, noble knight, and so soon as man and horse can return, the treasure
—-" Here he groaned deeply, but added, after the pause of a few seconds,
—"The treasure shall be told down on this very floor."
"Thy daughter!" said Front-de-Boeuf, as if surprised,—"By heavens, Isaac, I
would I had known of this. I deemed that yonder black-browed girl had been
thy concubine, and I gave her to be a handmaiden to Sir Brian de Bois-
Guilbert, after the fashion of patriarchs and heroes of the days of old, who set
us in these matters a wholesome example."
The yell which Isaac raised at this unfeeling communication made the very
vault to ring, and astounded the two Saracens so much that they let go their
hold of the Jew. He availed himself of his enlargement to throw himself on the
pavement, and clasp the knees of Front-de-Boeuf.
"Take all that you have asked," said he, "Sir Knight—take ten times more—
reduce me to ruin and to beggary, if thou wilt,—nay, pierce me with thy
poniard, broil me on that furnace, but spare my daughter, deliver her in safety
and honour!—As thou art born of woman, spare the honour of a helpless
maiden—She is the image of my deceased Rachel, she is the last of six
pledges of her love—Will you deprive a widowed husband of his sole
remaining comfort?—Will you reduce a father to wish that his only living
child were laid beside her dead mother, in the tomb of our fathers?"
"I would," said the Norman, somewhat relenting, "that I had known of this
before. I thought your race had loved nothing save their moneybags."
"Think not so vilely of us, Jews though we be," said Isaac, eager to improve
the moment of apparent sympathy; "the hunted fox, the tortured wildcat loves
its young—the despised and persecuted race of Abraham love their children!"
"Be it so," said Front-de-Boeuf; "I will believe it in future, Isaac, for thy very
sake—but it aids us not now, I cannot help what has happened, or what is to
follow; my word is passed to my comrade in arms, nor would I break it for ten
Jews and Jewesses to boot. Besides, why shouldst thou think evil is to come to
the girl, even if she became Bois-Guilbert's booty?"
"There will, there must!" exclaimed Isaac, wringing his hands in agony; "when
did Templars breathe aught but cruelty to men, and dishonour to women!"
"Dog of an infidel," said Front-de-Boeuf, with sparkling eyes, and not sorry,
perhaps, to seize a pretext for working himself into a passion, "blaspheme not
the Holy Order of the Temple of Zion, but take thought instead to pay me the
ransom thou hast promised, or woe betide thy Jewish throat!"
"Robber and villain!" said the Jew, retorting the insults of his oppressor with
passion, which, however impotent, he now found it impossible to bridle, "I
will pay thee nothing—not one silver penny will I pay thee, unless my
daughter is delivered to me in safety and honour!"
"Art thou in thy senses, Israelite?" said the Norman, sternly—"has thy flesh
and blood a charm against heated iron and scalding oil?"
"I care not!" said the Jew, rendered desperate by paternal affection; "do thy
worst. My daughter is my flesh and blood, dearer to me a thousand times than
those limbs which thy cruelty threatens. No silver will I give thee, unless I
were to pour it molten down thy avaricious throat—no, not a silver penny will
I give thee, Nazarene, were it to save thee from the deep damnation thy whole
life has merited! Take my life if thou wilt, and say, the Jew, amidst his tortures,
knew how to disappoint the Christian."
"We shall see that," said Front-de-Boeuf; "for by the blessed rood, which is the
abomination of thy accursed tribe, thou shalt feel the extremities of fire and
steel!—Strip him, slaves, and chain him down upon the bars."
In spite of the feeble struggles of the old man, the Saracens had already torn
from him his upper garment, and were proceeding totally to disrobe him, when
the sound of a bugle, twice winded without the castle, penetrated even to the
recesses of the dungeon, and immediately after loud voices were heard calling
for Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf. Unwilling to be found engaged in his hellish
occupation, the savage Baron gave the slaves a signal to restore Isaac's
garment, and, quitting the dungeon with his attendants, he left the Jew to thank
God for his own deliverance, or to lament over his daughter's captivity, and
probable fate, as his personal or parental feelings might prove strongest.

CHAPTER XXIII

Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words

Can no way change you to a milder form,
I'll woo you, like a soldier, at arms' end,
And love you 'gainst the nature of love, force you.
—Two Gentlemen of Verona
The apartment to which the Lady Rowena had been introduced was fitted up
with some rude attempts at ornament and magnificence, and her being placed
there might be considered as a peculiar mark of respect not offered to the other
prisoners. But the wife of Front-de-Boeuf, for whom it had been originally
furnished, was long dead, and decay and neglect had impaired the few
ornaments with which her taste had adorned it. The tapestry hung down from
the walls in many places, and in others was tarnished and faded under the
effects of the sun, or tattered and decayed by age. Desolate, however, as it
was, this was the apartment of the castle which had been judged most fitting
for the accommodation of the Saxon heiress; and here she was left to meditate
upon her fate, until the actors in this nefarious drama had arranged the several
parts which each of them was to perform. This had been settled in a council
held by Front-de-Boeuf, De Bracy, and the Templar, in which, after a long and
warm debate concerning the several advantages which each insisted upon
deriving from his peculiar share in this audacious enterprise, they had at length
determined the fate of their unhappy prisoners.
It was about the hour of noon, therefore, when De Bracy, for whose advantage
the expedition had been first planned, appeared to prosecute his views upon
the hand and possessions of the Lady Rowena.
The interval had not entirely been bestowed in holding council with his
confederates, for De Bracy had found leisure to decorate his person with all
the foppery of the times. His green cassock and vizard were now flung aside.
His long luxuriant hair was trained to flow in quaint tresses down his richly
furred cloak. His beard was closely shaved, his doublet reached to the middle
of his leg, and the girdle which secured it, and at the same time supported his
ponderous sword, was embroidered and embossed with gold work. We have
already noticed the extravagant fashion of the shoes at this period, and the
points of Maurice de Bracy's might have challenged the prize of extravagance
with the gayest, being turned up and twisted like the horns of a ram. Such was
the dress of a gallant of the period; and, in the present instance, that effect was
aided by the handsome person and good demeanour of the wearer, whose
manners partook alike of the grace of a courtier, and the frankness of a soldier.
He saluted Rowena by doffing his velvet bonnet, garnished with a golden
broach, representing St Michael trampling down the Prince of Evil. With this,
he gently motioned the lady to a seat; and, as she still retained her standing
posture, the knight ungloved his right hand, and motioned to conduct her
thither. But Rowena declined, by her gesture, the proffered compliment, and
replied, "If I be in the presence of my jailor, Sir Knight—nor will
circumstances allow me to think otherwise—it best becomes his prisoner to
remain standing till she learns her doom."
"Alas! fair Rowena," returned De Bracy, "you are in presence of your captive,
not your jailor; and it is from your fair eyes that De Bracy must receive that
doom which you fondly expect from him."
"I know you not, sir," said the lady, drawing herself up with all the pride of
offended rank and beauty; "I know you not—and the insolent familiarity with
which you apply to me the jargon of a troubadour, forms no apology for the
violence of a robber."
"To thyself, fair maid," answered De Bracy, in his former tone—"to thine own
charms be ascribed whate'er I have done which passed the respect due to her,
whom I have chosen queen of my heart, and lodestar of my eyes."
"I repeat to you, Sir Knight, that I know you not, and that no man wearing
chain and spurs ought thus to intrude himself upon the presence of an
unprotected lady."
"That I am unknown to you," said De Bracy, "is indeed my misfortune; yet let
me hope that De Bracy's name has not been always unspoken, when minstrels
or heralds have praised deeds of chivalry, whether in the lists or in the battle-
field."
"To heralds and to minstrels, then, leave thy praise, Sir Knight," replied
Rowena, "more suiting for their mouths than for thine own; and tell me which
of them shall record in song, or in book of tourney, the memorable conquest of
this night, a conquest obtained over an old man, followed by a few timid
hinds; and its booty, an unfortunate maiden, transported against her will to the
castle of a robber?"
"You are unjust, Lady Rowena," said the knight, biting his lips in some
confusion, and speaking in a tone more natural to him than that of affected
gallantry, which he had at first adopted; "yourself free from passion, you can
allow no excuse for the frenzy of another, although caused by your own
beauty."
"I pray you, Sir Knight," said Rowena, "to cease a language so commonly
used by strolling minstrels, that it becomes not the mouth of knights or nobles.
Certes, you constrain me to sit down, since you enter upon such commonplace
terms, of which each vile crowder hath a stock that might last from hence to
Christmas."
"Proud damsel," said De Bracy, incensed at finding his gallant style procured
him nothing but contempt—"proud damsel, thou shalt be as proudly
encountered. Know then, that I have supported my pretensions to your hand in
the way that best suited thy character. It is meeter for thy humour to be wooed
with bow and bill, than in set terms, and in courtly language."
"Courtesy of tongue," said Rowena, "when it is used to veil churlishness of
deed, is but a knight's girdle around the breast of a base clown. I wonder not
that the restraint appears to gall you—more it were for your honour to have
retained the dress and language of an outlaw, than to veil the deeds of one
under an affectation of gentle language and demeanour."
"You counsel well, lady," said the Norman; "and in the bold language which
best justifies bold action I tell thee, thou shalt never leave this castle, or thou
shalt leave it as Maurice de Bracy's wife. I am not wont to be baffled in my
enterprises, nor needs a Norman noble scrupulously to vindicate his conduct to
the Saxon maiden whom he distinguishes by the offer of his hand. Thou art
proud, Rowena, and thou art the fitter to be my wife. By what other means
couldst thou be raised to high honour and to princely place, saving by my
alliance? How else wouldst thou escape from the mean precincts of a country
grange, where Saxons herd with the swine which form their wealth, to take thy
seat, honoured as thou shouldst be, and shalt be, amid all in England that is
distinguished by beauty, or dignified by power?"
"Sir Knight," replied Rowena, "the grange which you contemn hath been my
shelter from infancy; and, trust me, when I leave it—should that day ever
arrive—it shall be with one who has not learnt to despise the dwelling and
manners in which I have been brought up."
"I guess your meaning, lady," said De Bracy, "though you may think it lies too
obscure for my apprehension. But dream not, that Richard Coeur de Lion will
ever resume his throne, far less that Wilfred of Ivanhoe, his minion, will ever
lead thee to his footstool, to be there welcomed as the bride of a favourite.
Another suitor might feel jealousy while he touched this string; but my firm
purpose cannot be changed by a passion so childish and so hopeless. Know,
lady, that this rival is in my power, and that it rests but with me to betray the
secret of his being within the castle to Front-de-Boeuf, whose jealousy will be
more fatal than mine."
"Wilfred here?" said Rowena, in disdain; "that is as true as that Front-de-
Boeuf is his rival."
De Bracy looked at her steadily for an instant.
"Wert thou really ignorant of this?" said he; "didst thou not know that Wilfred
of Ivanhoe travelled in the litter of the Jew?—a meet conveyance for the
crusader, whose doughty arm was to reconquer the Holy Sepulchre!" And he
laughed scornfully.
"And if he is here," said Rowena, compelling herself to a tone of indifference,
though trembling with an agony of apprehension which she could not
suppress, "in what is he the rival of Front-de-Boeuf? or what has he to fear
beyond a short imprisonment, and an honourable ransom, according to the use
of chivalry?"
"Rowena," said De Bracy, "art thou, too, deceived by the common error of thy
sex, who think there can be no rivalry but that respecting their own charms?
Knowest thou not there is a jealousy of ambition and of wealth, as well as of
love; and that this our host, Front-de-Boeuf, will push from his road him who
opposes his claim to the fair barony of Ivanhoe, as readily, eagerly, and
unscrupulously, as if he were preferred to him by some blue-eyed damsel? But
smile on my suit, lady, and the wounded champion shall have nothing to fear
from Front-de-Boeuf, whom else thou mayst mourn for, as in the hands of one
who has never shown compassion."
"Save him, for the love of Heaven!" said Rowena, her firmness giving way
under terror for her lover's impending fate.
"I can—I will—it is my purpose," said De Bracy; "for, when Rowena consents
to be the bride of De Bracy, who is it shall dare to put forth a violent hand
upon her kinsman—the son of her guardian—the companion of her youth? But
it is thy love must buy his protection. I am not romantic fool enough to further
the fortune, or avert the fate, of one who is likely to be a successful obstacle
between me and my wishes. Use thine influence with me in his behalf, and he
is safe,—refuse to employ it, Wilfred dies, and thou thyself art not the nearer
to freedom."
"Thy language," answered Rowena, "hath in its indifferent bluntness
something which cannot be reconciled with the horrors it seems to express. I
believe not that thy purpose is so wicked, or thy power so great."
"Flatter thyself, then, with that belief," said De Bracy, "until time shall prove it
false. Thy lover lies wounded in this castle—thy preferred lover. He is a bar
betwixt Front-de-Boeuf and that which Front-de-Boeuf loves better than either
ambition or beauty. What will it cost beyond the blow of a poniard, or the
thrust of a javelin, to silence his opposition for ever? Nay, were Front-de-
Boeuf afraid to justify a deed so open, let the leech but give his patient a
wrong draught—let the chamberlain, or the nurse who tends him, but pluck the
pillow from his head, and Wilfred in his present condition, is sped without the
effusion of blood. Cedric also—"
"And Cedric also," said Rowena, repeating his words; "my noble—my
generous guardian! I deserved the evil I have encountered, for forgetting his
fate even in that of his son!"
"Cedric's fate also depends upon thy determination," said De Bracy; "and I
leave thee to form it."
Hitherto, Rowena had sustained her part in this trying scene with undismayed
courage, but it was because she had not considered the danger as serious and
imminent. Her disposition was naturally that which physiognomists consider
as proper to fair complexions, mild, timid, and gentle; but it had been
tempered, and, as it were, hardened, by the circumstances of her education.
Accustomed to see the will of all, even of Cedric himself, (sufficiently
arbitrary with others,) give way before her wishes, she had acquired that sort
of courage and self-confidence which arises from the habitual and constant
deference of the circle in which we move. She could scarce conceive the
possibility of her will being opposed, far less that of its being treated with total
disregard.
Her haughtiness and habit of domination was, therefore, a fictitious character,
induced over that which was natural to her, and it deserted her when her eyes
were opened to the extent of her own danger, as well as that of her lover and
her guardian; and when she found her will, the slightest expression of which
was wont to command respect and attention, now placed in opposition to that
of a man of a strong, fierce, and determined mind, who possessed the
advantage over her, and was resolved to use it, she quailed before him.
After casting her eyes around, as if to look for the aid which was nowhere to
be found, and after a few broken interjections, she raised her hands to heaven,
and burst into a passion of uncontrolled vexation and sorrow. It was
impossible to see so beautiful a creature in such extremity without feeling for
her, and De Bracy was not unmoved, though he was yet more embarrassed
than touched. He had, in truth, gone too far to recede; and yet, in Rowena's
present condition, she could not be acted on either by argument or threats. He
paced the apartment to and fro, now vainly exhorting the terrified maiden to
compose herself, now hesitating concerning his own line of conduct.
If, thought he, I should be moved by the tears and sorrow of this disconsolate
damsel, what should I reap but the loss of these fair hopes for which I have
encountered so much risk, and the ridicule of Prince John and his jovial
comrades? "And yet," he said to himself, "I feel myself ill framed for the part
which I am playing. I cannot look on so fair a face while it is disturbed with
agony, or on those eyes when they are drowned in tears. I would she had
retained her original haughtiness of disposition, or that I had a larger share of
Front-de-Boeuf's thrice-tempered hardness of heart!"
Agitated by these thoughts, he could only bid the unfortunate Rowena be
comforted, and assure her, that as yet she had no reason for the excess of
despair to which she was now giving way. But in this task of consolation De
Bracy was interrupted by the horn, "hoarse-winded blowing far and keen,"
which had at the same time alarmed the other inmates of the castle, and
interrupted their several plans of avarice and of license. Of them all, perhaps,
De Bracy least regretted the interruption; for his conference with the Lady
Rowena had arrived at a point, where he found it equally difficult to prosecute
or to resign his enterprise.
And here we cannot but think it necessary to offer some better proof than the
incidents of an idle tale, to vindicate the melancholy representation of manners
which has been just laid before the reader. It is grievous to think that those
valiant barons, to whose stand against the crown the liberties of England were
indebted for their existence, should themselves have been such dreadful
oppressors, and capable of excesses contrary not only to the laws of England,
but to those of nature and humanity. But, alas! we have only to extract from
the industrious Henry one of those numerous passages which he has collected
from contemporary historians, to prove that fiction itself can hardly reach the
dark reality of the horrors of the period.
The description given by the author of the Saxon Chronicle of the cruelties
exercised in the reign of King Stephen by the great barons and lords of castles,
who were all Normans, affords a strong proof of the excesses of which they
were capable when their passions were inflamed. "They grievously oppressed
the poor people by building castles; and when they were built, they filled them
with wicked men, or rather devils, who seized both men and women who they
imagined had any money, threw them into prison, and put them to more cruel
tortures than the martyrs ever endured. They suffocated some in mud, and
suspended others by the feet, or the head, or the thumbs, kindling fires below
them. They squeezed the heads of some with knotted cords till they pierced
their brains, while they threw others into dungeons swarming with serpents,
snakes, and toads." But it would be cruel to put the reader to the pain of
perusing the remainder of this description.
As another instance of these bitter fruits of conquest, and perhaps the strongest
that can be quoted, we may mention, that the Princess Matilda, though a
daughter of the King of Scotland, and afterwards both Queen of England,
niece to Edgar Atheling, and mother to the Empress of Germany, the daughter,
the wife, and the mother of monarchs, was obliged, during her early residence
for education in England, to assume the veil of a nun, as the only means of
escaping the licentious pursuit of the Norman nobles. This excuse she stated
before a great council of the clergy of England, as the sole reason for her
having taken the religious habit. The assembled clergy admitted the validity of
the plea, and the notoriety of the circumstances upon which it was founded;
giving thus an indubitable and most remarkable testimony to the existence of
that disgraceful license by which that age was stained. It was a matter of
public knowledge, they said, that after the conquest of King William, his
Norman followers, elated by so great a victory, acknowledged no law but their
own wicked pleasure, and not only despoiled the conquered Saxons of their
lands and their goods, but invaded the honour of their wives and of their
daughters with the most unbridled license; and hence it was then common for
matrons and maidens of noble families to assume the veil, and take shelter in
convents, not as called thither by the vocation of God, but solely to preserve
their honour from the unbridled wickedness of man.
Such and so licentious were the times, as announced by the public declaration
of the assembled clergy, recorded by Eadmer; and we need add nothing more
to vindicate the probability of the scenes which we have detailed, and are
about to detail, upon the more apocryphal authority of the Wardour MS.

CHAPTER XXIV

I'll woo her as the lion woos his bride.

—Douglas
While the scenes we have described were passing in other parts of the castle,
the Jewess Rebecca awaited her fate in a distant and sequestered turret. Hither
she had been led by two of her disguised ravishers, and on being thrust into the
little cell, she found herself in the presence of an old sibyl, who kept
murmuring to herself a Saxon rhyme, as if to beat time to the revolving dance
which her spindle was performing upon the floor. The hag raised her head as
Rebecca entered, and scowled at the fair Jewess with the malignant envy with
which old age and ugliness, when united with evil conditions, are apt to look
upon youth and beauty.
"Thou must up and away, old house-cricket," said one of the men; "our noble
master commands it—Thou must e'en leave this chamber to a fairer guest."
"Ay," grumbled the hag, "even thus is service requited. I have known when my
bare word would have cast the best man-at-arms among ye out of saddle and
out of service; and now must I up and away at the command of every groom
such as thou."
"Good Dame Urfried," said the other man, "stand not to reason on it, but up
and away. Lords' hests must be listened to with a quick ear. Thou hast had thy
day, old dame, but thy sun has long been set. Thou art now the very emblem of
an old war-horse turned out on the barren heath—thou hast had thy paces in
thy time, but now a broken amble is the best of them—Come, amble off with
thee."
"Ill omens dog ye both!" said the old woman; "and a kennel be your burying-
place! May the evil demon Zernebock tear me limb from limb, if I leave my
own cell ere I have spun out the hemp on my distaff!"
"Answer it to our lord, then, old housefiend," said the man, and retired;
leaving Rebecca in company with the old woman, upon whose presence she
had been thus unwillingly forced.
"What devil's deed have they now in the wind?" said the old hag, murmuring
to herself, yet from time to time casting a sidelong and malignant glance at
Rebecca; "but it is easy to guess—Bright eyes, black locks, and a skin like
paper, ere the priest stains it with his black unguent—Ay, it is easy to guess
why they send her to this lone turret, whence a shriek could no more be heard
than at the depth of five hundred fathoms beneath the earth.—Thou wilt have
owls for thy neighbours, fair one; and their screams will be heard as far, and as
much regarded, as thine own. Outlandish, too," she said, marking the dress and
turban of Rebecca—"What country art thou of?—a Saracen? or an Egyptian?
—Why dost not answer?—thou canst weep, canst thou not speak?"
"Be not angry, good mother," said Rebecca.
"Thou needst say no more," replied Urfried "men know a fox by the train, and
a Jewess by her tongue."
"For the sake of mercy," said Rebecca, "tell me what I am to expect as the
conclusion of the violence which hath dragged me hither! Is it my life they
seek, to atone for my religion? I will lay it down cheerfully."
"Thy life, minion?" answered the sibyl; "what would taking thy life pleasure
them?—Trust me, thy life is in no peril. Such usage shalt thou have as was
once thought good enough for a noble Saxon maiden. And shall a Jewess, like
thee, repine because she hath no better? Look at me—I was as young and
twice as fair as thou, when Front-de-Boeuf, father of this Reginald, and his
Normans, stormed this castle. My father and his seven sons defended their
inheritance from story to story, from chamber to chamber—There was not a
room, not a step of the stair, that was not slippery with their blood. They died
—they died every man; and ere their bodies were cold, and ere their blood was
dried, I had become the prey and the scorn of the conqueror!"
"Is there no help?—Are there no means of escape?" said Rebecca—"Richly,
richly would I requite thine aid."
"Think not of it," said the hag; "from hence there is no escape but through the
gates of death; and it is late, late," she added, shaking her grey head, "ere these
open to us—Yet it is comfort to think that we leave behind us on earth those
who shall be wretched as ourselves. Fare thee well, Jewess!—Jew or Gentile,
thy fate would be the same; for thou hast to do with them that have neither
scruple nor pity. Fare thee well, I say. My thread is spun out—thy task is yet to
begin."
"Stay! stay! for Heaven's sake!" said Rebecca; "stay, though it be to curse and
to revile me—thy presence is yet some protection."
"The presence of the mother of God were no protection," answered the old
woman. "There she stands," pointing to a rude image of the Virgin Mary, "see
if she can avert the fate that awaits thee."
She left the room as she spoke, her features writhed into a sort of sneering
laugh, which made them seem even more hideous than their habitual frown.
She locked the door behind her, and Rebecca might hear her curse every step
for its steepness, as slowly and with difficulty she descended the turret-stair.
Rebecca was now to expect a fate even more dreadful than that of Rowena; for
what probability was there that either softness or ceremony would be used
towards one of her oppressed race, whatever shadow of these might be
preserved towards a Saxon heiress? Yet had the Jewess this advantage, that she
was better prepared by habits of thought, and by natural strength of mind, to
encounter the dangers to which she was exposed. Of a strong and observing
character, even from her earliest years, the pomp and wealth which her father
displayed within his walls, or which she witnessed in the houses of other
wealthy Hebrews, had not been able to blind her to the precarious
circumstances under which they were enjoyed. Like Damocles at his
celebrated banquet, Rebecca perpetually beheld, amid that gorgeous display,
the sword which was suspended over the heads of her people by a single hair.
These reflections had tamed and brought down to a pitch of sounder judgment
a temper, which, under other circumstances, might have waxed haughty,
supercilious, and obstinate.
From her father's example and injunctions, Rebecca had learnt to bear herself
courteously towards all who approached her. She could not indeed imitate his
excess of subservience, because she was a stranger to the meanness of mind,
and to the constant state of timid apprehension, by which it was dictated; but
she bore herself with a proud humility, as if submitting to the evil
circumstances in which she was placed as the daughter of a despised race,
while she felt in her mind the consciousness that she was entitled to hold a
higher rank from her merit, than the arbitrary despotism of religious prejudice
permitted her to aspire to.
Thus prepared to expect adverse circumstances, she had acquired the firmness
necessary for acting under them. Her present situation required all her
presence of mind, and she summoned it up accordingly.
Her first care was to inspect the apartment; but it afforded few hopes either of
escape or protection. It contained neither secret passage nor trap-door, and
unless where the door by which she had entered joined the main building,
seemed to be circumscribed by the round exterior wall of the turret. The door
had no inside bolt or bar. The single window opened upon an embattled space
surmounting the turret, which gave Rebecca, at first sight, some hopes of
escaping; but she soon found it had no communication with any other part of
the battlements, being an isolated bartisan, or balcony, secured, as usual, by a
parapet, with embrasures, at which a few archers might be stationed for
defending the turret, and flanking with their shot the wall of the castle on that
side.
There was therefore no hope but in passive fortitude, and in that strong
reliance on Heaven natural to great and generous characters. Rebecca,
however erroneously taught to interpret the promises of Scripture to the
chosen people of Heaven, did not err in supposing the present to be their hour
of trial, or in trusting that the children of Zion would be one day called in with
the fulness of the Gentiles. In the meanwhile, all around her showed that their
present state was that of punishment and probation, and that it was their
especial duty to suffer without sinning. Thus prepared to consider herself as
the victim of misfortune, Rebecca had early reflected upon her own state, and
schooled her mind to meet the dangers which she had probably to encounter.
The prisoner trembled, however, and changed colour, when a step was heard
on the stair, and the door of the turret-chamber slowly opened, and a tall man,
dressed as one of those banditti to whom they owed their misfortune, slowly
entered, and shut the door behind him; his cap, pulled down upon his brows,
concealed the upper part of his face, and he held his mantle in such a manner
as to muffle the rest. In this guise, as if prepared for the execution of some
deed, at the thought of which he was himself ashamed, he stood before the
affrighted prisoner; yet, ruffian as his dress bespoke him, he seemed at a loss
to express what purpose had brought him thither, so that Rebecca, making an
effort upon herself, had time to anticipate his explanation. She had already
unclasped two costly bracelets and a collar, which she hastened to proffer to
the supposed outlaw, concluding naturally that to gratify his avarice was to
bespeak his favour.
"Take these," she said, "good friend, and for God's sake be merciful to me and
my aged father! These ornaments are of value, yet are they trifling to what he
would bestow to obtain our dismissal from this castle, free and uninjured."
"Fair flower of Palestine," replied the outlaw, "these pearls are orient, but they
yield in whiteness to your teeth; the diamonds are brilliant, but they cannot
match your eyes; and ever since I have taken up this wild trade, I have made a
vow to prefer beauty to wealth."
"Do not do yourself such wrong," said Rebecca; "take ransom, and have
mercy!—Gold will purchase you pleasure,—to misuse us, could only bring
thee remorse. My father will willingly satiate thy utmost wishes; and if thou
wilt act wisely, thou mayst purchase with our spoils thy restoration to civil
society—mayst obtain pardon for past errors, and be placed beyond the
necessity of committing more."
"It is well spoken," replied the outlaw in French, finding it difficult probably
to sustain, in Saxon, a conversation which Rebecca had opened in that
language; "but know, bright lily of the vale of Baca! that thy father is already
in the hands of a powerful alchemist, who knows how to convert into gold and
silver even the rusty bars of a dungeon grate. The venerable Isaac is subjected
to an alembic, which will distil from him all he holds dear, without any
assistance from my requests or thy entreaty. The ransom must be paid by love
and beauty, and in no other coin will I accept it."
"Thou art no outlaw," said Rebecca, in the same language in which he
addressed her; "no outlaw had refused such offers. No outlaw in this land uses
the dialect in which thou hast spoken. Thou art no outlaw, but a Norman—a
Norman, noble perhaps in birth—O, be so in thy actions, and cast off this
fearful mask of outrage and violence!"
"And thou, who canst guess so truly," said Brian de Bois-Guilbert, dropping
the mantle from his face, "art no true daughter of Israel, but in all, save youth
and beauty, a very witch of Endor. I am not an outlaw, then, fair rose of
Sharon. And I am one who will be more prompt to hang thy neck and arms
with pearls and diamonds, which so well become them, than to deprive thee of
these ornaments."
"What wouldst thou have of me," said Rebecca, "if not my wealth?—We can
have nought in common between us—you are a Christian—I am a Jewess.—
Our union were contrary to the laws, alike of the church and the synagogue."
"It were so, indeed," replied the Templar, laughing; "wed with a Jewess?
'Despardieux!'—Not if she were the Queen of Sheba! And know, besides,
sweet daughter of Zion, that were the most Christian king to offer me his most
Christian daughter, with Languedoc for a dowery, I could not wed her. It is
against my vow to love any maiden, otherwise than 'par amours', as I will love
thee. I am a Templar. Behold the cross of my Holy Order."
"Darest thou appeal to it," said Rebecca, "on an occasion like the present?"
"And if I do so," said the Templar, "it concerns not thee, who art no believer in
the blessed sign of our salvation."
"I believe as my fathers taught," said Rebecca; "and may God forgive my
belief if erroneous! But you, Sir Knight, what is yours, when you appeal
without scruple to that which you deem most holy, even while you are about to
transgress the most solemn of your vows as a knight, and as a man of
religion?"
"It is gravely and well preached, O daughter of Sirach!" answered the
Templar; "but, gentle Ecclesiastics, thy narrow Jewish prejudices make thee
blind to our high privilege. Marriage were an enduring crime on the part of a
Templar; but what lesser folly I may practise, I shall speedily be absolved
from at the next Preceptory of our Order. Not the wisest of monarchs, not his
father, whose examples you must needs allow are weighty, claimed wider
privileges than we poor soldiers of the Temple of Zion have won by our zeal
in its defence. The protectors of Solomon's Temple may claim license by the
example of Solomon."
"If thou readest the Scripture," said the Jewess, "and the lives of the saints,
only to justify thine own license and profligacy, thy crime is like that of him
who extracts poison from the most healthful and necessary herbs."
The eyes of the Templar flashed fire at this reproof—"Hearken," he said,
"Rebecca; I have hitherto spoken mildly to thee, but now my language shall be
that of a conqueror. Thou art the captive of my bow and spear—subject to my
will by the laws of all nations; nor will I abate an inch of my right, or abstain
from taking by violence what thou refusest to entreaty or necessity."
"Stand back," said Rebecca—"stand back, and hear me ere thou offerest to
commit a sin so deadly! My strength thou mayst indeed overpower for God
made women weak, and trusted their defence to man's generosity. But I will
proclaim thy villainy, Templar, from one end of Europe to the other. I will owe
to the superstition of thy brethren what their compassion might refuse me,
Each Preceptory—each Chapter of thy Order, shall learn, that, like a heretic,
thou hast sinned with a Jewess. Those who tremble not at thy crime, will hold
thee accursed for having so far dishonoured the cross thou wearest, as to
follow a daughter of my people."
"Thou art keen-witted, Jewess," replied the Templar, well aware of the truth of
what she spoke, and that the rules of his Order condemned in the most positive
manner, and under high penalties, such intrigues as he now prosecuted, and
that, in some instances, even degradation had followed upon it—"thou art
sharp-witted," he said; "but loud must be thy voice of complaint, if it is heard
beyond the iron walls of this castle; within these, murmurs, laments, appeals to
justice, and screams for help, die alike silent away. One thing only can save
thee, Rebecca. Submit to thy fate—embrace our religion, and thou shalt go
forth in such state, that many a Norman lady shall yield as well in pomp as in
beauty to the favourite of the best lance among the defenders of the Temple."
"Submit to my fate!" said Rebecca—"and, sacred Heaven! to what fate?—
embrace thy religion! and what religion can it be that harbours such a villain?
—THOU the best lance of the Templars!—Craven knight!—forsworn priest! I
spit at thee, and I defy thee.—The God of Abraham's promise hath opened an
escape to his daughter—even from this abyss of infamy!"
As she spoke, she threw open the latticed window which led to the bartisan,
and in an instant after, stood on the very verge of the parapet, with not the
slightest screen between her and the tremendous depth below. Unprepared for
such a desperate effort, for she had hitherto stood perfectly motionless, Bois-
Guilbert had neither time to intercept nor to stop her. As he offered to advance,
she exclaimed, "Remain where thou art, proud Templar, or at thy choice
advance!—one foot nearer, and I plunge myself from the precipice; my body
shall be crushed out of the very form of humanity upon the stones of that
court-yard, ere it become the victim of thy brutality!"
As she spoke this, she clasped her hands and extended them towards heaven,
as if imploring mercy on her soul before she made the final plunge. The
Templar hesitated, and a resolution which had never yielded to pity or distress,
gave way to his admiration of her fortitude. "Come down," he said, "rash girl!
—I swear by earth, and sea, and sky, I will offer thee no offence."
"I will not trust thee, Templar," said Rebecca; "thou hast taught me better how
to estimate the virtues of thine Order. The next Preceptory would grant thee
absolution for an oath, the keeping of which concerned nought but the honour
or the dishonour of a miserable Jewish maiden."
"You do me injustice," exclaimed the Templar fervently; "I swear to you by
the name which I bear—by the cross on my bosom—by the sword on my side
—by the ancient crest of my fathers do I swear, I will do thee no injury
whatsoever! If not for thyself, yet for thy father's sake forbear! I will be his
friend, and in this castle he will need a powerful one."
"Alas!" said Rebecca, "I know it but too well—dare I trust thee?"
"May my arms be reversed, and my name dishonoured," said Brian de Bois-
Guilbert, "if thou shalt have reason to complain of me! Many a law, many a
commandment have I broken, but my word never."
"I will then trust thee," said Rebecca, "thus far;" and she descended from the
verge of the battlement, but remained standing close by one of the embrasures,
or "machicolles", as they were then called.—"Here," she said, "I take my
stand. Remain where thou art, and if thou shalt attempt to diminish by one step
the distance now between us, thou shalt see that the Jewish maiden will rather
trust her soul with God, than her honour to the Templar!"
While Rebecca spoke thus, her high and firm resolve, which corresponded so
well with the expressive beauty of her countenance, gave to her looks, air, and
manner, a dignity that seemed more than mortal. Her glance quailed not, her
cheek blanched not, for the fear of a fate so instant and so horrible; on the
contrary, the thought that she had her fate at her command, and could escape at
will from infamy to death, gave a yet deeper colour of carnation to her
complexion, and a yet more brilliant fire to her eye. Bois-Guilbert, proud
himself and high-spirited, thought he had never beheld beauty so animated and
so commanding.
"Let there be peace between us, Rebecca," he said.
"Peace, if thou wilt," answered Rebecca—"Peace—but with this space
between."
"Thou needst no longer fear me," said Bois-Guilbert.
"I fear thee not," replied she; "thanks to him that reared this dizzy tower so
high, that nought could fall from it and live—thanks to him, and to the God of
Israel!—I fear thee not."
"Thou dost me injustice," said the Templar; "by earth, sea, and sky, thou dost
me injustice! I am not naturally that which you have seen me, hard, selfish,
and relentless. It was woman that taught me cruelty, and on woman therefore I
have exercised it; but not upon such as thou. Hear me, Rebecca—Never did
knight take lance in his hand with a heart more devoted to the lady of his love
than Brian de Bois-Guilbert. She, the daughter of a petty baron, who boasted
for all his domains but a ruinous tower, and an unproductive vineyard, and
some few leagues of the barren Landes of Bourdeaux, her name was known
wherever deeds of arms were done, known wider than that of many a lady's
that had a county for a dowery.—Yes," he continued, pacing up and down the
little platform, with an animation in which he seemed to lose all consciousness
of Rebecca's presence—"Yes, my deeds, my danger, my blood, made the name
of Adelaide de Montemare known from the court of Castile to that of
Byzantium. And how was I requited?—When I returned with my dear-bought
honours, purchased by toil and blood, I found her wedded to a Gascon squire,
whose name was never heard beyond the limits of his own paltry domain!
Truly did I love her, and bitterly did I revenge me of her broken faith! But my
vengeance has recoiled on myself. Since that day I have separated myself from
life and its ties—My manhood must know no domestic home—must be
soothed by no affectionate wife—My age must know no kindly hearth—My
grave must be solitary, and no offspring must outlive me, to bear the ancient
name of Bois-Guilbert. At the feet of my Superior I have laid down the right
of self-action—the privilege of independence. The Templar, a serf in all but
the name, can possess neither lands nor goods, and lives, moves, and breathes,
but at the will and pleasure of another."
"Alas!" said Rebecca, "what advantages could compensate for such an
absolute sacrifice?"
"The power of vengeance, Rebecca," replied the Templar, "and the prospects
of ambition."
"An evil recompense," said Rebecca, "for the surrender of the rights which are
dearest to humanity."
"Say not so, maiden," answered the Templar; "revenge is a feast for the gods!
And if they have reserved it, as priests tell us, to themselves, it is because they
hold it an enjoyment too precious for the possession of mere mortals.—And
ambition? it is a temptation which could disturb even the bliss of heaven
itself."—He paused a moment, and then added, "Rebecca! she who could
prefer death to dishonour, must have a proud and a powerful soul. Mine thou
must be!—Nay, start not," he added, "it must be with thine own consent, and
on thine own terms. Thou must consent to share with me hopes more extended
than can be viewed from the throne of a monarch!—Hear me ere you answer
and judge ere you refuse.—The Templar loses, as thou hast said, his social
rights, his power of free agency, but he becomes a member and a limb of a
mighty body, before which thrones already tremble,—even as the single drop
of rain which mixes with the sea becomes an individual part of that resistless
ocean, which undermines rocks and ingulfs royal armadas. Such a swelling
flood is that powerful league. Of this mighty Order I am no mean member, but
already one of the Chief Commanders, and may well aspire one day to hold
the batoon of Grand Master. The poor soldiers of the Temple will not alone
place their foot upon the necks of kings—a hemp-sandall'd monk can do that.
Our mailed step shall ascend their throne—our gauntlet shall wrench the
sceptre from their gripe. Not the reign of your vainly-expected Messiah offers
such power to your dispersed tribes as my ambition may aim at. I have sought
but a kindred spirit to share it, and I have found such in thee."
"Sayest thou this to one of my people?" answered Rebecca. "Bethink thee—"
"Answer me not," said the Templar, "by urging the difference of our creeds;
within our secret conclaves we hold these nursery tales in derision. Think not
we long remained blind to the idiotical folly of our founders, who forswore
every delight of life for the pleasure of dying martyrs by hunger, by thirst, and
by pestilence, and by the swords of savages, while they vainly strove to defend
a barren desert, valuable only in the eyes of superstition. Our Order soon
adopted bolder and wider views, and found out a better indemnification for
our sacrifices. Our immense possessions in every kingdom of Europe, our high
military fame, which brings within our circle the flower of chivalry from every
Christian clime—these are dedicated to ends of which our pious founders little
dreamed, and which are equally concealed from such weak spirits as embrace
our Order on the ancient principles, and whose superstition makes them our
passive tools. But I will not further withdraw the veil of our mysteries. That
bugle-sound announces something which may require my presence. Think on
what I have said.—Farewell!—I do not say forgive me the violence I have
threatened, for it was necessary to the display of thy character. Gold can be
only known by the application of the touchstone. I will soon return, and hold
further conference with thee."
He re-entered the turret-chamber, and descended the stair, leaving Rebecca
scarcely more terrified at the prospect of the death to which she had been so
lately exposed, than at the furious ambition of the bold bad man in whose
power she found herself so unhappily placed. When she entered the turret-
chamber, her first duty was to return thanks to the God of Jacob for the
protection which he had afforded her, and to implore its continuance for her
and for her father. Another name glided into her petition—it was that of the
wounded Christian, whom fate had placed in the hands of bloodthirsty men,
his avowed enemies. Her heart indeed checked her, as if, even in communing
with the Deity in prayer, she mingled in her devotions the recollection of one
with whose fate hers could have no alliance—a Nazarene, and an enemy to her
faith. But the petition was already breathed, nor could all the narrow
prejudices of her sect induce Rebecca to wish it recalled.

CHAPTER XXV

A damn'd cramp piece of penmanship as ever I saw in my life!

—She Stoops to Conquer
When the Templar reached the hall of the castle, he found De Bracy already
there. "Your love-suit," said De Bracy, "hath, I suppose, been disturbed, like
mine, by this obstreperous summons. But you have come later and more
reluctantly, and therefore I presume your interview has proved more agreeable
than mine."
"Has your suit, then, been unsuccessfully paid to the Saxon heiress?" said the
Templar.
"By the bones of Thomas a Becket," answered De Bracy, "the Lady Rowena
must have heard that I cannot endure the sight of women's tears."
"Away!" said the Templar; "thou a leader of a Free Company, and regard a
woman's tears! A few drops sprinkled on the torch of love, make the flame
blaze the brighter."
"Gramercy for the few drops of thy sprinkling," replied De Bracy; "but this
damsel hath wept enough to extinguish a beacon-light. Never was such
wringing of hands and such overflowing of eyes, since the days of St Niobe, of
whom Prior Aymer told us. A water-fiend hath possessed the fair Saxon."
"A legion of fiends have occupied the bosom of the Jewess," replied the
Templar; "for, I think no single one, not even Apollyon himself, could have
inspired such indomitable pride and resolution.—But where is Front-de-
Boeuf? That horn is sounded more and more clamorously."
"He is negotiating with the Jew, I suppose," replied De Bracy, coolly;
"probably the howls of Isaac have drowned the blast of the bugle. Thou mayst
know, by experience, Sir Brian, that a Jew parting with his treasures on such
terms as our friend Front-de-Boeuf is like to offer, will raise a clamour loud
enough to be heard over twenty horns and trumpets to boot. But we will make
the vassals call him."
They were soon after joined by Front-de-Boeuf, who had been disturbed in his
tyrannic cruelty in the manner with which the reader is acquainted, and had
only tarried to give some necessary directions.
"Let us see the cause of this cursed clamour," said Front-de-Boeuf—"here is a
letter, and, if I mistake not, it is in Saxon."
He looked at it, turning it round and round as if he had had really some hopes
of coming at the meaning by inverting the position of the paper, and then
handed it to De Bracy.
"It may be magic spells for aught I know," said De Bracy, who possessed his
full proportion of the ignorance which characterised the chivalry of the period.
"Our chaplain attempted to teach me to write," he said, "but all my letters were
formed like spear-heads and sword-blades, and so the old shaveling gave up
the task."
"Give it me," said the Templar. "We have that of the priestly character, that we
have some knowledge to enlighten our valour."
"Let us profit by your most reverend knowledge, then," said De Bracy; "what
says the scroll?"
"It is a formal letter of defiance," answered the Templar; "but, by our Lady of
Bethlehem, if it be not a foolish jest, it is the most extraordinary cartel that
ever was sent across the drawbridge of a baronial castle."
"Jest!" said Front-de-Boeuf, "I would gladly know who dares jest with me in
such a matter!—Read it, Sir Brian."
The Templar accordingly read it as follows:—"I, Wamba, the son of Witless,
Jester to a noble and free-born man, Cedric of Rotherwood, called the Saxon,
—And I, Gurth, the son of Beowulph, the swineherd—-"
"Thou art mad," said Front-de-Boeuf, interrupting the reader.
"By St Luke, it is so set down," answered the Templar. Then resuming his
task, he went on,—"I, Gurth, the son of Beowulph, swineherd unto the said
Cedric, with the assistance of our allies and confederates, who make common
cause with us in this our feud, namely, the good knight, called for the present
'Le Noir Faineant', and the stout yeoman, Robert Locksley, called Cleave-the-
Wand. Do you, Reginald Front de-Boeuf, and your allies and accomplices
whomsoever, to wit, that whereas you have, without cause given or feud
declared, wrongfully and by mastery seized upon the person of our lord and
master the said Cedric; also upon the person of a noble and freeborn damsel,
the Lady Rowena of Hargottstandstede; also upon the person of a noble and
freeborn man, Athelstane of Coningsburgh; also upon the persons of certain
freeborn men, their 'cnichts'; also upon certain serfs, their born bondsmen; also
upon a certain Jew, named Isaac of York, together with his daughter, a Jewess,
and certain horses and mules: Which noble persons, with their 'cnichts' and
slaves, and also with the horses and mules, Jew and Jewess beforesaid, were
all in peace with his majesty, and travelling as liege subjects upon the king's
highway; therefore we require and demand that the said noble persons,
namely, Cedric of Rotherwood, Rowena of Hargottstandstede, Athelstane of
Coningsburgh, with their servants, 'cnichts', and followers, also the horses and
mules, Jew and Jewess aforesaid, together with all goods and chattels to them
pertaining, be, within an hour after the delivery hereof, delivered to us, or to
those whom we shall appoint to receive the same, and that untouched and
unharmed in body and goods. Failing of which, we do pronounce to you, that
we hold ye as robbers and traitors, and will wager our bodies against ye in
battle, siege, or otherwise, and do our utmost to your annoyance and
destruction. Wherefore may God have you in his keeping.—Signed by us upon
the eve of St Withold's day, under the great trysting oak in the Hart-hill Walk,
the above being written by a holy man, Clerk to God, our Lady, and St
Dunstan, in the Chapel of Copmanhurst."
At the bottom of this document was scrawled, in the first place, a rude sketch
of a cock's head and comb, with a legend expressing this hieroglyphic to be
the sign-manual of Wamba, son of Witless. Under this respectable emblem
stood a cross, stated to be the mark of Gurth, the son of Beowulph. Then was
written, in rough bold characters, the words, "Le Noir Faineant". And, to
conclude the whole, an arrow, neatly enough drawn, was described as the
mark of the yeoman Locksley.
The knights heard this uncommon document read from end to end, and then
gazed upon each other in silent amazement, as being utterly at a loss to know
what it could portend. De Bracy was the first to break silence by an
uncontrollable fit of laughter, wherein he was joined, though with more
moderation, by the Templar. Front-de-Boeuf, on the contrary, seemed
impatient of their ill-timed jocularity.
"I give you plain warning," he said, "fair sirs, that you had better consult how
to bear yourselves under these circumstances, than give way to such misplaced
merriment."
"Front-de-Boeuf has not recovered his temper since his late overthrow," said
De Bracy to the Templar; "he is cowed at the very idea of a cartel, though it
come but from a fool and a swineherd."
"By St Michael," answered Front-de-Boeuf, "I would thou couldst stand the
whole brunt of this adventure thyself, De Bracy. These fellows dared not have
acted with such inconceivable impudence, had they not been supported by
some strong bands. There are enough of outlaws in this forest to resent my
protecting the deer. I did but tie one fellow, who was taken redhanded and in
the fact, to the horns of a wild stag, which gored him to death in five minutes,
and I had as many arrows shot at me as there were launched against yonder
target at Ashby.—Here, fellow," he added, to one of his attendants, "hast thou
sent out to see by what force this precious challenge is to be supported?"
"There are at least two hundred men assembled in the woods," answered a
squire who was in attendance.
"Here is a proper matter!" said Front-de-Boeuf, "this comes of lending you the
use of my castle, that cannot manage your undertaking quietly, but you must
bring this nest of hornets about my ears!"
"Of hornets?" said De Bracy; "of stingless drones rather; a band of lazy
knaves, who take to the wood, and destroy the venison rather than labour for
their maintenance."
"Stingless!" replied Front-de-Boeuf; "fork-headed shafts of a cloth-yard in
length, and these shot within the breadth of a French crown, are sting enough."
"For shame, Sir Knight!" said the Templar. "Let us summon our people, and
sally forth upon them. One knight—ay, one man-at-arms, were enough for
twenty such peasants."
"Enough, and too much," said De Bracy; "I should only be ashamed to couch
lance against them."
"True," answered Front-de-Boeuf; "were they black Turks or Moors, Sir
Templar, or the craven peasants of France, most valiant De Bracy; but these
are English yeomen, over whom we shall have no advantage, save what we
may derive from our arms and horses, which will avail us little in the glades of
the forest. Sally, saidst thou? we have scarce men enough to defend the castle.
The best of mine are at York; so is all your band, De Bracy; and we have
scarcely twenty, besides the handful that were engaged in this mad business."
"Thou dost not fear," said the Templar, "that they can assemble in force
sufficient to attempt the castle?"
"Not so, Sir Brian," answered Front-de-Boeuf. "These outlaws have indeed a
daring captain; but without machines, scaling ladders, and experienced
leaders, my castle may defy them."
"Send to thy neighbours," said the Templar, "let them assemble their people,
and come to the rescue of three knights, besieged by a jester and a swineherd
in the baronial castle of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf!"
"You jest, Sir Knight," answered the baron; "but to whom should I send?—
Malvoisin is by this time at York with his retainers, and so are my other allies;
and so should I have been, but for this infernal enterprise."
"Then send to York, and recall our people," said De Bracy. "If they abide the
shaking of my standard, or the sight of my Free Companions, I will give them
credit for the boldest outlaws ever bent bow in green-wood."
"And who shall bear such a message?" said Front-de-Boeuf; "they will beset
every path, and rip the errand out of his bosom.—I have it," he added, after
pausing for a moment—"Sir Templar, thou canst write as well as read, and if
we can but find the writing materials of my chaplain, who died a twelvemonth
since in the midst of his Christmas carousals—"
"So please ye," said the squire, who was still in attendance, "I think old
Urfried has them somewhere in keeping, for love of the confessor. He was the
last man, I have heard her tell, who ever said aught to her, which man ought in
courtesy to address to maid or matron."
"Go, search them out, Engelred," said Front-de-Boeuf; "and then, Sir Templar,
thou shalt return an answer to this bold challenge."
"I would rather do it at the sword's point than at that of the pen," said Bois-
Guilbert; "but be it as you will."
He sat down accordingly, and indited, in the French language, an epistle of the
following tenor:—"Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, with his noble and knightly
allies and confederates, receive no defiances at the hands of slaves, bondsmen,
or fugitives. If the person calling himself the Black Knight have indeed a
claim to the honours of chivalry, he ought to know that he stands degraded by
his present association, and has no right to ask reckoning at the hands of good
men of noble blood. Touching the prisoners we have made, we do in Christian
charity require you to send a man of religion, to receive their confession, and
reconcile them with God; since it is our fixed intention to execute them this
morning before noon, so that their heads being placed on the battlements, shall
show to all men how lightly we esteem those who have bestirred themselves in
their rescue. Wherefore, as above, we require you to send a priest to reconcile
them to God, in doing which you shall render them the last earthly service."
This letter being folded, was delivered to the squire, and by him to the
messenger who waited without, as the answer to that which he had brought.
The yeoman having thus accomplished his mission, returned to the head-
quarters of the allies, which were for the present established under a venerable
oak-tree, about three arrow-flights distant from the castle. Here Wamba and
Gurth, with their allies the Black Knight and Locksley, and the jovial hermit,
awaited with impatience an answer to their summons. Around, and at a
distance from them, were seen many a bold yeoman, whose silvan dress and
weatherbeaten countenances showed the ordinary nature of their occupation.
More than two hundred had already assembled, and others were fast coming
in. Those whom they obeyed as leaders were only distinguished from the
others by a feather in the cap, their dress, arms, and equipments being in all
other respects the same.
Besides these bands, a less orderly and a worse armed force, consisting of the
Saxon inhabitants of the neighbouring township, as well as many bondsmen
and servants from Cedric's extensive estate, had already arrived, for the
purpose of assisting in his rescue. Few of these were armed otherwise than
with such rustic weapons as necessity sometimes converts to military
purposes. Boar-spears, scythes, flails, and the like, were their chief arms; for
the Normans, with the usual policy of conquerors, were jealous of permitting
to the vanquished Saxons the possession or the use of swords and spears.
These circumstances rendered the assistance of the Saxons far from being so
formidable to the besieged, as the strength of the men themselves, their
superior numbers, and the animation inspired by a just cause, might otherwise
well have made them. It was to the leaders of this motley army that the letter
of the Templar was now delivered.
Reference was at first made to the chaplain for an exposition of its contents.
"By the crook of St Dunstan," said that worthy ecclesiastic, "which hath
brought more sheep within the sheepfold than the crook of e'er another saint in
Paradise, I swear that I cannot expound unto you this jargon, which, whether it
be French or Arabic, is beyond my guess."
He then gave the letter to Gurth, who shook his head gruffly, and passed it to
Wamba. The Jester looked at each of the four corners of the paper with such a
grin of affected intelligence as a monkey is apt to assume upon similar
occasions, then cut a caper, and gave the letter to Locksley.
"If the long letters were bows, and the short letters broad arrows, I might know
something of the matter," said the brave yeoman; "but as the matter stands, the
meaning is as safe, for me, as the stag that's at twelve miles distance."
"I must be clerk, then," said the Black Knight; and taking the letter from
Locksley, he first read it over to himself, and then explained the meaning in
Saxon to his confederates.
"Execute the noble Cedric!" exclaimed Wamba; "by the rood, thou must be
mistaken, Sir Knight."
"Not I, my worthy friend," replied the knight, "I have explained the words as
they are here set down."
"Then, by St Thomas of Canterbury," replied Gurth, "we will have the castle,
should we tear it down with our hands!"
"We have nothing else to tear it with," replied Wamba; "but mine are scarce fit
to make mammocks of freestone and mortar."
"'Tis but a contrivance to gain time," said Locksley; "they dare not do a deed
for which I could exact a fearful penalty."
"I would," said the Black Knight, "there were some one among us who could
obtain admission into the castle, and discover how the case stands with the
besieged. Methinks, as they require a confessor to be sent, this holy hermit
might at once exercise his pious vocation, and procure us the information we
desire."
"A plague on thee, and thy advice!" said the pious hermit; "I tell thee, Sir
Slothful Knight, that when I doff my friar's frock, my priesthood, my sanctity,
my very Latin, are put off along with it; and when in my green jerkin, I can
better kill twenty deer than confess one Christian."
"I fear," said the Black Knight, "I fear greatly, there is no one here that is
qualified to take upon him, for the nonce, this same character of father
confessor?"
All looked on each other, and were silent.
"I see," said Wamba, after a short pause, "that the fool must be still the fool,
and put his neck in the venture which wise men shrink from. You must know,
my dear cousins and countrymen, that I wore russet before I wore motley, and
was bred to be a friar, until a brain-fever came upon me and left me just wit
enough to be a fool. I trust, with the assistance of the good hermit's frock,
together with the priesthood, sanctity, and learning which are stitched into the
cowl of it, I shall be found qualified to administer both worldly and ghostly
comfort to our worthy master Cedric, and his companions in adversity."
"Hath he sense enough, thinkst thou?" said the Black Knight, addressing
Gurth.
"I know not," said Gurth; "but if he hath not, it will be the first time he hath
wanted wit to turn his folly to account."
"On with the frock, then, good fellow," quoth the Knight, "and let thy master
send us an account of their situation within the castle. Their numbers must be
few, and it is five to one they may be accessible by a sudden and bold attack.
Time wears—away with thee."
"And, in the meantime," said Locksley, "we will beset the place so closely,
that not so much as a fly shall carry news from thence. So that, my good
friend," he continued, addressing Wamba, "thou mayst assure these tyrants,
that whatever violence they exercise on the persons of their prisoners, shall be
most severely repaid upon their own."
"Pax vobiscum," said Wamba, who was now muffled in his religious disguise.
And so saying he imitated the solemn and stately deportment of a friar, and
departed to execute his mission.

CHAPTER XXVI

The hottest horse will oft be cool,

The dullest will show fire;
The friar will often play the fool,
The fool will play the friar.
—Old Song
When the Jester, arrayed in the cowl and frock of the hermit, and having his
knotted cord twisted round his middle, stood before the portal of the castle of
Front-de-Boeuf, the warder demanded of him his name and errand.
"Pax vobiscum," answered the Jester, "I am a poor brother of the Order of St
Francis, who come hither to do my office to certain unhappy prisoners now
secured within this castle."
"Thou art a bold friar," said the warder, "to come hither, where, saving our
own drunken confessor, a cock of thy feather hath not crowed these twenty
years."
"Yet I pray thee, do mine errand to the lord of the castle," answered the
pretended friar; "trust me it will find good acceptance with him, and the cock
shall crow, that the whole castle shall hear him."
"Gramercy," said the warder; "but if I come to shame for leaving my post upon
thine errand, I will try whether a friar's grey gown be proof against a grey-
goose shaft."
With this threat he left his turret, and carried to the hall of the castle his
unwonted intelligence, that a holy friar stood before the gate and demanded
instant admission. With no small wonder he received his master's commands
to admit the holy man immediately; and, having previously manned the
entrance to guard against surprise, he obeyed, without further scruple, the
commands which he had received. The harebrained self-conceit which had
emboldened Wamba to undertake this dangerous office, was scarce sufficient
to support him when he found himself in the presence of a man so dreadful,
and so much dreaded, as Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, and he brought out his
"pax vobiscum", to which he, in a good measure, trusted for supporting his
character, with more anxiety and hesitation than had hitherto accompanied it.
But Front-de-Boeuf was accustomed to see men of all ranks tremble in his
presence, so that the timidity of the supposed father did not give him any
cause of suspicion.
"Who and whence art thou, priest?" said he.
"'Pax vobiscum'," reiterated the Jester, "I am a poor servant of St Francis, who,
travelling through this wilderness, have fallen among thieves, (as Scripture
hath it,) 'quidam viator incidit in latrones', which thieves have sent me unto
this castle in order to do my ghostly office on two persons condemned by your
honourable justice."
"Ay, right," answered Front-de-Boeuf; "and canst thou tell me, holy father, the
number of those banditti?"
"Gallant sir," answered the Jester, "'nomen illis legio', their name is legion."
"Tell me in plain terms what numbers there are, or, priest, thy cloak and cord
will ill protect thee."
"Alas!" said the supposed friar, "'cor meum eructavit', that is to say, I was like
to burst with fear! but I conceive they may be—what of yeomen—what of
commons, at least five hundred men."
"What!" said the Templar, who came into the hall that moment, "muster the
wasps so thick here? it is time to stifle such a mischievous brood." Then taking
Front-de-Boeuf aside "Knowest thou the priest?"
"He is a stranger from a distant convent," said Front-de-Boeuf; "I know him
not."
"Then trust him not with thy purpose in words," answered the Templar. "Let
him carry a written order to De Bracy's company of Free Companions, to
repair instantly to their master's aid. In the meantime, and that the shaveling
may suspect nothing, permit him to go freely about his task of preparing these
Saxon hogs for the slaughter-house."
"It shall be so," said Front-de-Boeuf. And he forthwith appointed a domestic
to conduct Wamba to the apartment where Cedric and Athelstane were
confined.
The impatience of Cedric had been rather enhanced than diminished by his
confinement. He walked from one end of the hall to the other, with the attitude
of one who advances to charge an enemy, or to storm the breach of a
beleaguered place, sometimes ejaculating to himself, sometimes addressing
Athelstane, who stoutly and stoically awaited the issue of the adventure,
digesting, in the meantime, with great composure, the liberal meal which he
had made at noon, and not greatly interesting himself about the duration of his
captivity, which he concluded, would, like all earthly evils, find an end in
Heaven's good time.
"'Pax vobiscum'," said the Jester, entering the apartment; "the blessing of St
Dunstan, St Dennis, St Duthoc, and all other saints whatsoever, be upon ye
and about ye."
"Enter freely," answered Cedric to the supposed friar; "with what intent art
thou come hither?"
"To bid you prepare yourselves for death," answered the Jester.
"It is impossible!" replied Cedric, starting. "Fearless and wicked as they are,
they dare not attempt such open and gratuitous cruelty!"
"Alas!" said the Jester, "to restrain them by their sense of humanity, is the
same as to stop a runaway horse with a bridle of silk thread. Bethink thee,
therefore, noble Cedric, and you also, gallant Athelstane, what crimes you
have committed in the flesh; for this very day will ye be called to answer at a
higher tribunal."
"Hearest thou this, Athelstane?" said Cedric; "we must rouse up our hearts to
this last action, since better it is we should die like men, than live like slaves."
"I am ready," answered Athelstane, "to stand the worst of their malice, and
shall walk to my death with as much composure as ever I did to my dinner."
"Let us then unto our holy gear, father," said Cedric.
"Wait yet a moment, good uncle," said the Jester, in his natural tone; "better
look long before you leap in the dark."
"By my faith," said Cedric, "I should know that voice!"
"It is that of your trusty slave and jester," answered Wamba, throwing back his
cowl. "Had you taken a fool's advice formerly, you would not have been here
at all. Take a fool's advice now, and you will not be here long."
"How mean'st thou, knave?" answered the Saxon.
"Even thus," replied Wamba; "take thou this frock and cord, which are all the
orders I ever had, and march quietly out of the castle, leaving me your cloak
and girdle to take the long leap in thy stead."
"Leave thee in my stead!" said Cedric, astonished at the proposal; "why, they
would hang thee, my poor knave."
"E'en let them do as they are permitted," said Wamba; "I trust—no
disparagement to your birth—that the son of Witless may hang in a chain with
as much gravity as the chain hung upon his ancestor the alderman."
"Well, Wamba," answered Cedric, "for one thing will I grant thy request. And
that is, if thou wilt make the exchange of garments with Lord Athelstane
instead of me."
"No, by St Dunstan," answered Wamba; "there were little reason in that. Good
right there is, that the son of Witless should suffer to save the son of
Hereward; but little wisdom there were in his dying for the benefit of one
whose fathers were strangers to his."
"Villain," said Cedric, "the fathers of Athelstane were monarchs of England!"
"They might be whomsoever they pleased," replied Wamba; "but my neck
stands too straight upon my shoulders to have it twisted for their sake.
Wherefore, good my master, either take my proffer yourself, or suffer me to
leave this dungeon as free as I entered."
"Let the old tree wither," continued Cedric, "so the stately hope of the forest
be preserved. Save the noble Athelstane, my trusty Wamba! it is the duty of
each who has Saxon blood in his veins. Thou and I will abide together the
utmost rage of our injurious oppressors, while he, free and safe, shall arouse
the awakened spirits of our countrymen to avenge us."
"Not so, father Cedric," said Athelstane, grasping his hand,—for, when roused
to think or act, his deeds and sentiments were not unbecoming his high race
—"Not so," he continued; "I would rather remain in this hall a week without
food save the prisoner's stinted loaf, or drink save the prisoner's measure of
water, than embrace the opportunity to escape which the slave's untaught
kindness has purveyed for his master."
"You are called wise men, sirs," said the Jester, "and I a crazed fool; but, uncle
Cedric, and cousin Athelstane, the fool shall decide this controversy for ye,
and save ye the trouble of straining courtesies any farther. I am like John-a-
Duck's mare, that will let no man mount her but John-a-Duck. I came to save
my master, and if he will not consent—basta—I can but go away home again.
Kind service cannot be chucked from hand to hand like a shuttlecock or stool-
ball. I'll hang for no man but my own born master."
"Go, then, noble Cedric," said Athelstane, "neglect not this opportunity. Your
presence without may encourage friends to our rescue—your remaining here
would ruin us all."
"And is there any prospect, then, of rescue from without?" said Cedric,
looking to the Jester.
"Prospect, indeed!" echoed Wamba; "let me tell you, when you fill my cloak,
you are wrapped in a general's cassock. Five hundred men are there without,
and I was this morning one of the chief leaders. My fool's cap was a casque,
and my bauble a truncheon. Well, we shall see what good they will make by
exchanging a fool for a wise man. Truly, I fear they will lose in valour what
they may gain in discretion. And so farewell, master, and be kind to poor
Gurth and his dog Fangs; and let my cockscomb hang in the hall at
Rotherwood, in memory that I flung away my life for my master, like a
faithful—-fool."
The last word came out with a sort of double expression, betwixt jest and
earnest. The tears stood in Cedric's eyes.
"Thy memory shall be preserved," he said, "while fidelity and affection have
honour upon earth! But that I trust I shall find the means of saving Rowena,
and thee, Athelstane, and thee, also, my poor Wamba, thou shouldst not
overbear me in this matter."
The exchange of dress was now accomplished, when a sudden doubt struck
Cedric.
"I know no language," he said, "but my own, and a few words of their mincing
Norman. How shall I bear myself like a reverend brother?"
"The spell lies in two words," replied Wamba—"'Pax vobiscum' will answer
all queries. If you go or come, eat or drink, bless or ban, 'Pax vobiscum' carries
you through it all. It is as useful to a friar as a broomstick to a witch, or a wand
to a conjurer. Speak it but thus, in a deep grave tone,—'Pax vobiscum!'—it is
irresistible—Watch and ward, knight and squire, foot and horse, it acts as a
charm upon them all. I think, if they bring me out to be hanged to-morrow, as
is much to be doubted they may, I will try its weight upon the finisher of the
sentence."
"If such prove the case," said the master, "my religious orders are soon taken
—'Pax vobiscum'. I trust I shall remember the pass-word.—Noble Athelstane,
farewell; and farewell, my poor boy, whose heart might make amends for a
weaker head—I will save you, or return and die with you. The royal blood of
our Saxon kings shall not be spilt while mine beats in my veins; nor shall one
hair fall from the head of the kind knave who risked himself for his master, if
Cedric's peril can prevent it.—Farewell."
"Farewell, noble Cedric," said Athelstane; "remember it is the true part of a
friar to accept refreshment, if you are offered any."
"Farewell, uncle," added Wamba; "and remember 'Pax vobiscum'."
Thus exhorted, Cedric sallied forth upon his expedition; and it was not long
ere he had occasion to try the force of that spell which his Jester had
recommended as omnipotent. In a low-arched and dusky passage, by which he
endeavoured to work his way to the hall of the castle, he was interrupted by a
female form.
"'Pax vobiscum!'" said the pseudo friar, and was endeavouring to hurry past,
when a soft voice replied, "'Et vobis—quaso, domine reverendissime, pro
misericordia vestra'."
"I am somewhat deaf," replied Cedric, in good Saxon, and at the same time
muttered to himself, "A curse on the fool and his 'Pax vobiscum!' I have lost
my javelin at the first cast."
It was, however, no unusual thing for a priest of those days to be deaf of his
Latin ear, and this the person who now addressed Cedric knew full well.
"I pray you of dear love, reverend father," she replied in his own language,
"that you will deign to visit with your ghostly comfort a wounded prisoner of
this castle, and have such compassion upon him and us as thy holy office
teaches—Never shall good deed so highly advantage thy convent."
"Daughter," answered Cedric, much embarrassed, "my time in this castle will
not permit me to exercise the duties of mine office—I must presently forth—
there is life and death upon my speed."
"Yet, father, let me entreat you by the vow you have taken on you," replied the
suppliant, "not to leave the oppressed and endangered without counsel or
succour."
"May the fiend fly away with me, and leave me in Ifrin with the souls of Odin
and of Thor!" answered Cedric impatiently, and would probably have
proceeded in the same tone of total departure from his spiritual character,
when the colloquy was interrupted by the harsh voice of Urfried, the old crone
of the turret.
"How, minion," said she to the female speaker, "is this the manner in which
you requite the kindness which permitted thee to leave thy prison-cell yonder?
—Puttest thou the reverend man to use ungracious language to free himself
from the importunities of a Jewess?"
"A Jewess!" said Cedric, availing himself of the information to get clear of
their interruption,—"Let me pass, woman! stop me not at your peril. I am
fresh from my holy office, and would avoid pollution."
"Come this way, father," said the old hag, "thou art a stranger in this castle,
and canst not leave it without a guide. Come hither, for I would speak with
thee.—And you, daughter of an accursed race, go to the sick man's chamber,
and tend him until my return; and woe betide you if you again quit it without
my permission!"
Rebecca retreated. Her importunities had prevailed upon Urfried to suffer her
to quit the turret, and Urfried had employed her services where she herself
would most gladly have paid them, by the bedside of the wounded Ivanhoe.
With an understanding awake to their dangerous situation, and prompt to avail
herself of each means of safety which occurred, Rebecca had hoped something
from the presence of a man of religion, who, she learned from Urfried, had
penetrated into this godless castle. She watched the return of the supposed
ecclesiastic, with the purpose of addressing him, and interesting him in favour
of the prisoners; with what imperfect success the reader has been just
acquainted.

CHAPTER XXVII

Fond wretch! and what canst thou relate,

But deeds of sorrow, shame, and sin?
Thy deeds are proved—thou know'st thy fate;
But come, thy tale—begin—begin.
But I have griefs of other kind,
Troubles and sorrows more severe;
 Give me to ease my tortured mind,
Lend to my woes a patient ear;
And let me, if I may not find
A friend to help—find one to hear.
—Crabbe's Hall of Justice
When Urfried had with clamours and menaces driven Rebecca back to the
apartment from which she had sallied, she proceeded to conduct the unwilling
Cedric into a small apartment, the door of which she heedfully secured. Then
fetching from a cupboard a stoup of wine and two flagons, she placed them on
the table, and said in a tone rather asserting a fact than asking a question,
"Thou art Saxon, father—Deny it not," she continued, observing that Cedric
hastened not to reply; "the sounds of my native language are sweet to mine
ears, though seldom heard save from the tongues of the wretched and
degraded serfs on whom the proud Normans impose the meanest drudgery of
this dwelling. Thou art a Saxon, father—a Saxon, and, save as thou art a
servant of God, a freeman.—Thine accents are sweet in mine ear."
"Do not Saxon priests visit this castle, then?" replied Cedric; "it were,
methinks, their duty to comfort the outcast and oppressed children of the soil."
"They come not—or if they come, they better love to revel at the boards of
their conquerors," answered Urfried, "than to hear the groans of their
countrymen—so, at least, report speaks of them—of myself I can say little.
This castle, for ten years, has opened to no priest save the debauched Norman
chaplain who partook the nightly revels of Front-de-Boeuf, and he has been
long gone to render an account of his stewardship.—But thou art a Saxon—a
Saxon priest, and I have one question to ask of thee."
"I am a Saxon," answered Cedric, "but unworthy, surely, of the name of priest.
Let me begone on my way—I swear I will return, or send one of our fathers
more worthy to hear your confession."
"Stay yet a while," said Urfried; "the accents of the voice which thou hearest
now will soon be choked with the cold earth, and I would not descend to it like
the beast I have lived. But wine must give me strength to tell the horrors of my
tale." She poured out a cup, and drank it with a frightful avidity, which seemed
desirous of draining the last drop in the goblet. "It stupifies," she said, looking
upwards as she finished her drought, "but it cannot cheer—Partake it, father, if
you would hear my tale without sinking down upon the pavement." Cedric
would have avoided pledging her in this ominous conviviality, but the sign
which she made to him expressed impatience and despair. He complied with
her request, and answered her challenge in a large wine-cup; she then
proceeded with her story, as if appeased by his complaisance.
"I was not born," she said, "father, the wretch that thou now seest me. I was
free, was happy, was honoured, loved, and was beloved. I am now a slave,
miserable and degraded—the sport of my masters' passions while I had yet
beauty—the object of their contempt, scorn, and hatred, since it has passed
away. Dost thou wonder, father, that I should hate mankind, and, above all, the
race that has wrought this change in me? Can the wrinkled decrepit hag before
thee, whose wrath must vent itself in impotent curses, forget she was once the
daughter of the noble Thane of Torquilstone, before whose frown a thousand
vassals trembled?"
"Thou the daughter of Torquil Wolfganger!" said Cedric, receding as he spoke;
"thou—thou—the daughter of that noble Saxon, my father's friend and
companion in arms!"
"Thy father's friend!" echoed Urfried; "then Cedric called the Saxon stands
before me, for the noble Hereward of Rotherwood had but one son, whose
name is well known among his countrymen. But if thou art Cedric of
Rotherwood, why this religious dress?—hast thou too despaired of saving thy
country, and sought refuge from oppression in the shade of the convent?"
"It matters not who I am," said Cedric; "proceed, unhappy woman, with thy
tale of horror and guilt!—Guilt there must be—there is guilt even in thy living
to tell it."
"There is—there is," answered the wretched woman, "deep, black, damning
guilt,—guilt, that lies like a load at my breast—guilt, that all the penitential
fires of hereafter cannot cleanse.—Yes, in these halls, stained with the noble
and pure blood of my father and my brethren—in these very halls, to have
lived the paramour of their murderer, the slave at once and the partaker of his
pleasures, was to render every breath which I drew of vital air, a crime and a
curse."
"Wretched woman!" exclaimed Cedric. "And while the friends of thy father—
while each true Saxon heart, as it breathed a requiem for his soul, and those of
his valiant sons, forgot not in their prayers the murdered Ulrica—while all
mourned and honoured the dead, thou hast lived to merit our hate and
execration—lived to unite thyself with the vile tyrant who murdered thy
nearest and dearest—who shed the blood of infancy, rather than a male of the
noble house of Torquil Wolfganger should survive—with him hast thou lived
to unite thyself, and in the hands of lawless love!"
"In lawless hands, indeed, but not in those of love!" answered the hag; "love
will sooner visit the regions of eternal doom, than those unhallowed vaults.—
No, with that at least I cannot reproach myself—hatred to Front-de-Boeuf and
his race governed my soul most deeply, even in the hour of his guilty
endearments."
"You hated him, and yet you lived," replied Cedric; "wretch! was there no
poniard—no knife—no bodkin!—Well was it for thee, since thou didst prize
such an existence, that the secrets of a Norman castle are like those of the
grave. For had I but dreamed of the daughter of Torquil living in foul
communion with the murderer of her father, the sword of a true Saxon had
found thee out even in the arms of thy paramour!"
"Wouldst thou indeed have done this justice to the name of Torquil?" said
Ulrica, for we may now lay aside her assumed name of Urfried; "thou art then
the true Saxon report speaks thee! for even within these accursed walls, where,
as thou well sayest, guilt shrouds itself in inscrutable mystery, even there has
the name of Cedric been sounded—and I, wretched and degraded, have
rejoiced to think that there yet breathed an avenger of our unhappy nation.—I
also have had my hours of vengeance—I have fomented the quarrels of our
foes, and heated drunken revelry into murderous broil—I have seen their
blood flow—I have heard their dying groans!—Look on me, Cedric—are
there not still left on this foul and faded face some traces of the features of
Torquil?"
"Ask me not of them, Ulrica," replied Cedric, in a tone of grief mixed with
abhorrence; "these traces form such a resemblance as arises from the graves of
the dead, when a fiend has animated the lifeless corpse."
"Be it so," answered Ulrica; "yet wore these fiendish features the mask of a
spirit of light when they were able to set at variance the elder Front-de-Boeuf
and his son Reginald! The darkness of hell should hide what followed, but
revenge must lift the veil, and darkly intimate what it would raise the dead to
speak aloud. Long had the smouldering fire of discord glowed between the
tyrant father and his savage son—long had I nursed, in secret, the unnatural
hatred—it blazed forth in an hour of drunken wassail, and at his own board
fell my oppressor by the hand of his own son—such are the secrets these
vaults conceal!—Rend asunder, ye accursed arches," she added, looking up
towards the roof, "and bury in your fall all who are conscious of the hideous
mystery!"
"And thou, creature of guilt and misery," said Cedric, "what became thy lot on
the death of thy ravisher?"
"Guess it, but ask it not.—Here—here I dwelt, till age, premature age, has
stamped its ghastly features on my countenance—scorned and insulted where I
was once obeyed, and compelled to bound the revenge which had once such
ample scope, to the efforts of petty malice of a discontented menial, or the
vain or unheeded curses of an impotent hag—condemned to hear from my
lonely turret the sounds of revelry in which I once partook, or the shrieks and
groans of new victims of oppression."
"Ulrica," said Cedric, "with a heart which still, I fear, regrets the lost reward of
thy crimes, as much as the deeds by which thou didst acquire that meed, how
didst thou dare to address thee to one who wears this robe? Consider, unhappy
woman, what could the sainted Edward himself do for thee, were he here in
bodily presence? The royal Confessor was endowed by heaven with power to
cleanse the ulcers of the body, but only God himself can cure the leprosy of
the soul."
"Yet, turn not from me, stern prophet of wrath," she exclaimed, "but tell me, if
thou canst, in what shall terminate these new and awful feelings that burst on
my solitude—Why do deeds, long since done, rise before me in new and
irresistible horrors? What fate is prepared beyond the grave for her, to whom
God has assigned on earth a lot of such unspeakable wretchedness? Better had
I turn to Woden, Hertha, and Zernebock—to Mista, and to Skogula, the gods
of our yet unbaptized ancestors, than endure the dreadful anticipations which
have of late haunted my waking and my sleeping hours!"
"I am no priest," said Cedric, turning with disgust from this miserable picture
of guilt, wretchedness, and despair; "I am no priest, though I wear a priest's
garment."
"Priest or layman," answered Ulrica, "thou art the first I have seen for twenty
years, by whom God was feared or man regarded; and dost thou bid me
despair?"
"I bid thee repent," said Cedric. "Seek to prayer and penance, and mayest thou
find acceptance! But I cannot, I will not, longer abide with thee."
"Stay yet a moment!" said Ulrica; "leave me not now, son of my father's
friend, lest the demon who has governed my life should tempt me to avenge
myself of thy hard-hearted scorn—Thinkest thou, if Front-de-Boeuf found
Cedric the Saxon in his castle, in such a disguise, that thy life would be a long
one?—Already his eye has been upon thee like a falcon on his prey."
"And be it so," said Cedric; "and let him tear me with beak and talons, ere my
tongue say one word which my heart doth not warrant. I will die a Saxon—
true in word, open in deed—I bid thee avaunt!—touch me not, stay me not!—
The sight of Front-de-Boeuf himself is less odious to me than thou, degraded
and degenerate as thou art."
"Be it so," said Ulrica, no longer interrupting him; "go thy way, and forget, in
the insolence of thy superority, that the wretch before thee is the daughter of
thy father's friend.—Go thy way—if I am separated from mankind by my
sufferings—separated from those whose aid I might most justly expect—not
less will I be separated from them in my revenge!—No man shall aid me, but
the ears of all men shall tingle to hear of the deed which I shall dare to do!—
Farewell!—thy scorn has burst the last tie which seemed yet to unite me to my
kind—a thought that my woes might claim the compassion of my people."
"Ulrica," said Cedric, softened by this appeal, "hast thou borne up and endured
to live through so much guilt and so much misery, and wilt thou now yield to
despair when thine eyes are opened to thy crimes, and when repentance were
thy fitter occupation?"
"Cedric," answered Ulrica, "thou little knowest the human heart. To act as I
have acted, to think as I have thought, requires the maddening love of
pleasure, mingled with the keen appetite of revenge, the proud consciousness
of power; droughts too intoxicating for the human heart to bear, and yet retain
the power to prevent. Their force has long passed away—Age has no
pleasures, wrinkles have no influence, revenge itself dies away in impotent
curses. Then comes remorse, with all its vipers, mixed with vain regrets for the
past, and despair for the future!—Then, when all other strong impulses have
ceased, we become like the fiends in hell, who may feel remorse, but never
repentance.—But thy words have awakened a new soul within me—Well hast
thou said, all is possible for those who dare to die!—Thou hast shown me the
means of revenge, and be assured I will embrace them. It has hitherto shared
this wasted bosom with other and with rival passions—henceforward it shall
possess me wholly, and thou thyself shalt say, that, whatever was the life of
Ulrica, her death well became the daughter of the noble Torquil. There is a
force without beleaguering this accursed castle—hasten to lead them to the
attack, and when thou shalt see a red flag wave from the turret on the eastern
angle of the donjon, press the Normans hard—they will then have enough to
do within, and you may win the wall in spite both of bow and mangonel.—
Begone, I pray thee—follow thine own fate, and leave me to mine."
Cedric would have enquired farther into the purpose which she thus darkly
announced, but the stern voice of Front-de-Boeuf was heard, exclaiming,
"Where tarries this loitering priest? By the scallop-shell of Compostella, I will
make a martyr of him, if he loiters here to hatch treason among my
domestics!"
"What a true prophet," said Ulrica, "is an evil conscience! But heed him not—
out and to thy people—Cry your Saxon onslaught, and let them sing their war-
song of Rollo, if they will; vengeance shall bear a burden to it."
As she thus spoke, she vanished through a private door, and Reginald Front-
de-Boeuf entered the apartment. Cedric, with some difficulty, compelled
himself to make obeisance to the haughty Baron, who returned his courtesy
with a slight inclination of the head.
"Thy penitents, father, have made a long shrift—it is the better for them, since
it is the last they shall ever make. Hast thou prepared them for death?"
"I found them," said Cedric, in such French as he could command, "expecting
the worst, from the moment they knew into whose power they had fallen."
"How now, Sir Friar," replied Front-de-Boeuf, "thy speech, methinks, smacks
of a Saxon tongue?"
"I was bred in the convent of St Withold of Burton," answered Cedric.
"Ay?" said the Baron; "it had been better for thee to have been a Norman, and
better for my purpose too; but need has no choice of messengers. That St
Withold's of Burton is an owlet's nest worth the harrying. The day will soon
come that the frock shall protect the Saxon as little as the mail-coat."
"God's will be done," said Cedric, in a voice tremulous with passion, which
Front-de-Boeuf imputed to fear.
"I see," said he, "thou dreamest already that our men-at-arms are in thy
refectory and thy ale-vaults. But do me one cast of thy holy office, and, come
what list of others, thou shalt sleep as safe in thy cell as a snail within his shell
of proof."
"Speak your commands," said Cedric, with suppressed emotion.
"Follow me through this passage, then, that I may dismiss thee by the
postern."
And as he strode on his way before the supposed friar, Front-de-Boeuf thus
schooled him in the part which he desired he should act.
"Thou seest, Sir Friar, yon herd of Saxon swine, who have dared to environ
this castle of Torquilstone—Tell them whatever thou hast a mind of the
weakness of this fortalice, or aught else that can detain them before it for
twenty-four hours. Meantime bear thou this scroll—But soft—canst read, Sir
Priest?"
"Not a jot I," answered Cedric, "save on my breviary; and then I know the
characters, because I have the holy service by heart, praised be Our Lady and
St Withold!"
"The fitter messenger for my purpose.—Carry thou this scroll to the castle of
Philip de Malvoisin; say it cometh from me, and is written by the Templar
Brian de Bois-Guilbert, and that I pray him to send it to York with all the
speed man and horse can make. Meanwhile, tell him to doubt nothing, he shall
find us whole and sound behind our battlement—Shame on it, that we should
be compelled to hide thus by a pack of runagates, who are wont to fly even at
the flash of our pennons and the tramp of our horses! I say to thee, priest,
contrive some cast of thine art to keep the knaves where they are, until our
friends bring up their lances. My vengeance is awake, and she is a falcon that
slumbers not till she has been gorged."
"By my patron saint," said Cedric, with deeper energy than became his
character, "and by every saint who has lived and died in England, your
commands shall be obeyed! Not a Saxon shall stir from before these walls, if I
have art and influence to detain them there."
"Ha!" said Front-de-Boeuf, "thou changest thy tone, Sir Priest, and speakest
brief and bold, as if thy heart were in the slaughter of the Saxon herd; and yet
thou art thyself of kindred to the swine?"
Cedric was no ready practiser of the art of dissimulation, and would at this
moment have been much the better of a hint from Wamba's more fertile brain.
But necessity, according to the ancient proverb, sharpens invention, and he
muttered something under his cowl concerning the men in question being
excommunicated outlaws both to church and to kingdom.
"'Despardieux'," answered Front-de-Boeuf, "thou hast spoken the very truth—I
forgot that the knaves can strip a fat abbot, as well as if they had been born
south of yonder salt channel. Was it not he of St Ives whom they tied to an
oak-tree, and compelled to sing a mass while they were rifling his mails and
his wallets?—No, by our Lady—that jest was played by Gualtier of
Middleton, one of our own companions-at-arms. But they were Saxons who
robbed the chapel at St Bees of cup, candlestick and chalice, were they not?"
"They were godless men," answered Cedric.
"Ay, and they drank out all the good wine and ale that lay in store for many a
secret carousal, when ye pretend ye are but busied with vigils and primes!—
Priest, thou art bound to revenge such sacrilege."
"I am indeed bound to vengeance," murmured Cedric; "Saint Withold knows
my heart."
Front-de-Boeuf, in the meanwhile, led the way to a postern, where, passing the
moat on a single plank, they reached a small barbican, or exterior defence,
which communicated with the open field by a well-fortified sallyport.
"Begone, then; and if thou wilt do mine errand, and if thou return hither when
it is done, thou shalt see Saxon flesh cheap as ever was hog's in the shambles
of Sheffield. And, hark thee, thou seemest to be a jolly confessor—come
hither after the onslaught, and thou shalt have as much Malvoisie as would
drench thy whole convent."
"Assuredly we shall meet again," answered Cedric.
"Something in hand the whilst," continued the Norman; and, as they parted at
the postern door, he thrust into Cedric's reluctant hand a gold byzant, adding,
"Remember, I will fly off both cowl and skin, if thou failest in thy purpose."
"And full leave will I give thee to do both," answered Cedric, leaving the
postern, and striding forth over the free field with a joyful step, "if, when we
meet next, I deserve not better at thine hand."—Turning then back towards the
castle, he threw the piece of gold towards the donor, exclaiming at the same
time, "False Norman, thy money perish with thee!"
Front-de-Boeuf heard the words imperfectly, but the action was suspicious
—"Archers," he called to the warders on the outward battlements, "send me an
arrow through yon monk's frock!—yet stay," he said, as his retainers were
bending their bows, "it avails not—we must thus far trust him since we have
no better shift. I think he dares not betray me—at the worst I can but treat with
these Saxon dogs whom I have safe in kennel.—Ho! Giles jailor, let them
bring Cedric of Rotherwood before me, and the other churl, his companion—
him I mean of Coningsburgh—Athelstane there, or what call they him? Their
very names are an encumbrance to a Norman knight's mouth, and have, as it
were, a flavour of bacon—Give me a stoup of wine, as jolly Prince John said,
that I may wash away the relish—place it in the armoury, and thither lead the
prisoners."
His commands were obeyed; and, upon entering that Gothic apartment, hung
with many spoils won by his own valour and that of his father, he found a
flagon of wine on the massive oaken table, and the two Saxon captives under
the guard of four of his dependants. Front-de-Boeuf took a long drought of
wine, and then addressed his prisoners;—for the manner in which Wamba
drew the cap over his face, the change of dress, the gloomy and broken light,
and the Baron's imperfect acquaintance with the features of Cedric, (who
avoided his Norman neighbours, and seldom stirred beyond his own domains,)
prevented him from discovering that the most important of his captives had
made his escape.
"Gallants of England," said Front-de-Boeuf, "how relish ye your entertainment
at Torquilstone?—Are ye yet aware what your 'surquedy' and
'outrecuidance' merit, for scoffing at the entertainment of a prince of the
House of Anjou?—Have ye forgotten how ye requited the unmerited
hospitality of the royal John? By God and St Dennis, an ye pay not the richer
ransom, I will hang ye up by the feet from the iron bars of these windows, till
the kites and hooded crows have made skeletons of you!—Speak out, ye
Saxon dogs—what bid ye for your worthless lives?—How say you, you of
Rotherwood?"
"Not a doit I," answered poor Wamba—"and for hanging up by the feet, my
brain has been topsy-turvy, they say, ever since the biggin was bound first
round my head; so turning me upside down may peradventure restore it
again."
"Saint Genevieve!" said Front-de-Boeuf, "what have we got here?"
And with the back of his hand he struck Cedric's cap from the head of the
Jester, and throwing open his collar, discovered the fatal badge of servitude,
the silver collar round his neck.
"Giles—Clement—dogs and varlets!" exclaimed the furious Norman, "what
have you brought me here?"
"I think I can tell you," said De Bracy, who just entered the apartment. "This is
Cedric's clown, who fought so manful a skirmish with Isaac of York about a
question of precedence."
"I shall settle it for them both," replied Front-de-Boeuf; "they shall hang on the
same gallows, unless his master and this boar of Coningsburgh will pay well
for their lives. Their wealth is the least they can surrender; they must also
carry off with them the swarms that are besetting the castle, subscribe a
surrender of their pretended immunities, and live under us as serfs and vassals;
too happy if, in the new world that is about to begin, we leave them the breath
of their nostrils.—Go," said he to two of his attendants, "fetch me the right
Cedric hither, and I pardon your error for once; the rather that you but mistook
a fool for a Saxon franklin."
"Ay, but," said Wamba, "your chivalrous excellency will find there are more
fools than franklins among us."
"What means the knave?" said Front-de-Boeuf, looking towards his followers,
who, lingering and loath, faltered forth their belief, that if this were not Cedric
who was there in presence, they knew not what was become of him.
"Saints of Heaven!" exclaimed De Bracy, "he must have escaped in the monk's
garments!"
"Fiends of hell!" echoed Front-de-Boeuf, "it was then the boar of Rotherwood
whom I ushered to the postern, and dismissed with my own hands!—And
thou," he said to Wamba, "whose folly could overreach the wisdom of idiots
yet more gross than thyself—I will give thee holy orders—I will shave thy
crown for thee!—Here, let them tear the scalp from his head, and then pitch
him headlong from the battlements—Thy trade is to jest, canst thou jest now?"
"You deal with me better than your word, noble knight," whimpered forth poor
Wamba, whose habits of buffoonery were not to be overcome even by the
immediate prospect of death; "if you give me the red cap you propose, out of a
simple monk you will make a cardinal."
"The poor wretch," said De Bracy, "is resolved to die in his vocation.—Front-
de-Boeuf, you shall not slay him. Give him to me to make sport for my Free
Companions.—How sayst thou, knave? Wilt thou take heart of grace, and go
to the wars with me?"
"Ay, with my master's leave," said Wamba; "for, look you, I must not slip
collar" (and he touched that which he wore) "without his permission."
"Oh, a Norman saw will soon cut a Saxon collar." said De Bracy.
"Ay, noble sir," said Wamba, "and thence goes the proverb—
'Norman saw on English oak,
On English neck a Norman yoke;
Norman spoon in English dish,
And England ruled as Normans wish;
Blithe world to England never will be more,
Till England's rid of all the four.'"
"Thou dost well, De Bracy," said Front-de-Boeuf, "to stand there listening to a
fool's jargon, when destruction is gaping for us! Seest thou not we are
overreached, and that our proposed mode of communicating with our friends
without has been disconcerted by this same motley gentleman thou art so fond
to brother? What views have we to expect but instant storm?"
"To the battlements then," said De Bracy; "when didst thou ever see me the
graver for the thoughts of battle? Call the Templar yonder, and let him fight
but half so well for his life as he has done for his Order—Make thou to the
walls thyself with thy huge body—Let me do my poor endeavour in my own
way, and I tell thee the Saxon outlaws may as well attempt to scale the clouds,
as the castle of Torquilstone; or, if you will treat with the banditti, why not
employ the mediation of this worthy franklin, who seems in such deep
contemplation of the wine-flagon?—Here, Saxon," he continued, addressing
Athelstane, and handing the cup to him, "rinse thy throat with that noble
liquor, and rouse up thy soul to say what thou wilt do for thy liberty."
"What a man of mould may," answered Athelstane, "providing it be what a
man of manhood ought.—Dismiss me free, with my companions, and I will
pay a ransom of a thousand marks."
"And wilt moreover assure us the retreat of that scum of mankind who are
swarming around the castle, contrary to God's peace and the king's?" said
Front-de-Boeuf.
"In so far as I can," answered Athelstane, "I will withdraw them; and I fear not
but that my father Cedric will do his best to assist me."
"We are agreed then," said Front-de-Boeuf—"thou and they are to be set at
freedom, and peace is to be on both sides, for payment of a thousand marks. It
is a trifling ransom, Saxon, and thou wilt owe gratitude to the moderation
which accepts of it in exchange of your persons. But mark, this extends not to
the Jew Isaac."
"Nor to the Jew Isaac's daughter," said the Templar, who had now joined them.
"Neither," said Front-de-Boeuf, "belong to this Saxon's company."
"I were unworthy to be called Christian, if they did," replied Athelstane: "deal
with the unbelievers as ye list."
"Neither does the ransom include the Lady Rowena," said De Bracy. "It shall
never be said I was scared out of a fair prize without striking a blow for it."
"Neither," said Front-de-Boeuf, "does our treaty refer to this wretched Jester,
whom I retain, that I may make him an example to every knave who turns jest
into earnest."
"The Lady Rowena," answered Athelstane, with the most steady countenance,
"is my affianced bride. I will be drawn by wild horses before I consent to part
with her. The slave Wamba has this day saved the life of my father Cedric—I
will lose mine ere a hair of his head be injured."
"Thy affianced bride?—The Lady Rowena the affianced bride of a vassal like
thee?" said De Bracy; "Saxon, thou dreamest that the days of thy seven
kingdoms are returned again. I tell thee, the Princes of the House of Anjou
confer not their wards on men of such lineage as thine."
"My lineage, proud Norman," replied Athelstane, "is drawn from a source
more pure and ancient than that of a beggarly Frenchman, whose living is won
by selling the blood of the thieves whom he assembles under his paltry
standard. Kings were my ancestors, strong in war and wise in council, who
every day feasted in their hall more hundreds than thou canst number
individual followers; whose names have been sung by minstrels, and their
laws recorded by Wittenagemotes; whose bones were interred amid the
prayers of saints, and over whose tombs minsters have been builded."
"Thou hast it, De Bracy," said Front-de-Boeuf, well pleased with the rebuff
which his companion had received; "the Saxon hath hit thee fairly."
"As fairly as a captive can strike," said De Bracy, with apparent carelessness;
"for he whose hands are tied should have his tongue at freedom.—But thy
glibness of reply, comrade," rejoined he, speaking to Athelstane, "will not win
the freedom of the Lady Rowena."
To this Athelstane, who had already made a longer speech than was his custom
to do on any topic, however interesting, returned no answer. The conversation
was interrupted by the arrival of a menial, who announced that a monk
demanded admittance at the postern gate.
"In the name of Saint Bennet, the prince of these bull-beggars," said Front-de-
Boeuf, "have we a real monk this time, or another impostor? Search him,
slaves—for an ye suffer a second impostor to be palmed upon you, I will have
your eyes torn out, and hot coals put into the sockets."
"Let me endure the extremity of your anger, my lord," said Giles, "if this be
not a real shaveling. Your squire Jocelyn knows him well, and will vouch him
to be brother Ambrose, a monk in attendance upon the Prior of Jorvaulx."
"Admit him," said Front-de-Boeuf; "most likely he brings us news from his
jovial master. Surely the devil keeps holiday, and the priests are relieved from
duty, that they are strolling thus wildly through the country. Remove these
prisoners; and, Saxon, think on what thou hast heard."
"I claim," said Athelstane, "an honourable imprisonment, with due care of my
board and of my couch, as becomes my rank, and as is due to one who is in
treaty for ransom. Moreover, I hold him that deems himself the best of you,
bound to answer to me with his body for this aggression on my freedom. This
defiance hath already been sent to thee by thy sewer; thou underliest it, and art
bound to answer me—There lies my glove."
"I answer not the challenge of my prisoner," said Front-de-Boeuf; "nor shalt
thou, Maurice de Bracy.—Giles," he continued, "hang the franklin's glove
upon the tine of yonder branched antlers: there shall it remain until he is a free
man. Should he then presume to demand it, or to affirm he was unlawfully
made my prisoner, by the belt of Saint Christopher, he will speak to one who
hath never refused to meet a foe on foot or on horseback, alone or with his
vassals at his back!"
The Saxon prisoners were accordingly removed, just as they introduced the
monk Ambrose, who appeared to be in great perturbation.
"This is the real 'Deus vobiscum'," said Wamba, as he passed the reverend
brother; "the others were but counterfeits."
"Holy Mother," said the monk, as he addressed the assembled knights, "I am at
last safe and in Christian keeping!"
"Safe thou art," replied De Bracy; "and for Christianity, here is the stout Baron
Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, whose utter abomination is a Jew; and the good
Knight Templar, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, whose trade is to slay Saracens—If
these are not good marks of Christianity, I know no other which they bear
about them."
"Ye are friends and allies of our reverend father in God, Aymer, Prior of
Jorvaulx," said the monk, without noticing the tone of De Bracy's reply; "ye
owe him aid both by knightly faith and holy charity; for what saith the blessed
Saint Augustin, in his treatise 'De Civitate Dei'—-"
"What saith the devil!" interrupted Front-de-Boeuf; "or rather what dost thou
say, Sir Priest? We have little time to hear texts from the holy fathers."
"'Sancta Maria!'" ejaculated Father Ambrose, "how prompt to ire are these
unhallowed laymen!—But be it known to you, brave knights, that certain
murderous caitiffs, casting behind them fear of God, and reverence of his
church, and not regarding the bull of the holy see, 'Si quis, suadende
Diabolo'—-"
"Brother priest," said the Templar, "all this we know or guess at—tell us
plainly, is thy master, the Prior, made prisoner, and to whom?"
"Surely," said Ambrose, "he is in the hands of the men of Belial, infesters of
these woods, and contemners of the holy text, 'Touch not mine anointed, and
do my prophets naught of evil.'"
"Here is a new argument for our swords, sirs," said Front-de-Boeuf, turning to
his companions; "and so, instead of reaching us any assistance, the Prior of
Jorvaulx requests aid at our hands? a man is well helped of these lazy
churchmen when he hath most to do!—But speak out, priest, and say at once,
what doth thy master expect from us?"
"So please you," said Ambrose, "violent hands having been imposed on my
reverend superior, contrary to the holy ordinance which I did already quote,
and the men of Belial having rifled his mails and budgets, and stripped him of
two hundred marks of pure refined gold, they do yet demand of him a large
sum beside, ere they will suffer him to depart from their uncircumcised hands.
Wherefore the reverend father in God prays you, as his dear friends, to rescue
him, either by paying down the ransom at which they hold him, or by force of
arms, at your best discretion."
"The foul fiend quell the Prior!" said Front-de-Boeuf; "his morning's drought
has been a deep one. When did thy master hear of a Norman baron unbuckling
his purse to relieve a churchman, whose bags are ten times as weighty as ours?
—And how can we do aught by valour to free him, that are cooped up here by
ten times our number, and expect an assault every moment?"
"And that was what I was about to tell you," said the monk, "had your
hastiness allowed me time. But, God help me, I am old, and these foul
onslaughts distract an aged man's brain. Nevertheless, it is of verity that they
assemble a camp, and raise a bank against the walls of this castle."
"To the battlements!" cried De Bracy, "and let us mark what these knaves do
without;" and so saying, he opened a latticed window which led to a sort of
bartisan or projecting balcony, and immediately called from thence to those in
the apartment—"Saint Dennis, but the old monk hath brought true tidings!—
They bring forward mantelets and pavisses, and the archers muster on the
skirts of the wood like a dark cloud before a hailstorm."
Reginald Front-de-Boeuf also looked out upon the field, and immediately
snatched his bugle; and, after winding a long and loud blast, commanded his
men to their posts on the walls.
"De Bracy, look to the eastern side, where the walls are lowest—Noble Bois-
Guilbert, thy trade hath well taught thee how to attack and defend, look thou to
the western side—I myself will take post at the barbican. Yet, do not confine
your exertions to any one spot, noble friends!—we must this day be
everywhere, and multiply ourselves, were it possible, so as to carry by our
presence succour and relief wherever the attack is hottest. Our numbers are
few, but activity and courage may supply that defect, since we have only to do
with rascal clowns."
"But, noble knights," exclaimed Father Ambrose, amidst the bustle and
confusion occasioned by the preparations for defence, "will none of ye hear
the message of the reverend father in God Aymer, Prior of Jorvaulx?—I
beseech thee to hear me, noble Sir Reginald!"
"Go patter thy petitions to heaven," said the fierce Norman, "for we on earth
have no time to listen to them.—Ho! there, Anselm I see that seething pitch
and oil are ready to pour on the heads of these audacious traitors—Look that
the cross-bowmen lack not bolts. —Fling abroad my banner with the old bull's
head—the knaves shall soon find with whom they have to do this day!"
"But, noble sir," continued the monk, persevering in his endeavours to draw
attention, "consider my vow of obedience, and let me discharge myself of my
Superior's errand."
"Away with this prating dotard," said Front-de Boeuf, "lock him up in the
chapel, to tell his beads till the broil be over. It will be a new thing to the saints
in Torquilstone to hear aves and paters; they have not been so honoured, I
trow, since they were cut out of stone."
"Blaspheme not the holy saints, Sir Reginald," said De Bracy, "we shall have
need of their aid to-day before yon rascal rout disband."
"I expect little aid from their hand," said Front-de-Boeuf, "unless we were to
hurl them from the battlements on the heads of the villains. There is a huge
lumbering Saint Christopher yonder, sufficient to bear a whole company to the
earth."
The Templar had in the meantime been looking out on the proceedings of the
besiegers, with rather more attention than the brutal Front-de-Boeuf or his
giddy companion.
"By the faith of mine order," he said, "these men approach with more touch of
discipline than could have been judged, however they come by it. See ye how
dexterously they avail themselves of every cover which a tree or bush affords,
and shun exposing themselves to the shot of our cross-bows? I spy neither
banner nor pennon among them, and yet will I gage my golden chain, that they
are led on by some noble knight or gentleman, skilful in the practice of wars."
"I espy him," said De Bracy; "I see the waving of a knight's crest, and the
gleam of his armour. See yon tall man in the black mail, who is busied
marshalling the farther troop of the rascaille yeomen—by Saint Dennis, I hold
him to be the same whom we called 'Le Noir Faineant', who overthrew thee,
Front-de-Boeuf, in the lists at Ashby."
"So much the better," said Front-de-Boeuf, "that he comes here to give me my
revenge. Some hilding fellow he must be, who dared not stay to assert his
claim to the tourney prize which chance had assigned him. I should in vain
have sought for him where knights and nobles seek their foes, and right glad
am I he hath here shown himself among yon villain yeomanry."
The demonstrations of the enemy's immediate approach cut off all farther
discourse. Each knight repaired to his post, and at the head of the few
followers whom they were able to muster, and who were in numbers
inadequate to defend the whole extent of the walls, they awaited with calm
determination the threatened assault.

CHAPTER XXVIII

This wandering race, sever'd from other men,

Boast yet their intercourse with human arts;
The seas, the woods, the deserts, which they haunt,
 Find them acquainted with their secret treasures:
And unregarded herbs, and flowers, and blossoms,
Display undreamt-of powers when gather'd by them.
—The Jew
Our history must needs retrograde for the space of a few pages, to inform the
reader of certain passages material to his understanding the rest of this
important narrative. His own intelligence may indeed have easily anticipated
that, when Ivanhoe sunk down, and seemed abandoned by all the world, it was
the importunity of Rebecca which prevailed on her father to have the gallant
young warrior transported from the lists to the house which for the time the
Jews inhabited in the suburbs of Ashby.
It would not have been difficult to have persuaded Isaac to this step in any
other circumstances, for his disposition was kind and grateful. But he had also
the prejudices and scrupulous timidity of his persecuted people, and those
were to be conquered.
"Holy Abraham!" he exclaimed, "he is a good youth, and my heart bleeds to
see the gore trickle down his rich embroidered hacqueton, and his corslet of
goodly price—but to carry him to our house!—damsel, hast thou well
considered?—he is a Christian, and by our law we may not deal with the
stranger and Gentile, save for the advantage of our commerce."
"Speak not so, my dear father," replied Rebecca; "we may not indeed mix with
them in banquet and in jollity; but in wounds and in misery, the Gentile
becometh the Jew's brother."
"I would I knew what the Rabbi Jacob Ben Tudela would opine on it," replied
Isaac;—"nevertheless, the good youth must not bleed to death. Let Seth and
Reuben bear him to Ashby."
"Nay, let them place him in my litter," said Rebecca; "I will mount one of the
palfreys."
"That were to expose thee to the gaze of those dogs of Ishmael and of Edom,"
whispered Isaac, with a suspicious glance towards the crowd of knights and
squires. But Rebecca was already busied in carrying her charitable purpose
into effect, and listed not what he said, until Isaac, seizing the sleeve of her
mantle, again exclaimed, in a hurried voice—"Beard of Aaron!—what if the
youth perish!—if he die in our custody, shall we not be held guilty of his
blood, and be torn to pieces by the multitude?"
"He will not die, my father," said Rebecca, gently extricating herself from the
grasp of Isaac "he will not die unless we abandon him; and if so, we are indeed
answerable for his blood to God and to man."
"Nay," said Isaac, releasing his hold, "it grieveth me as much to see the drops
of his blood, as if they were so many golden byzants from mine own purse;
and I well know, that the lessons of Miriam, daughter of the Rabbi Manasses
of Byzantium whose soul is in Paradise, have made thee skilful in the art of
healing, and that thou knowest the craft of herbs, and the force of elixirs.
Therefore, do as thy mind giveth thee—thou art a good damsel, a blessing, and
a crown, and a song of rejoicing unto me and unto my house, and unto the
people of my fathers."
The apprehensions of Isaac, however, were not ill founded; and the generous
and grateful benevolence of his daughter exposed her, on her return to Ashby,
to the unhallowed gaze of Brian de Bois-Guilbert. The Templar twice passed
and repassed them on the road, fixing his bold and ardent look on the beautiful
Jewess; and we have already seen the consequences of the admiration which
her charms excited when accident threw her into the power of that
unprincipled voluptuary.
Rebecca lost no time in causing the patient to be transported to their temporary
dwelling, and proceeded with her own hands to examine and to bind up his
wounds. The youngest reader of romances and romantic ballads, must
recollect how often the females, during the dark ages, as they are called, were
initiated into the mysteries of surgery, and how frequently the gallant knight
submitted the wounds of his person to her cure, whose eyes had yet more
deeply penetrated his heart.
But the Jews, both male and female, possessed and practised the medical
science in all its branches, and the monarchs and powerful barons of the time
frequently committed themselves to the charge of some experienced sage
among this despised people, when wounded or in sickness. The aid of the
Jewish physicians was not the less eagerly sought after, though a general belief
prevailed among the Christians, that the Jewish Rabbins were deeply
acquainted with the occult sciences, and particularly with the cabalistical art,
which had its name and origin in the studies of the sages of Israel. Neither did
the Rabbins disown such acquaintance with supernatural arts, which added
nothing (for what could add aught?) to the hatred with which their nation was
regarded, while it diminished the contempt with which that malevolence was
mingled. A Jewish magician might be the subject of equal abhorrence with a
Jewish usurer, but he could not be equally despised. It is besides probable,
considering the wonderful cures they are said to have performed, that the Jews
possessed some secrets of the healing art peculiar to themselves, and which,
with the exclusive spirit arising out of their condition, they took great care to
conceal from the Christians amongst whom they dwelt.
The beautiful Rebecca had been heedfully brought up in all the knowledge
proper to her nation, which her apt and powerful mind had retained, arranged,
and enlarged, in the course of a progress beyond her years, her sex, and even
the age in which she lived. Her knowledge of medicine and of the healing art
had been acquired under an aged Jewess, the daughter of one of their most
celebrated doctors, who loved Rebecca as her own child, and was believed to
have communicated to her secrets, which had been left to herself by her sage
father at the same time, and under the same circumstances. The fate of Miriam
had indeed been to fall a sacrifice to the fanaticism of the times; but her
secrets had survived in her apt pupil.
Rebecca, thus endowed with knowledge as with beauty, was universally
revered and admired by her own tribe, who almost regarded her as one of
those gifted women mentioned in the sacred history. Her father himself, out of
reverence for her talents, which involuntarily mingled itself with his
unbounded affection, permitted the maiden a greater liberty than was usually
indulged to those of her sex by the habits of her people, and was, as we have
just seen, frequently guided by her opinion, even in preference to his own.
When Ivanhoe reached the habitation of Isaac, he was still in a state of
unconsciousness, owing to the profuse loss of blood which had taken place
during his exertions in the lists. Rebecca examined the wound, and having
applied to it such vulnerary remedies as her art prescribed, informed her father
that if fever could be averted, of which the great bleeding rendered her little
apprehensive, and if the healing balsam of Miriam retained its virtue, there
was nothing to fear for his guest's life, and that he might with safety travel to
York with them on the ensuing day. Isaac looked a little blank at this
annunciation. His charity would willingly have stopped short at Ashby, or at
most would have left the wounded Christian to be tended in the house where
he was residing at present, with an assurance to the Hebrew to whom it
belonged, that all expenses should be duly discharged. To this, however,
Rebecca opposed many reasons, of which we shall only mention two that had
peculiar weight with Isaac. The one was, that she would on no account put the
phial of precious balsam into the hands of another physician even of her own
tribe, lest that valuable mystery should be discovered; the other, that this
wounded knight, Wilfred of Ivanhoe, was an intimate favourite of Richard
Coeur-de-Lion, and that, in case the monarch should return, Isaac, who had
supplied his brother John with treasure to prosecute his rebellious purposes,
would stand in no small need of a powerful protector who enjoyed Richard's
favour.
"Thou art speaking but sooth, Rebecca," said Isaac, giving way to these
weighty arguments—"it were an offending of Heaven to betray the secrets of
the blessed Miriam; for the good which Heaven giveth, is not rashly to be
squandered upon others, whether it be talents of gold and shekels of silver, or
whether it be the secret mysteries of a wise physician—assuredly they should
be preserved to those to whom Providence hath vouchsafed them. And him
whom the Nazarenes of England call the Lion's Heart, assuredly it were better
for me to fall into the hands of a strong lion of Idumea than into his, if he shall
have got assurance of my dealing with his brother. Wherefore I will lend ear to
thy counsel, and this youth shall journey with us unto York, and our house
shall be as a home to him until his wounds shall be healed. And if he of the
Lion Heart shall return to the land, as is now noised abroad, then shall this
Wilfred of Ivanhoe be unto me as a wall of defence, when the king's
displeasure shall burn high against thy father. And if he doth not return, this
Wilfred may natheless repay us our charges when he shall gain treasure by the
strength of his spear and of his sword, even as he did yesterday and this day
also. For the youth is a good youth, and keepeth the day which he appointeth,
and restoreth that which he borroweth, and succoureth the Israelite, even the
child of my father's house, when he is encompassed by strong thieves and sons
of Belial."
It was not until evening was nearly closed that Ivanhoe was restored to
consciousness of his situation. He awoke from a broken slumber, under the
confused impressions which are naturally attendant on the recovery from a
state of insensibility. He was unable for some time to recall exactly to memory
the circumstances which had preceded his fall in the lists, or to make out any
connected chain of the events in which he had been engaged upon the
yesterday. A sense of wounds and injury, joined to great weakness and
exhaustion, was mingled with the recollection of blows dealt and received, of
steeds rushing upon each other, overthrowing and overthrown—of shouts and
clashing of arms, and all the heady tumult of a confused fight. An effort to
draw aside the curtain of his couch was in some degree successful, although
rendered difficult by the pain of his wound.
To his great surprise he found himself in a room magnificently furnished, but
having cushions instead of chairs to rest upon, and in other respects partaking
so much of Oriental costume, that he began to doubt whether he had not,
during his sleep, been transported back again to the land of Palestine. The
impression was increased, when, the tapestry being drawn aside, a female
form, dressed in a rich habit, which partook more of the Eastern taste than that
of Europe, glided through the door which it concealed, and was followed by a
swarthy domestic.
As the wounded knight was about to address this fair apparition, she imposed
silence by placing her slender finger upon her ruby lips, while the attendant,
approaching him, proceeded to uncover Ivanhoe's side, and the lovely Jewess
satisfied herself that the bandage was in its place, and the wound doing well.
She performed her task with a graceful and dignified simplicity and modesty,
which might, even in more civilized days, have served to redeem it from
whatever might seem repugnant to female delicacy. The idea of so young and
beautiful a person engaged in attendance on a sick-bed, or in dressing the
wound of one of a different sex, was melted away and lost in that of a
beneficent being contributing her effectual aid to relieve pain, and to avert the
stroke of death. Rebecca's few and brief directions were given in the Hebrew
language to the old domestic; and he, who had been frequently her assistant in
similar cases, obeyed them without reply.
The accents of an unknown tongue, however harsh they might have sounded
when uttered by another, had, coming from the beautiful Rebecca, the
romantic and pleasing effect which fancy ascribes to the charms pronounced
by some beneficent fairy, unintelligible, indeed, to the ear, but, from the
sweetness of utterance, and benignity of aspect, which accompanied them,
touching and affecting to the heart. Without making an attempt at further
question, Ivanhoe suffered them in silence to take the measures they thought
most proper for his recovery; and it was not until those were completed, and
this kind physician about to retire, that his curiosity could no longer be
suppressed.—"Gentle maiden," he began in the Arabian tongue, with which
his Eastern travels had rendered him familiar, and which he thought most
likely to be understood by the turban'd and caftan'd damsel who stood before
him—"I pray you, gentle maiden, of your courtesy—-"
But here he was interrupted by his fair physician, a smile which she could
scarce suppress dimpling for an instant a face, whose general expression was
that of contemplative melancholy. "I am of England, Sir Knight, and speak the
English tongue, although my dress and my lineage belong to another climate."
"Noble damsel,"—again the Knight of Ivanhoe began; and again Rebecca
hastened to interrupt him.
"Bestow not on me, Sir Knight," she said, "the epithet of noble. It is well you
should speedily know that your handmaiden is a poor Jewess, the daughter of
that Isaac of York, to whom you were so lately a good and kind lord. It well
becomes him, and those of his household, to render to you such careful
tendance as your present state necessarily demands."
I know not whether the fair Rowena would have been altogether satisfied with
the species of emotion with which her devoted knight had hitherto gazed on
the beautiful features, and fair form, and lustrous eyes, of the lovely Rebecca;
eyes whose brilliancy was shaded, and, as it were, mellowed, by the fringe of
her long silken eyelashes, and which a minstrel would have compared to the
evening star darting its rays through a bower of jessamine. But Ivanhoe was
too good a Catholic to retain the same class of feelings towards a Jewess. This
Rebecca had foreseen, and for this very purpose she had hastened to mention
her father's name and lineage; yet—for the fair and wise daughter of Isaac was
not without a touch of female weakness—she could not but sigh internally
when the glance of respectful admiration, not altogether unmixed with
tenderness, with which Ivanhoe had hitherto regarded his unknown
benefactress, was exchanged at once for a manner cold, composed, and
collected, and fraught with no deeper feeling than that which expressed a
grateful sense of courtesy received from an unexpected quarter, and from one
of an inferior race. It was not that Ivanhoe's former carriage expressed more
than that general devotional homage which youth always pays to beauty; yet it
was mortifying that one word should operate as a spell to remove poor
Rebecca, who could not be supposed altogether ignorant of her title to such
homage, into a degraded class, to whom it could not be honourably rendered.
But the gentleness and candour of Rebecca's nature imputed no fault to
Ivanhoe for sharing in the universal prejudices of his age and religion. On the
contrary the fair Jewess, though sensible her patient now regarded her as one
of a race of reprobation, with whom it was disgraceful to hold any beyond the
most necessary intercourse, ceased not to pay the same patient and devoted
attention to his safety and convalescence. She informed him of the necessity
they were under of removing to York, and of her father's resolution to
transport him thither, and tend him in his own house until his health should be
restored. Ivanhoe expressed great repugnance to this plan, which he grounded
on unwillingness to give farther trouble to his benefactors.
"Was there not," he said, "in Ashby, or near it, some Saxon franklin, or even
some wealthy peasant, who would endure the burden of a wounded
countryman's residence with him until he should be again able to bear his
armour?—Was there no convent of Saxon endowment, where he could be
received?—Or could he not be transported as far as Burton, where he was sure
to find hospitality with Waltheoff, the Abbot of St Withold's, to whom he was
related?"
"Any, the worst of these harbourages," said Rebecca, with a melancholy smile,
"would unquestionably be more fitting for your residence than the abode of a
despised Jew; yet, Sir Knight, unless you would dismiss your physician, you
cannot change your lodging. Our nation, as you well know, can cure wounds,
though we deal not in inflicting them; and in our own family, in particular, are
secrets which have been handed down since the days of Solomon, and of
which you have already experienced the advantages. No Nazarene—I crave
your forgiveness, Sir Knight—no Christian leech, within the four seas of
Britain, could enable you to bear your corslet within a month."
"And how soon wilt THOU enable me to brook it?" said Ivanhoe, impatiently.
"Within eight days, if thou wilt be patient and conformable to my directions,"
replied Rebecca.
"By Our Blessed Lady," said Wilfred, "if it be not a sin to name her here, it is
no time for me or any true knight to be bedridden; and if thou accomplish thy
promise, maiden, I will pay thee with my casque full of crowns, come by them
as I may."
"I will accomplish my promise," said Rebecca, "and thou shalt bear thine
armour on the eighth day from hence, if thou will grant me but one boon in the
stead of the silver thou dost promise me."
"If it be within my power, and such as a true Christian knight may yield to one
of thy people," replied Ivanhoe, "I will grant thy boon blithely and thankfully."
"Nay," answered Rebecca, "I will but pray of thee to believe henceforward that
a Jew may do good service to a Christian, without desiring other guerdon than
the blessing of the Great Father who made both Jew and Gentile."
"It were sin to doubt it, maiden," replied Ivanhoe; "and I repose myself on thy
skill without further scruple or question, well trusting you will enable me to
bear my corslet on the eighth day. And now, my kind leech, let me enquire of
the news abroad. What of the noble Saxon Cedric and his household?—what
of the lovely Lady—" He stopt, as if unwilling to speak Rowena's name in the
house of a Jew—"Of her, I mean, who was named Queen of the tournament?"
"And who was selected by you, Sir Knight, to hold that dignity, with judgment
which was admired as much as your valour," replied Rebecca.
The blood which Ivanhoe had lost did not prevent a flush from crossing his
cheek, feeling that he had incautiously betrayed a deep interest in Rowena by
the awkward attempt he had made to conceal it.
"It was less of her I would speak," said he, "than of Prince John; and I would
fain know somewhat of a faithful squire, and why he now attends me not?"
"Let me use my authority as a leech," answered Rebecca, "and enjoin you to
keep silence, and avoid agitating reflections, whilst I apprize you of what you
desire to know. Prince John hath broken off the tournament, and set forward in
all haste towards York, with the nobles, knights, and churchmen of his party,
after collecting such sums as they could wring, by fair means or foul, from
those who are esteemed the wealthy of the land. It is said he designs to assume
his brother's crown."
"Not without a blow struck in its defence," said Ivanhoe, raising himself upon
the couch, "if there were but one true subject in England I will fight for
Richard's title with the best of them—ay, one or two, in his just quarrel!"
"But that you may be able to do so," said Rebecca touching his shoulder with
her hand, "you must now observe my directions, and remain quiet."
"True, maiden," said Ivanhoe, "as quiet as these disquieted times will permit—
And of Cedric and his household?"
"His steward came but brief while since," said the Jewess, "panting with haste,
to ask my father for certain monies, the price of wool the growth of Cedric's
flocks, and from him I learned that Cedric and Athelstane of Coningsburgh
had left Prince John's lodging in high displeasure, and were about to set forth
on their return homeward."
"Went any lady with them to the banquet?" said Wilfred.
"The Lady Rowena," said Rebecca, answering the question with more
precision than it had been asked—"The Lady Rowena went not to the Prince's
feast, and, as the steward reported to us, she is now on her journey back to
Rotherwood, with her guardian Cedric. And touching your faithful squire
Gurth—-"
"Ha!" exclaimed the knight, "knowest thou his name?—But thou dost," he
immediately added, "and well thou mayst, for it was from thy hand, and, as I
am now convinced, from thine own generosity of spirit, that he received but
yesterday a hundred zecchins."
"Speak not of that," said Rebecca, blushing deeply; "I see how easy it is for
the tongue to betray what the heart would gladly conceal."
"But this sum of gold," said Ivanhoe, gravely, "my honour is concerned in
repaying it to your father."
"Let it be as thou wilt," said Rebecca, "when eight days have passed away; but
think not, and speak not now, of aught that may retard thy recovery."
"Be it so, kind maiden," said Ivanhoe; "I were most ungrateful to dispute thy
commands. But one word of the fate of poor Gurth, and I have done with
questioning thee."
"I grieve to tell thee, Sir Knight," answered the Jewess, "that he is in custody
by the order of Cedric."—And then observing the distress which her
communication gave to Wilfred, she instantly added, "But the steward Oswald
said, that if nothing occurred to renew his master's displeasure against him, he
was sure that Cedric would pardon Gurth, a faithful serf, and one who stood
high in favour, and who had but committed this error out of the love which he
bore to Cedric's son. And he said, moreover, that he and his comrades, and
especially Wamba the Jester, were resolved to warn Gurth to make his escape
by the way, in case Cedric's ire against him could not be mitigated."
"Would to God they may keep their purpose!" said Ivanhoe; "but it seems as if
I were destined to bring ruin on whomsoever hath shown kindness to me. My
king, by whom I was honoured and distinguished, thou seest that the brother
most indebted to him is raising his arms to grasp his crown;—my regard hath
brought restraint and trouble on the fairest of her sex;—and now my father in
his mood may slay this poor bondsman but for his love and loyal service to
me!—Thou seest, maiden, what an ill-fated wretch thou dost labour to assist;
be wise, and let me go, ere the misfortunes which track my footsteps like slot-
hounds, shall involve thee also in their pursuit."
"Nay," said Rebecca, "thy weakness and thy grief, Sir Knight, make thee
miscalculate the purposes of Heaven. Thou hast been restored to thy country
when it most needed the assistance of a strong hand and a true heart, and thou
hast humbled the pride of thine enemies and those of thy king, when their horn
was most highly exalted, and for the evil which thou hast sustained, seest thou
not that Heaven has raised thee a helper and a physician, even among the most
despised of the land?—Therefore, be of good courage, and trust that thou art
preserved for some marvel which thine arm shall work before this people.
Adieu—and having taken the medicine which I shall send thee by the hand of
Reuben, compose thyself again to rest, that thou mayest be the more able to
endure the journey on the succeeding day."
Ivanhoe was convinced by the reasoning, and obeyed the directions, of
Rebecca. The drought which Reuben administered was of a sedative and
narcotic quality, and secured the patient sound and undisturbed slumbers. In
the morning his kind physician found him entirely free from feverish
symptoms, and fit to undergo the fatigue of a journey.
He was deposited in the horse-litter which had brought him from the lists, and
every precaution taken for his travelling with ease. In one circumstance only
even the entreaties of Rebecca were unable to secure sufficient attention to the
accommodation of the wounded knight. Isaac, like the enriched traveller of
Juvenal's tenth satire, had ever the fear of robbery before his eyes, conscious
that he would be alike accounted fair game by the marauding Norman noble,
and by the Saxon outlaw. He therefore journeyed at a great rate, and made
short halts, and shorter repasts, so that he passed by Cedric and Athelstane
who had several hours the start of him, but who had been delayed by their
protracted feasting at the convent of Saint Withold's. Yet such was the virtue
of Miriam's balsam, or such the strength of Ivanhoe's constitution, that he did
not sustain from the hurried journey that inconvenience which his kind
physician had apprehended.
In another point of view, however, the Jew's haste proved somewhat more than
good speed. The rapidity with which he insisted on travelling, bred several
disputes between him and the party whom he had hired to attend him as a
guard. These men were Saxons, and not free by any means from the national
love of ease and good living which the Normans stigmatized as laziness and
gluttony. Reversing Shylock's position, they had accepted the employment in
hopes of feeding upon the wealthy Jew, and were very much displeased when
they found themselves disappointed, by the rapidity with which he insisted on
their proceeding. They remonstrated also upon the risk of damage to their
horses by these forced marches. Finally, there arose betwixt Isaac and his
satellites a deadly feud, concerning the quantity of wine and ale to be allowed
for consumption at each meal. And thus it happened, that when the alarm of
danger approached, and that which Isaac feared was likely to come upon him,
he was deserted by the discontented mercenaries on whose protection he had
relied, without using the means necessary to secure their attachment.
In this deplorable condition the Jew, with his daughter and her wounded
patient, were found by Cedric, as has already been noticed, and soon
afterwards fell into the power of De Bracy and his confederates. Little notice
was at first taken of the horse-litter, and it might have remained behind but for
the curiosity of De Bracy, who looked into it under the impression that it
might contain the object of his enterprise, for Rowena had not unveiled
herself. But De Bracy's astonishment was considerable, when he discovered
that the litter contained a wounded man, who, conceiving himself to have
fallen into the power of Saxon outlaws, with whom his name might be a
protection for himself and his friends, frankly avowed himself to be Wilfred of
Ivanhoe.
The ideas of chivalrous honour, which, amidst his wildness and levity, never
utterly abandoned De Bracy, prohibited him from doing the knight any injury
in his defenceless condition, and equally interdicted his betraying him to
Front-de-Boeuf, who would have had no scruples to put to death, under any
circumstances, the rival claimant of the fief of Ivanhoe. On the other hand, to
liberate a suitor preferred by the Lady Rowena, as the events of the
tournament, and indeed Wilfred's previous banishment from his father's house,
had made matter of notoriety, was a pitch far above the flight of De Bracy's
generosity. A middle course betwixt good and evil was all which he found
himself capable of adopting, and he commanded two of his own squires to
keep close by the litter, and to suffer no one to approach it. If questioned, they
were directed by their master to say, that the empty litter of the Lady Rowena
was employed to transport one of their comrades who had been wounded in
the scuffle. On arriving at Torquilstone, while the Knight Templar and the lord
of that castle were each intent upon their own schemes, the one on the Jew's
treasure, and the other on his daughter, De Bracy's squires conveyed Ivanhoe,
still under the name of a wounded comrade, to a distant apartment. This
explanation was accordingly returned by these men to Front-de-Boeuf, when
he questioned them why they did not make for the battlements upon the alarm.
"A wounded companion!" he replied in great wrath and astonishment. "No
wonder that churls and yeomen wax so presumptuous as even to lay leaguer
before castles, and that clowns and swineherds send defiances to nobles, since
men-at-arms have turned sick men's nurses, and Free Companions are grown
keepers of dying folk's curtains, when the castle is about to be assailed.—To
the battlements, ye loitering villains!" he exclaimed, raising his stentorian
voice till the arches around rung again, "to the battlements, or I will splinter
your bones with this truncheon!"
The men sulkily replied, "that they desired nothing better than to go to the
battlements, providing Front-de-Boeuf would bear them out with their master,
who had commanded them to tend the dying man."
"The dying man, knaves!" rejoined the Baron; "I promise thee we shall all be
dying men an we stand not to it the more stoutly. But I will relieve the guard
upon this caitiff companion of yours.—Here, Urfried—hag—fiend of a Saxon
witch—hearest me not?—tend me this bedridden fellow since he must needs
be tended, whilst these knaves use their weapons.—Here be two arblasts,
comrades, with windlaces and quarrells —to the barbican with you, and see
you drive each bolt through a Saxon brain."
The men, who, like most of their description, were fond of enterprise and
detested inaction, went joyfully to the scene of danger as they were
commanded, and thus the charge of Ivanhoe was transferred to Urfried, or
Ulrica. But she, whose brain was burning with remembrance of injuries and
with hopes of vengeance, was readily induced to devolve upon Rebecca the
care of her patient.

CHAPTER XXIX

Ascend the watch-tower yonder, valiant soldier,

Look on the field, and say how goes the battle.
—Schiller's Maid of Orleans
A moment of peril is often also a moment of open-hearted kindness and
affection. We are thrown off our guard by the general agitation of our feelings,
and betray the intensity of those, which, at more tranquil periods, our prudence
at least conceals, if it cannot altogether suppress them. In finding herself once
more by the side of Ivanhoe, Rebecca was astonished at the keen sensation of
pleasure which she experienced, even at a time when all around them both was
danger, if not despair. As she felt his pulse, and enquired after his health, there
was a softness in her touch and in her accents implying a kinder interest than
she would herself have been pleased to have voluntarily expressed. Her voice
faltered and her hand trembled, and it was only the cold question of Ivanhoe,
"Is it you, gentle maiden?" which recalled her to herself, and reminded her the
sensations which she felt were not and could not be mutual. A sigh escaped,
but it was scarce audible; and the questions which she asked the knight
concerning his state of health were put in the tone of calm friendship. Ivanhoe
answered her hastily that he was, in point of health, as well, and better than he
could have expected—"Thanks," he said, "dear Rebecca, to thy helpful skill."
"He calls me DEAR Rebecca," said the maiden to herself, "but it is in the cold
and careless tone which ill suits the word. His war-horse—his hunting hound,
are dearer to him than the despised Jewess!"
"My mind, gentle maiden," continued Ivanhoe, "is more disturbed by anxiety,
than my body with pain. From the speeches of those men who were my
warders just now, I learn that I am a prisoner, and, if I judge aright of the loud
hoarse voice which even now dispatched them hence on some military duty, I
am in the castle of Front-de-Boeuf—If so, how will this end, or how can I
protect Rowena and my father?"
"He names not the Jew or Jewess," said Rebecca internally; "yet what is our
portion in him, and how justly am I punished by Heaven for letting my
thoughts dwell upon him!" She hastened after this brief self-accusation to give
Ivanhoe what information she could; but it amounted only to this, that the
Templar Bois-Guilbert, and the Baron Front-de-Boeuf, were commanders
within the castle; that it was beleaguered from without, but by whom she knew
not. She added, that there was a Christian priest within the castle who might be
possessed of more information.
"A Christian priest!" said the knight, joyfully; "fetch him hither, Rebecca, if
thou canst—say a sick man desires his ghostly counsel—say what thou wilt,
but bring him—something I must do or attempt, but how can I determine until
I know how matters stand without?"
Rebecca in compliance with the wishes of Ivanhoe, made that attempt to bring
Cedric into the wounded Knight's chamber, which was defeated as we have
already seen by the interference of Urfried, who had also been on the watch to
intercept the supposed monk. Rebecca retired to communicate to Ivanhoe the
result of her errand.
They had not much leisure to regret the failure of this source of intelligence, or
to contrive by what means it might be supplied; for the noise within the castle,
occasioned by the defensive preparations which had been considerable for
some time, now increased into tenfold bustle and clamour. The heavy, yet
hasty step of the men-at-arms, traversed the battlements or resounded on the
narrow and winding passages and stairs which led to the various bartisans and
points of defence. The voices of the knights were heard, animating their
followers, or directing means of defence, while their commands were often
drowned in the clashing of armour, or the clamorous shouts of those whom
they addressed. Tremendous as these sounds were, and yet more terrible from
the awful event which they presaged, there was a sublimity mixed with them,
which Rebecca's high-toned mind could feel even in that moment of terror.
Her eye kindled, although the blood fled from her cheeks; and there was a
strong mixture of fear, and of a thrilling sense of the sublime, as she repeated,
half whispering to herself, half speaking to her companion, the sacred text,
—"The quiver rattleth—the glittering spear and the shield—the noise of the
captains and the shouting!"
But Ivanhoe was like the war-horse of that sublime passage, glowing with
impatience at his inactivity, and with his ardent desire to mingle in the affray
of which these sounds were the introduction. "If I could but drag myself," he
said, "to yonder window, that I might see how this brave game is like to go—If
I had but bow to shoot a shaft, or battle-axe to strike were it but a single blow
for our deliverance!—It is in vain—it is in vain—I am alike nerveless and
weaponless!"
"Fret not thyself, noble knight," answered Rebecca, "the sounds have ceased
of a sudden—it may be they join not battle."
"Thou knowest nought of it," said Wilfred, impatiently; "this dead pause only
shows that the men are at their posts on the walls, and expecting an instant
attack; what we have heard was but the instant muttering of the storm—it will
burst anon in all its fury.—Could I but reach yonder window!"
"Thou wilt but injure thyself by the attempt, noble knight," replied his
attendant. Observing his extreme solicitude, she firmly added, "I myself will
stand at the lattice, and describe to you as I can what passes without."
"You must not—you shall not!" exclaimed Ivanhoe; "each lattice, each
aperture, will be soon a mark for the archers; some random shaft—"
"It shall be welcome!" murmured Rebecca, as with firm pace she ascended
two or three steps, which led to the window of which they spoke.
"Rebecca, dear Rebecca!" exclaimed Ivanhoe, "this is no maiden's pastime—
do not expose thyself to wounds and death, and render me for ever miserable
for having given the occasion; at least, cover thyself with yonder ancient
buckler, and show as little of your person at the lattice as may be."
Following with wonderful promptitude the directions of Ivanhoe, and availing
herself of the protection of the large ancient shield, which she placed against
the lower part of the window, Rebecca, with tolerable security to herself, could
witness part of what was passing without the castle, and report to Ivanhoe the
preparations which the assailants were making for the storm. Indeed the
situation which she thus obtained was peculiarly favourable for this purpose,
because, being placed on an angle of the main building, Rebecca could not
only see what passed beyond the precincts of the castle, but also commanded a
view of the outwork likely to be the first object of the meditated assault. It was
an exterior fortification of no great height or strength, intended to protect the
postern-gate, through which Cedric had been recently dismissed by Front-de-
Boeuf. The castle moat divided this species of barbican from the rest of the
fortress, so that, in case of its being taken, it was easy to cut off the
communication with the main building, by withdrawing the temporary bridge.
In the outwork was a sallyport corresponding to the postern of the castle, and
the whole was surrounded by a strong palisade. Rebecca could observe, from
the number of men placed for the defence of this post, that the besieged
entertained apprehensions for its safety; and from the mustering of the
assailants in a direction nearly opposite to the outwork, it seemed no less plain
that it had been selected as a vulnerable point of attack.
These appearances she hastily communicated to Ivanhoe, and added, "The
skirts of the wood seem lined with archers, although only a few are advanced
from its dark shadow."
"Under what banner?" asked Ivanhoe.
"Under no ensign of war which I can observe," answered Rebecca.
"A singular novelty," muttered the knight, "to advance to storm such a castle
without pennon or banner displayed!—Seest thou who they be that act as
leaders?"
"A knight, clad in sable armour, is the most conspicuous," said the Jewess; "he
alone is armed from head to heel, and seems to assume the direction of all
around him."
"What device does he bear on his shield?" replied Ivanhoe.
"Something resembling a bar of iron, and a padlock painted blue on the black
shield."
"A fetterlock and shacklebolt azure," said Ivanhoe; "I know not who may bear
the device, but well I ween it might now be mine own. Canst thou not see the
motto?"
"Scarce the device itself at this distance," replied Rebecca; "but when the sun
glances fair upon his shield, it shows as I tell you."
"Seem there no other leaders?" exclaimed the anxious enquirer.
"None of mark and distinction that I can behold from this station," said
Rebecca; "but, doubtless, the other side of the castle is also assailed. They
appear even now preparing to advance—God of Zion, protect us!—What a
dreadful sight!—Those who advance first bear huge shields and defences
made of plank; the others follow, bending their bows as they come on.—They
raise their bows!—God of Moses, forgive the creatures thou hast made!"
Her description was here suddenly interrupted by the signal for assault, which
was given by the blast of a shrill bugle, and at once answered by a flourish of
the Norman trumpets from the battlements, which, mingled with the deep and
hollow clang of the nakers, (a species of kettle-drum,) retorted in notes of
defiance the challenge of the enemy. The shouts of both parties augmented the
fearful din, the assailants crying, "Saint George for merry England!" and the
Normans answering them with loud cries of "En avant De Bracy!—Beau-
seant! Beau-seant!—Front-de-Boeuf a la rescousse!" according to the war-
cries of their different commanders.
It was not, however, by clamour that the contest was to be decided, and the
desperate efforts of the assailants were met by an equally vigorous defence on
the part of the besieged. The archers, trained by their woodland pastimes to the
most effective use of the long-bow, shot, to use the appropriate phrase of the
time, so "wholly together," that no point at which a defender could show the
least part of his person, escaped their cloth-yard shafts. By this heavy
discharge, which continued as thick and sharp as hail, while, notwithstanding,
every arrow had its individual aim, and flew by scores together against each
embrasure and opening in the parapets, as well as at every window where a
defender either occasionally had post, or might be suspected to be stationed,—
by this sustained discharge, two or three of the garrison were slain, and several
others wounded. But, confident in their armour of proof, and in the cover
which their situation afforded, the followers of Front-de-Boeuf, and his allies,
showed an obstinacy in defence proportioned to the fury of the attack and
replied with the discharge of their large cross-bows, as well as with their long-
bows, slings, and other missile weapons, to the close and continued shower of
arrows; and, as the assailants were necessarily but indifferently protected, did
considerably more damage than they received at their hand. The whizzing of
shafts and of missiles, on both sides, was only interrupted by the shouts which
arose when either side inflicted or sustained some notable loss.
"And I must lie here like a bedridden monk," exclaimed Ivanhoe, "while the
game that gives me freedom or death is played out by the hand of others!—
Look from the window once again, kind maiden, but beware that you are not
marked by the archers beneath—Look out once more, and tell me if they yet
advance to the storm."
With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which she had employed in
mental devotion, Rebecca again took post at the lattice, sheltering herself,
however, so as not to be visible from beneath.
"What dost thou see, Rebecca?" again demanded the wounded knight.
"Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle mine eyes, and to
hide the bowmen who shoot them."
"That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe; "if they press not right on to carry the
castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little against stone
walls and bulwarks. Look for the Knight of the Fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and
see how he bears himself; for as the leader is, so will his followers be."
"I see him not," said Rebecca.
"Foul craven!" exclaimed Ivanhoe; "does he blench from the helm when the
wind blows highest?"
"He blenches not! he blenches not!" said Rebecca, "I see him now; he leads a
body of men close under the outer barrier of the barbican. —They pull down
the piles and palisades; they hew down the barriers with axes.—His high black
plume floats abroad over the throng, like a raven over the field of the slain.—
They have made a breach in the barriers—they rush in—they are thrust back!
—Front-de-Boeuf heads the defenders; I see his gigantic form above the press.
They throng again to the breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand, and
man to man. God of Jacob! it is the meeting of two fierce tides—the conflict
of two oceans moved by adverse winds!"
She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable longer to endure a sight so
terrible.
"Look forth again, Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, mistaking the cause of her retiring;
"the archery must in some degree have ceased, since they are now fighting
hand to hand.—Look again, there is now less danger."
Rebecca again looked forth, and almost immediately exclaimed, "Holy
prophets of the law! Front-de-Boeuf and the Black Knight fight hand to hand
on the breach, amid the roar of their followers, who watch the progress of the
strife—Heaven strike with the cause of the oppressed and of the captive!" She
then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed, "He is down!—he is down!"
"Who is down?" cried Ivanhoe; "for our dear Lady's sake, tell me which has
fallen?"
"The Black Knight," answered Rebecca, faintly; then instantly again shouted
with joyful eagerness—"But no—but no!—the name of the Lord of Hosts be
blessed!—he is on foot again, and fights as if there were twenty men's strength
in his single arm—His sword is broken—he snatches an axe from a yeoman—
he presses Front-de-Boeuf with blow on blow—The giant stoops and totters
like an oak under the steel of the woodman—he falls—he falls!"
"Front-de-Boeuf?" exclaimed Ivanhoe.
"Front-de-Boeuf!" answered the Jewess; "his men rush to the rescue, headed
by the haughty Templar—their united force compels the champion to pause—
They drag Front-de-Boeuf within the walls."
"The assailants have won the barriers, have they not?" said Ivanhoe.
"They have—they have!" exclaimed Rebecca—"and they press the besieged
hard upon the outer wall; some plant ladders, some swarm like bees, and
endeavour to ascend upon the shoulders of each other—down go stones,
beams, and trunks of trees upon their heads, and as fast as they bear the
wounded to the rear, fresh men supply their places in the assault—Great God!
hast thou given men thine own image, that it should be thus cruelly defaced by
the hands of their brethren!"
"Think not of that," said Ivanhoe; "this is no time for such thoughts—Who
yield?—who push their way?"
"The ladders are thrown down," replied Rebecca, shuddering; "the soldiers lie
grovelling under them like crushed reptiles—The besieged have the better."
"Saint George strike for us!" exclaimed the knight; "do the false yeomen give
way?"
"No!" exclaimed Rebecca, "they bear themselves right yeomanly—the Black
Knight approaches the postern with his huge axe—the thundering blows which
he deals, you may hear them above all the din and shouts of the battle—Stones
and beams are hailed down on the bold champion—he regards them no more
than if they were thistle-down or feathers!"
"By Saint John of Acre," said Ivanhoe, raising himself joyfully on his couch,
"methought there was but one man in England that might do such a deed!"
"The postern gate shakes," continued Rebecca; "it crashes—it is splintered by
his blows—they rush in—the outwork is won—Oh, God!—they hurl the
defenders from the battlements—they throw them into the moat—O men, if ye
be indeed men, spare them that can resist no longer!"
"The bridge—the bridge which communicates with the castle—have they won
that pass?" exclaimed Ivanhoe.
"No," replied Rebecca, "The Templar has destroyed the plank on which they
crossed—few of the defenders escaped with him into the castle—the shrieks
and cries which you hear tell the fate of the others—Alas!—I see it is still
more difficult to look upon victory than upon battle."
"What do they now, maiden?" said Ivanhoe; "look forth yet again—this is no
time to faint at bloodshed."
"It is over for the time," answered Rebecca; "our friends strengthen themselves
within the outwork which they have mastered, and it affords them so good a
shelter from the foemen's shot, that the garrison only bestow a few bolts on it
from interval to interval, as if rather to disquiet than effectually to injure
them."
"Our friends," said Wilfred, "will surely not abandon an enterprise so
gloriously begun and so happily attained.—O no! I will put my faith in the
good knight whose axe hath rent heart-of-oak and bars of iron.—Singular," he
again muttered to himself, "if there be two who can do a deed of such derring-
do! —a fetterlock, and a shacklebolt on a field sable—what may that mean?—
seest thou nought else, Rebecca, by which the Black Knight may be
distinguished?"
"Nothing," said the Jewess; "all about him is black as the wing of the night
raven. Nothing can I spy that can mark him further—but having once seen him
put forth his strength in battle, methinks I could know him again among a
thousand warriors. He rushes to the fray as if he were summoned to a banquet.
There is more than mere strength, there seems as if the whole soul and spirit of
the champion were given to every blow which he deals upon his enemies. God
assoilize him of the sin of bloodshed!—it is fearful, yet magnificent, to behold
how the arm and heart of one man can triumph over hundreds."
"Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, "thou hast painted a hero; surely they rest but to
refresh their force, or to provide the means of crossing the moat—Under such
a leader as thou hast spoken this knight to be, there are no craven fears, no
cold-blooded delays, no yielding up a gallant emprize; since the difficulties
which render it arduous render it also glorious. I swear by the honour of my
house—I vow by the name of my bright lady-love, I would endure ten years'
captivity to fight one day by that good knight's side in such a quarrel as this!"
"Alas," said Rebecca, leaving her station at the window, and approaching the
couch of the wounded knight, "this impatient yearning after action—this
struggling with and repining at your present weakness, will not fail to injure
your returning health—How couldst thou hope to inflict wounds on others, ere
that be healed which thou thyself hast received?"
"Rebecca," he replied, "thou knowest not how impossible it is for one trained
to actions of chivalry to remain passive as a priest, or a woman, when they are
acting deeds of honour around him. The love of battle is the food upon which
we live—the dust of the 'melee' is the breath of our nostrils! We live not—we
wish not to live—longer than while we are victorious and renowned—Such,
maiden, are the laws of chivalry to which we are sworn, and to which we offer
all that we hold dear."
"Alas!" said the fair Jewess, "and what is it, valiant knight, save an offering of
sacrifice to a demon of vain glory, and a passing through the fire to Moloch?
—What remains to you as the prize of all the blood you have spilled—of all
the travail and pain you have endured—of all the tears which your deeds have
caused, when death hath broken the strong man's spear, and overtaken the
speed of his war-horse?"
"What remains?" cried Ivanhoe; "Glory, maiden, glory! which gilds our
sepulchre and embalms our name."
"Glory?" continued Rebecca; "alas, is the rusted mail which hangs as a
hatchment over the champion's dim and mouldering tomb—is the defaced
sculpture of the inscription which the ignorant monk can hardly read to the
enquiring pilgrim—are these sufficient rewards for the sacrifice of every
kindly affection, for a life spent miserably that ye may make others miserable?
Or is there such virtue in the rude rhymes of a wandering bard, that domestic
love, kindly affection, peace and happiness, are so wildly bartered, to become
the hero of those ballads which vagabond minstrels sing to drunken churls
over their evening ale?"
"By the soul of Hereward!" replied the knight impatiently, "thou speakest,
maiden, of thou knowest not what. Thou wouldst quench the pure light of
chivalry, which alone distinguishes the noble from the base, the gentle knight
from the churl and the savage; which rates our life far, far beneath the pitch of
our honour; raises us victorious over pain, toil, and suffering, and teaches us to
fear no evil but disgrace. Thou art no Christian, Rebecca; and to thee are
unknown those high feelings which swell the bosom of a noble maiden when
her lover hath done some deed of emprize which sanctions his flame.
Chivalry!—why, maiden, she is the nurse of pure and high affection—the stay
of the oppressed, the redresser of grievances, the curb of the power of the
tyrant—Nobility were but an empty name without her, and liberty finds the
best protection in her lance and her sword."
"I am, indeed," said Rebecca, "sprung from a race whose courage was
distinguished in the defence of their own land, but who warred not, even while
yet a nation, save at the command of the Deity, or in defending their country
from oppression. The sound of the trumpet wakes Judah no longer, and her
despised children are now but the unresisting victims of hostile and military
oppression. Well hast thou spoken, Sir Knight,—until the God of Jacob shall
raise up for his chosen people a second Gideon, or a new Maccabeus, it ill
beseemeth the Jewish damsel to speak of battle or of war."
The high-minded maiden concluded the argument in a tone of sorrow, which
deeply expressed her sense of the degradation of her people, embittered
perhaps by the idea that Ivanhoe considered her as one not entitled to interfere
in a case of honour, and incapable of entertaining or expressing sentiments of
honour and generosity.
"How little he knows this bosom," she said, "to imagine that cowardice or
meanness of soul must needs be its guests, because I have censured the
fantastic chivalry of the Nazarenes! Would to heaven that the shedding of
mine own blood, drop by drop, could redeem the captivity of Judah! Nay,
would to God it could avail to set free my father, and this his benefactor, from
the chains of the oppressor! The proud Christian should then see whether the
daughter of God's chosen people dared not to die as bravely as the vainest
Nazarene maiden, that boasts her descent from some petty chieftain of the
rude and frozen north!"
She then looked towards the couch of the wounded knight.
"He sleeps," she said; "nature exhausted by sufferance and the waste of spirits,
his wearied frame embraces the first moment of temporary relaxation to sink
into slumber. Alas! is it a crime that I should look upon him, when it may be
for the last time?—When yet but a short space, and those fair features will be
no longer animated by the bold and buoyant spirit which forsakes them not
even in sleep!—When the nostril shall be distended, the mouth agape, the eyes
fixed and bloodshot; and when the proud and noble knight may be trodden on
by the lowest caitiff of this accursed castle, yet stir not when the heel is lifted
up against him!—And my father!—oh, my father! evil is it with his daughter,
when his grey hairs are not remembered because of the golden locks of youth!
—What know I but that these evils are the messengers of Jehovah's wrath to
the unnatural child, who thinks of a stranger's captivity before a parent's? who
forgets the desolation of Judah, and looks upon the comeliness of a Gentile
and a stranger?—But I will tear this folly from my heart, though every fibre
bleed as I rend it away!"
She wrapped herself closely in her veil, and sat down at a distance from the
couch of the wounded knight, with her back turned towards it, fortifying, or
endeavouring to fortify her mind, not only against the impending evils from
without, but also against those treacherous feelings which assailed her from
within.
 CHAPTER XXX

Approach the chamber, look upon his bed.

His is the passing of no peaceful ghost,
Which, as the lark arises to the sky,
'Mid morning's sweetest breeze and softest dew,
Is wing'd to heaven by good men's sighs and tears!—
Anselm parts otherwise.
—Old Play
During the interval of quiet which followed the first success of the besiegers,
while the one party was preparing to pursue their advantage, and the other to
strengthen their means of defence, the Templar and De Bracy held brief
council together in the hall of the castle.
"Where is Front-de-Boeuf?" said the latter, who had superintended the defence
of the fortress on the other side; "men say he hath been slain."
"He lives," said the Templar, coolly, "lives as yet; but had he worn the bull's
head of which he bears the name, and ten plates of iron to fence it withal, he
must have gone down before yonder fatal axe. Yet a few hours, and Front-de-
Boeuf is with his fathers—a powerful limb lopped off Prince John's
enterprise."
"And a brave addition to the kingdom of Satan," said De Bracy; "this comes of
reviling saints and angels, and ordering images of holy things and holy men to
be flung down on the heads of these rascaille yeomen."
"Go to—thou art a fool," said the Templar; "thy superstition is upon a level
with Front-de-Boeuf's want of faith; neither of you can render a reason for
your belief or unbelief."
"Benedicite, Sir Templar," replied De Bracy, "pray you to keep better rule with
your tongue when I am the theme of it. By the Mother of Heaven, I am a better
Christian man than thou and thy fellowship; for the 'bruit' goeth shrewdly out,
that the most holy Order of the Temple of Zion nurseth not a few heretics
within its bosom, and that Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert is of the number."
"Care not thou for such reports," said the Templar; "but let us think of making
good the castle.—How fought these villain yeomen on thy side?"
"Like fiends incarnate," said De Bracy. "They swarmed close up to the walls,
headed, as I think, by the knave who won the prize at the archery, for I knew
his horn and baldric. And this is old Fitzurse's boasted policy, encouraging
these malapert knaves to rebel against us! Had I not been armed in proof, the
villain had marked me down seven times with as little remorse as if I had been
a buck in season. He told every rivet on my armour with a cloth-yard shaft,
that rapped against my ribs with as little compunction as if my bones had been
of iron—But that I wore a shirt of Spanish mail under my plate-coat, I had
been fairly sped."
"But you maintained your post?" said the Templar. "We lost the outwork on
our part."
"That is a shrewd loss," said De Bracy; "the knaves will find cover there to
assault the castle more closely, and may, if not well watched, gain some
unguarded corner of a tower, or some forgotten window, and so break in upon
us. Our numbers are too few for the defence of every point, and the men
complain that they can nowhere show themselves, but they are the mark for as
many arrows as a parish-butt on a holyday even. Front-de-Boeuf is dying too,
so we shall receive no more aid from his bull's head and brutal strength. How
think you, Sir Brian, were we not better make a virtue of necessity, and
compound with the rogues by delivering up our prisoners?"
"How?" exclaimed the Templar; "deliver up our prisoners, and stand an object
alike of ridicule and execration, as the doughty warriors who dared by a night-
attack to possess themselves of the persons of a party of defenceless travellers,
yet could not make good a strong castle against a vagabond troop of outlaws,
led by swineherds, jesters, and the very refuse of mankind?—Shame on thy
counsel, Maurice de Bracy!—The ruins of this castle shall bury both my body
and my shame, ere I consent to such base and dishonourable composition."
"Let us to the walls, then," said De Bracy, carelessly; "that man never
breathed, be he Turk or Templar, who held life at lighter rate than I do. But I
trust there is no dishonour in wishing I had here some two scores of my gallant
troop of Free Companions?—Oh, my brave lances! if ye knew but how hard
your captain were this day bested, how soon should I see my banner at the
head of your clump of spears! And how short while would these rabble
villains stand to endure your encounter!"
"Wish for whom thou wilt," said the Templar, "but let us make what defence
we can with the soldiers who remain—They are chiefly Front-de-Boeuf's
followers, hated by the English for a thousand acts of insolence and
oppression."
"The better," said De Bracy; "the rugged slaves will defend themselves to the
last drop of their blood, ere they encounter the revenge of the peasants
without. Let us up and be doing, then, Brian de Bois-Guilbert; and, live or die,
thou shalt see Maurice de Bracy bear himself this day as a gentleman of blood
and lineage."
"To the walls!" answered the Templar; and they both ascended the battlements
to do all that skill could dictate, and manhood accomplish, in defence of the
place. They readily agreed that the point of greatest danger was that opposite
to the outwork of which the assailants had possessed themselves. The castle,
indeed, was divided from that barbican by the moat, and it was impossible that
the besiegers could assail the postern-door, with which the outwork
corresponded, without surmounting that obstacle; but it was the opinion both
of the Templar and De Bracy, that the besiegers, if governed by the same
policy their leader had already displayed, would endeavour, by a formidable
assault, to draw the chief part of the defenders' observation to this point, and
take measures to avail themselves of every negligence which might take place
in the defence elsewhere. To guard against such an evil, their numbers only
permitted the knights to place sentinels from space to space along the walls in
communication with each other, who might give the alarm whenever danger
was threatened. Meanwhile, they agreed that De Bracy should command the
defence at the postern, and the Templar should keep with him a score of men
or thereabouts as a body of reserve, ready to hasten to any other point which
might be suddenly threatened. The loss of the barbican had also this
unfortunate effect, that, notwithstanding the superior height of the castle walls,
the besieged could not see from them, with the same precision as before, the
operations of the enemy; for some straggling underwood approached so near
the sallyport of the outwork, that the assailants might introduce into it
whatever force they thought proper, not only under cover, but even without the
knowledge of the defenders. Utterly uncertain, therefore, upon what point the
storm was to burst, De Bracy and his companion were under the necessity of
providing against every possible contingency, and their followers, however
brave, experienced the anxious dejection of mind incident to men enclosed by
enemies, who possessed the power of choosing their time and mode of attack.
Meanwhile, the lord of the beleaguered and endangered castle lay upon a bed
of bodily pain and mental agony. He had not the usual resource of bigots in
that superstitious period, most of whom were wont to atone for the crimes they
were guilty of by liberality to the church, stupefying by this means their terrors
by the idea of atonement and forgiveness; and although the refuge which
success thus purchased, was no more like to the peace of mind which follows
on sincere repentance, than the turbid stupefaction procured by opium
resembles healthy and natural slumbers, it was still a state of mind preferable
to the agonies of awakened remorse. But among the vices of Front-de-Boeuf, a
hard and griping man, avarice was predominant; and he preferred setting
church and churchmen at defiance, to purchasing from them pardon and
absolution at the price of treasure and of manors. Nor did the Templar, an
infidel of another stamp, justly characterise his associate, when he said Front-
de-Boeuf could assign no cause for his unbelief and contempt for the
established faith; for the Baron would have alleged that the Church sold her
wares too dear, that the spiritual freedom which she put up to sale was only to
be bought like that of the chief captain of Jerusalem, "with a great sum," and
Front-de-Boeuf preferred denying the virtue of the medicine, to paying the
expense of the physician.
But the moment had now arrived when earth and all his treasures were gliding
from before his eyes, and when the savage Baron's heart, though hard as a
nether millstone, became appalled as he gazed forward into the waste darkness
of futurity. The fever of his body aided the impatience and agony of his mind,
and his death-bed exhibited a mixture of the newly awakened feelings of
horror, combating with the fixed and inveterate obstinacy of his disposition;—
a fearful state of mind, only to be equalled in those tremendous regions, where
there are complaints without hope, remorse without repentance, a dreadful
sense of present agony, and a presentiment that it cannot cease or be
diminished!
"Where be these dog-priests now," growled the Baron, "who set such price on
their ghostly mummery?—where be all those unshod Carmelites, for whom
old Front-de-Boeuf founded the convent of St Anne, robbing his heir of many
a fair rood of meadow, and many a fat field and close—where be the greedy
hounds now?—Swilling, I warrant me, at the ale, or playing their juggling
tricks at the bedside of some miserly churl.—Me, the heir of their founder—
me, whom their foundation binds them to pray for—me—ungrateful villains
as they are!—they suffer to die like the houseless dog on yonder common,
unshriven and unhouseled!—Tell the Templar to come hither—he is a priest,
and may do something—But no!—as well confess myself to the devil as to
Brian de Bois-Guilbert, who recks neither of heaven nor of hell.—I have heard
old men talk of prayer—prayer by their own voice—Such need not to court or
to bribe the false priest—But I—I dare not!"
"Lives Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," said a broken and shrill voice close by his
bedside, "to say there is that which he dares not!"
The evil conscience and the shaken nerves of Front-de-Boeuf heard, in this
strange interruption to his soliloquy, the voice of one of those demons, who, as
the superstition of the times believed, beset the beds of dying men to distract
their thoughts, and turn them from the meditations which concerned their
eternal welfare. He shuddered and drew himself together; but, instantly
summoning up his wonted resolution, he exclaimed, "Who is there?—what art
thou, that darest to echo my words in a tone like that of the night-raven?—
Come before my couch that I may see thee."
"I am thine evil angel, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," replied the voice.
"Let me behold thee then in thy bodily shape, if thou be'st indeed a fiend,"
replied the dying knight; "think not that I will blench from thee.—By the
eternal dungeon, could I but grapple with these horrors that hover round me,
as I have done with mortal dangers, heaven or hell should never say that I
shrunk from the conflict!"
"Think on thy sins, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," said the almost unearthly voice,
"on rebellion, on rapine, on murder!—Who stirred up the licentious John to
war against his grey-headed father—against his generous brother?"
"Be thou fiend, priest, or devil," replied Front-de-Boeuf, "thou liest in thy
throat!—Not I stirred John to rebellion—not I alone—there were fifty knights
and barons, the flower of the midland counties—better men never laid lance in
rest—And must I answer for the fault done by fifty?—False fiend, I defy thee!
Depart, and haunt my couch no more—let me die in peace if thou be mortal—
if thou be a demon, thy time is not yet come."
"In peace thou shalt NOT die," repeated the voice; "even in death shalt thou
think on thy murders—on the groans which this castle has echoed—on the
blood that is engrained in its floors!"
"Thou canst not shake me by thy petty malice," answered Front-de-Boeuf,
with a ghastly and constrained laugh. "The infidel Jew—it was merit with
heaven to deal with him as I did, else wherefore are men canonized who dip
their hands in the blood of Saracens?—The Saxon porkers, whom I have slain,
they were the foes of my country, and of my lineage, and of my liege lord.—
Ho! ho! thou seest there is no crevice in my coat of plate—Art thou fled?—art
thou silenced?"
"No, foul parricide!" replied the voice; "think of thy father!—think of his
death!—think of his banquet-room flooded with his gore, and that poured forth
by the hand of a son!"
"Ha!" answered the Baron, after a long pause, "an thou knowest that, thou art
indeed the author of evil, and as omniscient as the monks call thee!—That
secret I deemed locked in my own breast, and in that of one besides—the
temptress, the partaker of my guilt.—Go, leave me, fiend! and seek the Saxon
witch Ulrica, who alone could tell thee what she and I alone witnessed.—Go, I
say, to her, who washed the wounds, and straighted the corpse, and gave to the
slain man the outward show of one parted in time and in the course of nature
—Go to her, she was my temptress, the foul provoker, the more foul rewarder,
of the deed—let her, as well as I, taste of the tortures which anticipate hell!"
"She already tastes them," said Ulrica, stepping before the couch of Front-de-
Boeuf; "she hath long drunken of this cup, and its bitterness is now sweetened
to see that thou dost partake it.—Grind not thy teeth, Front-de-Boeuf—roll not
thine eyes—clench not thine hand, nor shake it at me with that gesture of
menace!—The hand which, like that of thy renowned ancestor who gained thy
name, could have broken with one stroke the skull of a mountain-bull, is now
unnerved and powerless as mine own!"
"Vile murderous hag!" replied Front-de-Boeuf; "detestable screech-owl! it is
then thou who art come to exult over the ruins thou hast assisted to lay low?"
"Ay, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," answered she, "it is Ulrica!—it is the daughter
of the murdered Torquil Wolfganger!—it is the sister of his slaughtered sons!
—it is she who demands of thee, and of thy father's house, father and kindred,
name and fame—all that she has lost by the name of Front-de-Boeuf!—Think
of my wrongs, Front-de-Boeuf, and answer me if I speak not truth. Thou hast
been my evil angel, and I will be thine—I will dog thee till the very instant of
dissolution!"
"Detestable fury!" exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf, "that moment shalt thou never
witness—Ho! Giles, Clement, and Eustace! Saint Maur, and Stephen! seize
this damned witch, and hurl her from the battlements headlong—she has
betrayed us to the Saxon!—Ho! Saint Maur! Clement! false-hearted, knaves,
where tarry ye?"
"Call on them again, valiant Baron," said the hag, with a smile of grisly
mockery; "summon thy vassals around thee, doom them that loiter to the
scourge and the dungeon—But know, mighty chief," she continued, suddenly
changing her tone, "thou shalt have neither answer, nor aid, nor obedience at
their hands.—Listen to these horrid sounds," for the din of the recommenced
assault and defence now rung fearfully loud from the battlements of the castle;
"in that war-cry is the downfall of thy house—The blood-cemented fabric of
Front-de-Boeuf's power totters to the foundation, and before the foes he most
despised!—The Saxon, Reginald!—the scorned Saxon assails thy walls!—
Why liest thou here, like a worn-out hind, when the Saxon storms thy place of
strength?"
"Gods and fiends!" exclaimed the wounded knight; "O, for one moment's
strength, to drag myself to the 'melee', and perish as becomes my name!"
"Think not of it, valiant warrior!" replied she; "thou shalt die no soldier's
death, but perish like the fox in his den, when the peasants have set fire to the
cover around it."
"Hateful hag! thou liest!" exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf; "my followers bear them
bravely—my walls are strong and high—my comrades in arms fear not a
whole host of Saxons, were they headed by Hengist and Horsa!—The war-cry
of the Templar and of the Free Companions rises high over the conflict! And
by mine honour, when we kindle the blazing beacon, for joy of our defence, it
shall consume thee, body and bones; and I shall live to hear thou art gone from
earthly fires to those of that hell, which never sent forth an incarnate fiend
more utterly diabolical!"
"Hold thy belief," replied Ulrica, "till the proof reach thee—But, no!" she said,
interrupting herself, "thou shalt know, even now, the doom, which all thy
power, strength, and courage, is unable to avoid, though it is prepared for thee
by this feeble band. Markest thou the smouldering and suffocating vapour
which already eddies in sable folds through the chamber?—Didst thou think it
was but the darkening of thy bursting eyes—the difficulty of thy cumbered
breathing?—No! Front-de-Boeuf, there is another cause—Rememberest thou
the magazine of fuel that is stored beneath these apartments?"
"Woman!" he exclaimed with fury, "thou hast not set fire to it?—By heaven,
thou hast, and the castle is in flames!"
"They are fast rising at least," said Ulrica, with frightful composure; "and a
signal shall soon wave to warn the besiegers to press hard upon those who
would extinguish them.—Farewell, Front-de-Boeuf!—May Mista, Skogula,
and Zernebock, gods of the ancient Saxons—fiends, as the priests now call
them—supply the place of comforters at your dying bed, which Ulrica now
relinquishes!—But know, if it will give thee comfort to know it, that Ulrica is
bound to the same dark coast with thyself, the companion of thy punishment
as the companion of thy guilt.—And now, parricide, farewell for ever!—May
each stone of this vaulted roof find a tongue to echo that title into thine ear!"
So saying, she left the apartment; and Front-de-Boeuf could hear the crash of
the ponderous key, as she locked and double-locked the door behind her, thus
cutting off the most slender chance of escape. In the extremity of agony he
shouted upon his servants and allies—"Stephen and Saint Maur!—Clement
and Giles!—I burn here unaided!—To the rescue—to the rescue, brave Bois-
Guilbert, valiant De Bracy!—It is Front-de-Boeuf who calls!—It is your
master, ye traitor squires!—Your ally—your brother in arms, ye perjured and
faithless knights!—all the curses due to traitors upon your recreant heads, do
you abandon me to perish thus miserably!—They hear me not—they cannot
hear me—my voice is lost in the din of battle.—The smoke rolls thicker and
thicker—the fire has caught upon the floor below—O, for one drought of the
air of heaven, were it to be purchased by instant annihilation!" And in the mad
frenzy of despair, the wretch now shouted with the shouts of the fighters, now
muttered curses on himself, on mankind, and on Heaven itself.—"The red fire
flashes through the thick smoke!" he exclaimed; "the demon marches against
me under the banner of his own element—Foul spirit, avoid!—I go not with
thee without my comrades—all, all are thine, that garrison these walls—
Thinkest thou Front-de-Boeuf will be singled out to go alone?—No—the
infidel Templar—the licentious De Bracy—Ulrica, the foul murdering
strumpet—the men who aided my enterprises—the dog Saxons and accursed
Jews, who are my prisoners—all, all shall attend me—a goodly fellowship as
ever took the downward road—Ha, ha, ha!" and he laughed in his frenzy till
the vaulted roof rang again. "Who laughed there?" exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf,
in altered mood, for the noise of the conflict did not prevent the echoes of his
own mad laughter from returning upon his ear—"who laughed there?—Ulrica,
was it thou?—Speak, witch, and I forgive thee—for, only thou or the fiend of
hell himself could have laughed at such a moment. Avaunt—avaunt!—-"
But it were impious to trace any farther the picture of the blasphemer and
parricide's deathbed.

CHAPTER XXXI

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,

Or, close the wall up with our English dead.
———-And you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture—let us swear
That you are worth your breeding.
King Henry V
Cedric, although not greatly confident in Ulrica's message, omitted not to
communicate her promise to the Black Knight and Locksley. They were well
pleased to find they had a friend within the place, who might, in the moment
of need, be able to facilitate their entrance, and readily agreed with the Saxon
that a storm, under whatever disadvantages, ought to be attempted, as the only
means of liberating the prisoners now in the hands of the cruel Front-de-
Boeuf.
"The royal blood of Alfred is endangered," said Cedric.
"The honour of a noble lady is in peril," said the Black Knight.
"And, by the Saint Christopher at my baldric," said the good yeoman, "were
there no other cause than the safety of that poor faithful knave, Wamba, I
would jeopard a joint ere a hair of his head were hurt."
"And so would I," said the Friar; "what, sirs! I trust well that a fool—I mean,
d'ye see me, sirs, a fool that is free of his guild and master of his craft, and can
give as much relish and flavour to a cup of wine as ever a flitch of bacon can
—I say, brethren, such a fool shall never want a wise clerk to pray for or fight
for him at a strait, while I can say a mass or flourish a partisan." And with that
he made his heavy halberd to play around his head as a shepherd boy
flourishes his light crook.
"True, Holy Clerk," said the Black Knight, "true as if Saint Dunstan himself
had said it.—And now, good Locksley, were it not well that noble Cedric
should assume the direction of this assault?"
"Not a jot I," returned Cedric; "I have never been wont to study either how to
take or how to hold out those abodes of tyrannic power, which the Normans
have erected in this groaning land. I will fight among the foremost; but my
honest neighbours well know I am not a trained soldier in the discipline of
wars, or the attack of strongholds."
"Since it stands thus with noble Cedric," said Locksley, "I am most willing to
take on me the direction of the archery; and ye shall hang me up on my own
Trysting-tree, an the defenders be permitted to show themselves over the walls
without being stuck with as many shafts as there are cloves in a gammon of
bacon at Christmas."
"Well said, stout yeoman," answered the Black Knight; "and if I be thought
worthy to have a charge in these matters, and can find among these brave men
as many as are willing to follow a true English knight, for so I may surely call
myself, I am ready, with such skill as my experience has taught me, to lead
them to the attack of these walls."
The parts being thus distributed to the leaders, they commenced the first
assault, of which the reader has already heard the issue.
When the barbican was carried, the Sable Knight sent notice of the happy
event to Locksley, requesting him at the same time, to keep such a strict
observation on the castle as might prevent the defenders from combining their
force for a sudden sally, and recovering the outwork which they had lost. This
the knight was chiefly desirous of avoiding, conscious that the men whom he
led, being hasty and untrained volunteers, imperfectly armed and
unaccustomed to discipline, must, upon any sudden attack, fight at great
disadvantage with the veteran soldiers of the Norman knights, who were well
provided with arms both defensive and offensive; and who, to match the zeal
and high spirit of the besiegers, had all the confidence which arises from
perfect discipline and the habitual use of weapons.
The knight employed the interval in causing to be constructed a sort of
floating bridge, or long raft, by means of which he hoped to cross the moat in
despite of the resistance of the enemy. This was a work of some time, which
the leaders the less regretted, as it gave Ulrica leisure to execute her plan of
diversion in their favour, whatever that might be.
When the raft was completed, the Black Knight addressed the besiegers:—"It
avails not waiting here longer, my friends; the sun is descending to the west—
and I have that upon my hands which will not permit me to tarry with you
another day. Besides, it will be a marvel if the horsemen come not upon us
from York, unless we speedily accomplish our purpose. Wherefore, one of ye
go to Locksley, and bid him commence a discharge of arrows on the opposite
side of the castle, and move forward as if about to assault it; and you, true
English hearts, stand by me, and be ready to thrust the raft endlong over the
moat whenever the postern on our side is thrown open. Follow me boldly
across, and aid me to burst yon sallyport in the main wall of the castle. As
many of you as like not this service, or are but ill armed to meet it, do you man
the top of the outwork, draw your bow-strings to your ears, and mind you
quell with your shot whatever shall appear to man the rampart—Noble Cedric,
wilt thou take the direction of those which remain?"
"Not so, by the soul of Hereward!" said the Saxon; "lead I cannot; but may
posterity curse me in my grave, if I follow not with the foremost wherever
thou shalt point the way—The quarrel is mine, and well it becomes me to be in
the van of the battle."
"Yet, bethink thee, noble Saxon," said the knight, "thou hast neither hauberk,
nor corslet, nor aught but that light helmet, target, and sword."
"The better!" answered Cedric; "I shall be the lighter to climb these walls.
And,—forgive the boast, Sir Knight,—thou shalt this day see the naked breast
of a Saxon as boldly presented to the battle as ever ye beheld the steel corslet
of a Norman."
"In the name of God, then," said the knight, "fling open the door, and launch
the floating bridge."
The portal, which led from the inner-wall of the barbican to the moat, and
which corresponded with a sallyport in the main wall of the castle, was now
suddenly opened; the temporary bridge was then thrust forward, and soon
flashed in the waters, extending its length between the castle and outwork, and
forming a slippery and precarious passage for two men abreast to cross the
moat. Well aware of the importance of taking the foe by surprise, the Black
Knight, closely followed by Cedric, threw himself upon the bridge, and
reached the opposite side. Here he began to thunder with his axe upon the gate
of the castle, protected in part from the shot and stones cast by the defenders
by the ruins of the former drawbridge, which the Templar had demolished in
his retreat from the barbican, leaving the counterpoise still attached to the
upper part of the portal. The followers of the knight had no such shelter; two
were instantly shot with cross-bow bolts, and two more fell into the moat; the
others retreated back into the barbican.
The situation of Cedric and of the Black Knight was now truly dangerous, and
would have been still more so, but for the constancy of the archers in the
barbican, who ceased not to shower their arrows upon the battlements,
distracting the attention of those by whom they were manned, and thus
affording a respite to their two chiefs from the storm of missiles which must
otherwise have overwhelmed them. But their situation was eminently perilous,
and was becoming more so with every moment.
"Shame on ye all!" cried De Bracy to the soldiers around him; "do ye call
yourselves cross-bowmen, and let these two dogs keep their station under the
walls of the castle?—Heave over the coping stones from the battlements, an
better may not be—Get pick-axe and levers, and down with that huge
pinnacle!" pointing to a heavy piece of stone carved-work that projected from
the parapet.
At this moment the besiegers caught sight of the red flag upon the angle of the
tower which Ulrica had described to Cedric. The stout yeoman Locksley was
the first who was aware of it, as he was hasting to the outwork, impatient to
see the progress of the assault.
"Saint George!" he cried, "Merry Saint George for England!—To the charge,
bold yeomen!—why leave ye the good knight and noble Cedric to storm the
pass alone?—make in, mad priest, show thou canst fight for thy rosary,—make
in, brave yeomen!—the castle is ours, we have friends within—See yonder
flag, it is the appointed signal—Torquilstone is ours!—Think of honour, think
of spoil—One effort, and the place is ours!"
With that he bent his good bow, and sent a shaft right through the breast of one
of the men-at-arms, who, under De Bracy's direction, was loosening a
fragment from one of the battlements to precipitate on the heads of Cedric and
the Black Knight. A second soldier caught from the hands of the dying man
the iron crow, with which he heaved at and had loosened the stone pinnacle,
when, receiving an arrow through his head-piece, he dropped from the
battlements into the moat a dead man. The men-at-arms were daunted, for no
armour seemed proof against the shot of this tremendous archer.
"Do you give ground, base knaves!" said De Bracy; "'Mount joye Saint
Dennis!'—Give me the lever!"
And, snatching it up, he again assailed the loosened pinnacle, which was of
weight enough, if thrown down, not only to have destroyed the remnant of the
drawbridge, which sheltered the two foremost assailants, but also to have sunk
the rude float of planks over which they had crossed. All saw the danger, and
the boldest, even the stout Friar himself, avoided setting foot on the raft.
Thrice did Locksley bend his shaft against De Bracy, and thrice did his arrow
bound back from the knight's armour of proof.
"Curse on thy Spanish steel-coat!" said Locksley, "had English smith forged it,
these arrows had gone through, an as if it had been silk or sendal." He then
began to call out, "Comrades! friends! noble Cedric! bear back, and let the
ruin fall."
His warning voice was unheard, for the din which the knight himself
occasioned by his strokes upon the postern would have drowned twenty war-
trumpets. The faithful Gurth indeed sprung forward on the planked bridge, to
warn Cedric of his impending fate, or to share it with him. But his warning
would have come too late; the massive pinnacle already tottered, and De
Bracy, who still heaved at his task, would have accomplished it, had not the
voice of the Templar sounded close in his ears:—
"All is lost, De Bracy, the castle burns."
"Thou art mad to say so!" replied the knight.
"It is all in a light flame on the western side. I have striven in vain to
extinguish it."
With the stern coolness which formed the basis of his character, Brian de Bois-
Guilbert communicated this hideous intelligence, which was not so calmly
received by his astonished comrade.
"Saints of Paradise!" said De Bracy; "what is to be done? I vow to Saint
Nicholas of Limoges a candlestick of pure gold—"
"Spare thy vow," said the Templar, "and mark me. Lead thy men down, as if to
a sally; throw the postern-gate open—There are but two men who occupy the
float, fling them into the moat, and push across for the barbican. I will charge
from the main gate, and attack the barbican on the outside; and if we can
regain that post, be assured we shall defend ourselves until we are relieved, or
at least till they grant us fair quarter."
"It is well thought upon," said De Bracy; "I will play my part—Templar, thou
wilt not fail me?"
"Hand and glove, I will not!" said Bois-Guilbert. "But haste thee, in the name
of God!"
De Bracy hastily drew his men together, and rushed down to the postern-gate,
which he caused instantly to be thrown open. But scarce was this done ere the
portentous strength of the Black Knight forced his way inward in despite of
De Bracy and his followers. Two of the foremost instantly fell, and the rest
gave way notwithstanding all their leader's efforts to stop them.
"Dogs!" said De Bracy, "will ye let TWO men win our only pass for safety?"
"He is the devil!" said a veteran man-at-arms, bearing back from the blows of
their sable antagonist.
"And if he be the devil," replied De Bracy, "would you fly from him into the
mouth of hell?—the castle burns behind us, villains!—let despair give you
courage, or let me forward! I will cope with this champion myself."
And well and chivalrous did De Bracy that day maintain the fame he had
acquired in the civil wars of that dreadful period. The vaulted passage to
which the postern gave entrance, and in which these two redoubted champions
were now fighting hand to hand, rung with the furious blows which they dealt
each other, De Bracy with his sword, the Black Knight with his ponderous
axe. At length the Norman received a blow, which, though its force was partly
parried by his shield, for otherwise never more would De Bracy have again
moved limb, descended yet with such violence on his crest, that he measured
his length on the paved floor.
"Yield thee, De Bracy," said the Black Champion, stooping over him, and
holding against the bars of his helmet the fatal poniard with which the knights
dispatched their enemies, (and which was called the dagger of mercy,)—"yield
thee, Maurice de Bracy, rescue or no rescue, or thou art but a dead man."
"I will not yield," replied De Bracy faintly, "to an unknown conqueror. Tell me
thy name, or work thy pleasure on me—it shall never be said that Maurice de
Bracy was prisoner to a nameless churl."
The Black Knight whispered something into the ear of the vanquished.
"I yield me to be true prisoner, rescue or no rescue," answered the Norman,
exchanging his tone of stern and determined obstinacy for one of deep though
sullen submission.
"Go to the barbican," said the victor, in a tone of authority, "and there wait my
further orders."
"Yet first, let me say," said De Bracy, "what it imports thee to know. Wilfred of
Ivanhoe is wounded and a prisoner, and will perish in the burning castle
without present help."
"Wilfred of Ivanhoe!" exclaimed the Black Knight—"prisoner, and perish!—
The life of every man in the castle shall answer it if a hair of his head be
singed—Show me his chamber!"
"Ascend yonder winding stair," said De Bracy; "it leads to his apartment—
Wilt thou not accept my guidance?" he added, in a submissive voice.
"No. To the barbican, and there wait my orders. I trust thee not, De Bracy."
During this combat and the brief conversation which ensued, Cedric, at the
head of a body of men, among whom the Friar was conspicuous, had pushed
across the bridge as soon as they saw the postern open, and drove back the
dispirited and despairing followers of De Bracy, of whom some asked quarter,
some offered vain resistance, and the greater part fled towards the court-yard.
De Bracy himself arose from the ground, and cast a sorrowful glance after his
conqueror. "He trusts me not!" he repeated; "but have I deserved his trust?" He
then lifted his sword from the floor, took off his helmet in token of
submission, and, going to the barbican, gave up his sword to Locksley, whom
he met by the way.
As the fire augmented, symptoms of it became soon apparent in the chamber,
where Ivanhoe was watched and tended by the Jewess Rebecca. He had been
awakened from his brief slumber by the noise of the battle; and his attendant,
who had, at his anxious desire, again placed herself at the window to watch
and report to him the fate of the attack, was for some time prevented from
observing either, by the increase of the smouldering and stifling vapour. At
length the volumes of smoke which rolled into the apartment—the cries for
water, which were heard even above the din of the battle made them sensible
of the progress of this new danger.
"The castle burns," said Rebecca; "it burns!—What can we do to save
ourselves?"
"Fly, Rebecca, and save thine own life," said Ivanhoe, "for no human aid can
avail me."
"I will not fly," answered Rebecca; "we will be saved or perish together—And
yet, great God!—my father, my father—what will be his fate!"
At this moment the door of the apartment flew open, and the Templar
presented himself,—a ghastly figure, for his gilded armour was broken and
bloody, and the plume was partly shorn away, partly burnt from his casque. "I
have found thee," said he to Rebecca; "thou shalt prove I will keep my word to
share weal and woe with thee—There is but one path to safety, I have cut my
way through fifty dangers to point it to thee—up, and instantly follow me!"
"Alone," answered Rebecca, "I will not follow thee. If thou wert born of
woman—if thou hast but a touch of human charity in thee—if thy heart be not
hard as thy breastplate—save my aged father—save this wounded knight!"
"A knight," answered the Templar, with his characteristic calmness, "a knight,
Rebecca, must encounter his fate, whether it meet him in the shape of sword or
flame—and who recks how or where a Jew meets with his?"
"Savage warrior," said Rebecca, "rather will I perish in the flames than accept
safety from thee!"
"Thou shalt not choose, Rebecca—once didst thou foil me, but never mortal
did so twice."
So saying, he seized on the terrified maiden, who filled the air with her
shrieks, and bore her out of the room in his arms in spite of her cries, and
without regarding the menaces and defiance which Ivanhoe thundered against
him. "Hound of the Temple—stain to thine Order—set free the damsel! Traitor
of Bois-Guilbert, it is Ivanhoe commands thee!—Villain, I will have thy
heart's blood!"
"I had not found thee, Wilfred," said the Black Knight, who at that instant
entered the apartment, "but for thy shouts."
"If thou be'st true knight," said Wilfred, "think not of me—pursue yon ravisher
—save the Lady Rowena—look to the noble Cedric!"
"In their turn," answered he of the Fetterlock, "but thine is first."
And seizing upon Ivanhoe, he bore him off with as much ease as the Templar
had carried off Rebecca, rushed with him to the postern, and having there
delivered his burden to the care of two yeomen, he again entered the castle to
assist in the rescue of the other prisoners.
One turret was now in bright flames, which flashed out furiously from window
and shot-hole. But in other parts, the great thickness of the walls and the
vaulted roofs of the apartments, resisted the progress of the flames, and there
the rage of man still triumphed, as the scarce more dreadful element held
mastery elsewhere; for the besiegers pursued the defenders of the castle from
chamber to chamber, and satiated in their blood the vengeance which had long
animated them against the soldiers of the tyrant Front-de-Boeuf. Most of the
garrison resisted to the uttermost—few of them asked quarter—none received
it. The air was filled with groans and clashing of arms—the floors were
slippery with the blood of despairing and expiring wretches.
Through this scene of confusion, Cedric rushed in quest of Rowena, while the
faithful Gurth, following him closely through the "melee", neglected his own
safety while he strove to avert the blows that were aimed at his master. The
noble Saxon was so fortunate as to reach his ward's apartment just as she had
abandoned all hope of safety, and, with a crucifix clasped in agony to her
bosom, sat in expectation of instant death. He committed her to the charge of
Gurth, to be conducted in safety to the barbican, the road to which was now
cleared of the enemy, and not yet interrupted by the flames. This
accomplished, the loyal Cedric hastened in quest of his friend Athelstane,
determined, at every risk to himself, to save that last scion of Saxon royalty.
But ere Cedric penetrated as far as the old hall in which he had himself been a
prisoner, the inventive genius of Wamba had procured liberation for himself
and his companion in adversity.
When the noise of the conflict announced that it was at the hottest, the Jester
began to shout, with the utmost power of his lungs, "Saint George and the
dragon!—Bonny Saint George for merry England!—The castle is won!" And
these sounds he rendered yet more fearful, by banging against each other two
or three pieces of rusty armour which lay scattered around the hall.
A guard, which had been stationed in the outer, or anteroom, and whose spirits
were already in a state of alarm, took fright at Wamba's clamour, and, leaving
the door open behind them, ran to tell the Templar that foemen had entered the
old hall. Meantime the prisoners found no difficulty in making their escape
into the anteroom, and from thence into the court of the castle, which was now
the last scene of contest. Here sat the fierce Templar, mounted on horseback,
surrounded by several of the garrison both on horse and foot, who had united
their strength to that of this renowned leader, in order to secure the last chance
of safety and retreat which remained to them. The drawbridge had been
lowered by his orders, but the passage was beset; for the archers, who had
hitherto only annoyed the castle on that side by their missiles, no sooner saw
the flames breaking out, and the bridge lowered, than they thronged to the
entrance, as well to prevent the escape of the garrison, as to secure their own
share of booty ere the castle should be burnt down. On the other hand, a party
of the besiegers who had entered by the postern were now issuing out into the
court-yard, and attacking with fury the remnant of the defenders who were
thus assaulted on both sides at once.
Animated, however, by despair, and supported by the example of their
indomitable leader, the remaining soldiers of the castle fought with the utmost
valour; and, being well-armed, succeeded more than once in driving back the
assailants, though much inferior in numbers. Rebecca, placed on horseback
before one of the Templar's Saracen slaves, was in the midst of the little party;
and Bois-Guilbert, notwithstanding the confusion of the bloody fray, showed
every attention to her safety. Repeatedly he was by her side, and, neglecting
his own defence, held before her the fence of his triangular steel-plated shield;
and anon starting from his position by her, he cried his war-cry, dashed
forward, struck to earth the most forward of the assailants, and was on the
same instant once more at her bridle rein.
Athelstane, who, as the reader knows, was slothful, but not cowardly, beheld
the female form whom the Templar protected thus sedulously, and doubted not
that it was Rowena whom the knight was carrying off, in despite of all
resistance which could be offered.
"By the soul of Saint Edward," he said, "I will rescue her from yonder over-
proud knight, and he shall die by my hand!"
"Think what you do!" cried Wamba; "hasty hand catches frog for fish—by my
bauble, yonder is none of my Lady Rowena—see but her long dark locks!—
Nay, an ye will not know black from white, ye may be leader, but I will be no
follower—no bones of mine shall be broken unless I know for whom.—And
you without armour too!—Bethink you, silk bonnet never kept out steel blade.
—Nay, then, if wilful will to water, wilful must drench.—'Deus vobiscum',
most doughty Athelstane!"—he concluded, loosening the hold which he had
hitherto kept upon the Saxon's tunic.
To snatch a mace from the pavement, on which it lay beside one whose dying
grasp had just relinquished it—to rush on the Templar's band, and to strike in
quick succession to the right and left, levelling a warrior at each blow, was, for
Athelstane's great strength, now animated with unusual fury, but the work of a
single moment; he was soon within two yards of Bois-Guilbert, whom he
defied in his loudest tone.
"Turn, false-hearted Templar! let go her whom thou art unworthy to touch—
turn, limb of a hand of murdering and hypocritical robbers!"
"Dog!" said the Templar, grinding his teeth, "I will teach thee to blaspheme the
holy Order of the Temple of Zion;" and with these words, half-wheeling his
steed, he made a demi-courbette towards the Saxon, and rising in the stirrups,
so as to take full advantage of the descent of the horse, he discharged a fearful
blow upon the head of Athelstane.
Well said Wamba, that silken bonnet keeps out no steel blade. So trenchant
was the Templar's weapon, that it shore asunder, as it had been a willow twig,
the tough and plaited handle of the mace, which the ill-fated Saxon reared to
parry the blow, and, descending on his head, levelled him with the earth.
"'Ha! Beau-seant!'" exclaimed Bois-Guilbert, "thus be it to the maligners of
the Temple-knights!" Taking advantage of the dismay which was spread by the
fall of Athelstane, and calling aloud, "Those who would save themselves,
follow me!" he pushed across the drawbridge, dispersing the archers who
would have intercepted them. He was followed by his Saracens, and some five
or six men-at-arms, who had mounted their horses. The Templar's retreat was
rendered perilous by the numbers of arrows shot off at him and his party; but
this did not prevent him from galloping round to the barbican, of which,
according to his previous plan, he supposed it possible De Bracy might have
been in possession.
"De Bracy! De Bracy!" he shouted, "art thou there?"
"I am here," replied De Bracy, "but I am a prisoner."
"Can I rescue thee?" cried Bois-Guilbert.
"No," replied De Bracy; "I have rendered me, rescue or no rescue. I will be
true prisoner. Save thyself—there are hawks abroad—put the seas betwixt you
and England—I dare not say more."
"Well," answered the Templar, "an thou wilt tarry there, remember I have
redeemed word and glove. Be the hawks where they will, methinks the walls
of the Preceptory of Templestowe will be cover sufficient, and thither will I,
like heron to her haunt."
Having thus spoken, he galloped off with his followers.
Those of the castle who had not gotten to horse, still continued to fight
desperately with the besiegers, after the departure of the Templar, but rather in
despair of quarter than that they entertained any hope of escape. The fire was
spreading rapidly through all parts of the castle, when Ulrica, who had first
kindled it, appeared on a turret, in the guise of one of the ancient furies,
yelling forth a war-song, such as was of yore raised on the field of battle by
the scalds of the yet heathen Saxons. Her long dishevelled grey hair flew back
from her uncovered head; the inebriating delight of gratified vengeance
contended in her eyes with the fire of insanity; and she brandished the distaff
which she held in her hand, as if she had been one of the Fatal Sisters, who
spin and abridge the thread of human life. Tradition has preserved some wild
strophes of the barbarous hymn which she chanted wildly amid that scene of
fire and of slaughter:—
1.
Whet the bright steel,
Sons of the White Dragon!
Kindle the torch,
Daughter of Hengist!
The steel glimmers not for the carving of the banquet,
It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed;
The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber,
It steams and glitters blue with sulphur.
Whet the steel, the raven croaks!
Light the torch, Zernebock is yelling!
Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon!
Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist!
2.
The black cloud is low over the thane's castle
The eagle screams—he rides on its bosom.
Scream not, grey rider of the sable cloud,
Thy banquet is prepared!
The maidens of Valhalla look forth,
The race of Hengist will send them guests.
Shake your black tresses, maidens of Valhalla!
And strike your loud timbrels for joy!
Many a haughty step bends to your halls,
Many a helmed head.
3.
Dark sits the evening upon the thanes castle,
The black clouds gather round;
Soon shall they be red as the blood of the valiant!
The destroyer of forests shall shake his red crest against
them.
He, the bright consumer of palaces,
Broad waves he his blazing banner,
Red, wide and dusky,
Over the strife of the valiant:
His joy is in the clashing swords and broken bucklers;
 He loves to lick the hissing blood as it bursts warm from the
wound!
4.
All must perish!
The sword cleaveth the helmet;
The strong armour is pierced by the lance;
Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes,
Engines break down the fences of the battle.
All must perish!
The race of Hengist is gone—
The name of Horsa is no more!
Shrink not then from your doom, sons of the sword!
Let your blades drink blood like wine;
Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter,
By the light of the blazing halls!
Strong be your swords while your blood is warm,
And spare neither for pity nor fear,
For vengeance hath but an hour;
Strong hate itself shall expire
I also must perish!
The towering flames had now surmounted every obstruction, and rose to the
evening skies one huge and burning beacon, seen far and wide through the
adjacent country. Tower after tower crashed down, with blazing roof and
rafter; and the combatants were driven from the court-yard. The vanquished,
of whom very few remained, scattered and escaped into the neighbouring
wood. The victors, assembling in large bands, gazed with wonder, not
unmixed with fear, upon the flames, in which their own ranks and arms
glanced dusky red. The maniac figure of the Saxon Ulrica was for a long time
visible on the lofty stand she had chosen, tossing her arms abroad with wild
exultation, as if she reined empress of the conflagration which she had raised.
At length, with a terrific crash, the whole turret gave way, and she perished in
the flames which had consumed her tyrant. An awful pause of horror silenced
each murmur of the armed spectators, who, for the space of several minutes,
stirred not a finger, save to sign the cross. The voice of Locksley was then
heard, "Shout, yeomen!—the den of tyrants is no more! Let each bring his
spoil to our chosen place of rendezvous at the Trysting-tree in the Harthill-
walk; for there at break of day will we make just partition among our own
bands, together with our worthy allies in this great deed of vengeance."

CHAPTER XXXII.

Trust me each state must have its policies:

Kingdoms have edicts, cities have their charters;
Even the wild outlaw, in his forest-walk,
Keeps yet some touch of civil discipline;
For not since Adam wore his verdant apron,
Hath man with man in social union dwelt,
But laws were made to draw that union closer.
—Old Play
The daylight had dawned upon the glades of the oak forest. The green boughs
glittered with all their pearls of dew. The hind led her fawn from the covert of
high fern to the more open walks of the greenwood, and no huntsman was
there to watch or intercept the stately hart, as he paced at the head of the
antler'd herd.
The outlaws were all assembled around the Trysting-tree in the Harthill-walk,
where they had spent the night in refreshing themselves after the fatigues of
the siege, some with wine, some with slumber, many with hearing and
recounting the events of the day, and computing the heaps of plunder which
their success had placed at the disposal of their Chief.
The spoils were indeed very large; for, notwithstanding that much was
consumed, a great deal of plate, rich armour, and splendid clothing, had been
secured by the exertions of the dauntless outlaws, who could be appalled by no
danger when such rewards were in view. Yet so strict were the laws of their
society, that no one ventured to appropriate any part of the booty, which was
brought into one common mass, to be at the disposal of their leader.
The place of rendezvous was an aged oak; not however the same to which
Locksley had conducted Gurth and Wamba in the earlier part of the story, but
one which was the centre of a silvan amphitheatre, within half a mile of the
demolished castle of Torquilstone. Here Locksley assumed his seat—a throne
of turf erected under the twisted branches of the huge oak, and the silvan
followers were gathered around him. He assigned to the Black Knight a seat at
his right hand, and to Cedric a place upon his left.
"Pardon my freedom, noble sirs," he said, "but in these glades I am monarch—
they are my kingdom; and these my wild subjects would reck but little of my
power, were I, within my own dominions, to yield place to mortal man.—
Now, sirs, who hath seen our chaplain? where is our curtal Friar? A mass
amongst Christian men best begins a busy morning."—No one had seen the
Clerk of Copmanhurst. "Over gods forbode!" said the outlaw chief, "I trust the
jolly priest hath but abidden by the wine-pot a thought too late. Who saw him
since the castle was ta'en?"
"I," quoth the Miller, "marked him busy about the door of a cellar, swearing by
each saint in the calendar he would taste the smack of Front-de-Boeuf's
Gascoigne wine."
"Now, the saints, as many as there be of them," said the Captain, "forefend,
lest he has drunk too deep of the wine-butts, and perished by the fall of the
castle!—Away, Miller!—take with you enow of men, seek the place where
you last saw him—throw water from the moat on the scorching ruins—I will
have them removed stone by stone ere I lose my curtal Friar."
The numbers who hastened to execute this duty, considering that an interesting
division of spoil was about to take place, showed how much the troop had at
heart the safety of their spiritual father.
"Meanwhile, let us proceed," said Locksley; "for when this bold deed shall be
sounded abroad, the bands of De Bracy, of Malvoisin, and other allies of
Front-de-Boeuf, will be in motion against us, and it were well for our safety
that we retreat from the vicinity.—Noble Cedric," he said, turning to the
Saxon, "that spoil is divided into two portions; do thou make choice of that
which best suits thee, to recompense thy people who were partakers with us in
this adventure."
"Good yeoman," said Cedric, "my heart is oppressed with sadness. The noble
Athelstane of Coningsburgh is no more—the last sprout of the sainted
Confessor! Hopes have perished with him which can never return!—A sparkle
hath been quenched by his blood, which no human breath can again rekindle!
My people, save the few who are now with me, do but tarry my presence to
transport his honoured remains to their last mansion. The Lady Rowena is
desirous to return to Rotherwood, and must be escorted by a sufficient force. I
should, therefore, ere now, have left this place; and I waited—not to share the
booty, for, so help me God and Saint Withold! as neither I nor any of mine will
touch the value of a liard,—I waited but to render my thanks to thee and to thy
bold yeomen, for the life and honour ye have saved."
"Nay, but," said the chief Outlaw, "we did but half the work at most—take of
the spoil what may reward your own neighbours and followers."
"I am rich enough to reward them from mine own wealth," answered Cedric.
"And some," said Wamba, "have been wise enough to reward themselves; they
do not march off empty-handed altogether. We do not all wear motley."
"They are welcome," said Locksley; "our laws bind none but ourselves."
"But, thou, my poor knave," said Cedric, turning about and embracing his
Jester, "how shall I reward thee, who feared not to give thy body to chains and
death instead of mine!—All forsook me, when the poor fool was faithful!"
A tear stood in the eye of the rough Thane as he spoke—a mark of feeling
which even the death of Athelstane had not extracted; but there was something
in the half-instinctive attachment of his clown, that waked his nature more
keenly than even grief itself.
"Nay," said the Jester, extricating himself from master's caress, "if you pay my
service with the water of your eye, the Jester must weep for company, and then
what becomes of his vocation?—But, uncle, if you would indeed pleasure me,
I pray you to pardon my playfellow Gurth, who stole a week from your service
to bestow it on your son."
"Pardon him!" exclaimed Cedric; "I will both pardon and reward him.—Kneel
down, Gurth."—The swineherd was in an instant at his master's feet
—"THEOW and ESNE art thou no longer," said Cedric touching him with a
wand; "FOLKFREE and SACLESS art thou in town and from town, in the
forest as in the field. A hide of land I give to thee in my steads of Walbrugham,
from me and mine to thee and thine aye and for ever; and God's malison on his
head who this gainsays!"
No longer a serf, but a freeman and a landholder, Gurth sprung upon his feet,
and twice bounded aloft to almost his own height from the ground. "A smith
and a file," he cried, "to do away the collar from the neck of a freeman!—
Noble master! doubled is my strength by your gift, and doubly will I fight for
you!—There is a free spirit in my breast—I am a man changed to myself and
all around.—Ha, Fangs!" he continued,—for that faithful cur, seeing his
master thus transported, began to jump upon him, to express his sympathy,
—"knowest thou thy master still?"
"Ay," said Wamba, "Fangs and I still know thee, Gurth, though we must needs
abide by the collar; it is only thou art likely to forget both us and thyself."
"I shall forget myself indeed ere I forget thee, true comrade," said Gurth; "and
were freedom fit for thee, Wamba, the master would not let thee want it."
"Nay," said Wamba, "never think I envy thee, brother Gurth; the serf sits by
the hall-fire when the freeman must forth to the field of battle—And what
saith Oldhelm of Malmsbury—Better a fool at a feast than a wise man at a
fray."
The tramp of horses was now heard, and the Lady Rowena appeared,
surrounded by several riders, and a much stronger party of footmen, who
joyfully shook their pikes and clashed their brown-bills for joy of her freedom.
She herself, richly attired, and mounted on a dark chestnut palfrey, had
recovered all the dignity of her manner, and only an unwonted degree of
paleness showed the sufferings she had undergone. Her lovely brow, though
sorrowful, bore on it a cast of reviving hope for the future, as well as of
grateful thankfulness for the past deliverance—She knew that Ivanhoe was
safe, and she knew that Athelstane was dead. The former assurance filled her
with the most sincere delight; and if she did not absolutely rejoice at the latter,
she might be pardoned for feeling the full advantage of being freed from
further persecution on the only subject in which she had ever been
contradicted by her guardian Cedric.
As Rowena bent her steed towards Locksley's seat, that bold yeoman, with all
his followers, rose to receive her, as if by a general instinct of courtesy. The
blood rose to her cheeks, as, courteously waving her hand, and bending so low
that her beautiful and loose tresses were for an instant mixed with the flowing
mane of her palfrey, she expressed in few but apt words her obligations and
her gratitude to Locksley and her other deliverers.—"God bless you, brave
men," she concluded, "God and Our Lady bless you and requite you for
gallantly perilling yourselves in the cause of the oppressed!—If any of you
should hunger, remember Rowena has food—if you should thirst, she has
many a butt of wine and brown ale—and if the Normans drive ye from these
walks, Rowena has forests of her own, where her gallant deliverers may range
at full freedom, and never ranger ask whose arrow hath struck down the deer."
"Thanks, gentle lady," said Locksley; "thanks from my company and myself.
But, to have saved you requites itself. We who walk the greenwood do many a
wild deed, and the Lady Rowena's deliverance may be received as an
atonement."
Again bowing from her palfrey, Rowena turned to depart; but pausing a
moment, while Cedric, who was to attend her, was also taking his leave, she
found herself unexpectedly close by the prisoner De Bracy. He stood under a
tree in deep meditation, his arms crossed upon his breast, and Rowena was in
hopes she might pass him unobserved. He looked up, however, and, when
aware of her presence, a deep flush of shame suffused his handsome
countenance. He stood a moment most irresolute; then, stepping forward, took
her palfrey by the rein, and bent his knee before her.
"Will the Lady Rowena deign to cast an eye—on a captive knight—on a
dishonoured soldier?"
"Sir Knight," answered Rowena, "in enterprises such as yours, the real
dishonour lies not in failure, but in success."
"Conquest, lady, should soften the heart," answered De Bracy; "let me but
know that the Lady Rowena forgives the violence occasioned by an ill-fated
passion, and she shall soon learn that De Bracy knows how to serve her in
nobler ways."
"I forgive you, Sir Knight," said Rowena, "as a Christian."
"That means," said Wamba, "that she does not forgive him at all."
"But I can never forgive the misery and desolation your madness has
occasioned," continued Rowena.
"Unloose your hold on the lady's rein," said Cedric, coming up. "By the bright
sun above us, but it were shame, I would pin thee to the earth with my javelin
—but be well assured, thou shalt smart, Maurice de Bracy, for thy share in this
foul deed."
"He threatens safely who threatens a prisoner," said De Bracy; "but when had
a Saxon any touch of courtesy?"
Then retiring two steps backward, he permitted the lady to move on.
Cedric, ere they departed, expressed his peculiar gratitude to the Black
Champion, and earnestly entreated him to accompany him to Rotherwood.
"I know," he said, "that ye errant knights desire to carry your fortunes on the
point of your lance, and reck not of land or goods; but war is a changeful
mistress, and a home is sometimes desirable even to the champion whose trade
is wandering. Thou hast earned one in the halls of Rotherwood, noble knight.
Cedric has wealth enough to repair the injuries of fortune, and all he has is his
deliverer's—Come, therefore, to Rotherwood, not as a guest, but as a son or
brother."
"Cedric has already made me rich," said the Knight,—"he has taught me the
value of Saxon virtue. To Rotherwood will I come, brave Saxon, and that
speedily; but, as now, pressing matters of moment detain me from your halls.
Peradventure when I come hither, I will ask such a boon as will put even thy
generosity to the test."
"It is granted ere spoken out," said Cedric, striking his ready hand into the
gauntleted palm of the Black Knight,—"it is granted already, were it to affect
half my fortune."
"Gage not thy promise so lightly," said the Knight of the Fetterlock; "yet well I
hope to gain the boon I shall ask. Meanwhile, adieu."
"I have but to say," added the Saxon, "that, during the funeral rites of the noble
Athelstane, I shall be an inhabitant of the halls of his castle of Coningsburgh—
They will be open to all who choose to partake of the funeral banqueting; and,
I speak in name of the noble Edith, mother of the fallen prince, they will never
be shut against him who laboured so bravely, though unsuccessfully, to save
Athelstane from Norman chains and Norman steel."
"Ay, ay," said Wamba, who had resumed his attendance on his master, "rare
feeding there will be—pity that the noble Athelstane cannot banquet at his
own funeral.—But he," continued the Jester, lifting up his eyes gravely, "is
supping in Paradise, and doubtless does honour to the cheer."
"Peace, and move on," said Cedric, his anger at this untimely jest being
checked by the recollection of Wamba's recent services. Rowena waved a
graceful adieu to him of the Fetterlock—the Saxon bade God speed him, and
on they moved through a wide glade of the forest.
They had scarce departed, ere a sudden procession moved from under the
greenwood branches, swept slowly round the silvan amphitheatre, and took the
same direction with Rowena and her followers. The priests of a neighbouring
convent, in expectation of the ample donation, or "soul-scat", which Cedric
had propined, attended upon the car in which the body of Athelstane was laid,
and sang hymns as it was sadly and slowly borne on the shoulders of his
vassals to his castle of Coningsburgh, to be there deposited in the grave of
Hengist, from whom the deceased derived his long descent. Many of his
vassals had assembled at the news of his death, and followed the bier with all
the external marks, at least, of dejection and sorrow. Again the outlaws arose,
and paid the same rude and spontaneous homage to death, which they had so
lately rendered to beauty—the slow chant and mournful step of the priests
brought back to their remembrance such of their comrades as had fallen in the
yesterday's array. But such recollections dwell not long with those who lead a
life of danger and enterprise, and ere the sound of the death-hymn had died on
the wind, the outlaws were again busied in the distribution of their spoil.
"Valiant knight," said Locksley to the Black Champion, "without whose good
heart and mighty arm our enterprise must altogether have failed, will it please
you to take from that mass of spoil whatever may best serve to pleasure you,
and to remind you of this my Trysting-tree?"
"I accept the offer," said the Knight, "as frankly as it is given; and I ask
permission to dispose of Sir Maurice de Bracy at my own pleasure."
"He is thine already," said Locksley, "and well for him! else the tyrant had
graced the highest bough of this oak, with as many of his Free-Companions as
we could gather, hanging thick as acorns around him.—But he is thy prisoner,
and he is safe, though he had slain my father."
"De Bracy," said the Knight, "thou art free—depart. He whose prisoner thou
art scorns to take mean revenge for what is past. But beware of the future, lest
a worse thing befall thee.—Maurice de Bracy, I say BEWARE!"
De Bracy bowed low and in silence, and was about to withdraw, when the
yeomen burst at once into a shout of execration and derision. The proud knight
instantly stopped, turned back, folded his arms, drew up his form to its full
height, and exclaimed, "Peace, ye yelping curs! who open upon a cry which ye
followed not when the stag was at bay—De Bracy scorns your censure as he
would disdain your applause. To your brakes and caves, ye outlawed thieves!
and be silent when aught knightly or noble is but spoken within a league of
your fox-earths."
This ill-timed defiance might have procured for De Bracy a volley of arrows,
but for the hasty and imperative interference of the outlaw Chief. Meanwhile
the knight caught a horse by the rein, for several which had been taken in the
stables of Front-de-Boeuf stood accoutred around, and were a valuable part of
the booty. He threw himself upon the saddle, and galloped off through the
wood.
When the bustle occasioned by this incident was somewhat composed, the
chief Outlaw took from his neck the rich horn and baldric which he had
recently gained at the strife of archery near Ashby.
"Noble knight." he said to him of the Fetterlock, "if you disdain not to grace
by your acceptance a bugle which an English yeoman has once worn, this I
will pray you to keep as a memorial of your gallant bearing—and if ye have
aught to do, and, as happeneth oft to a gallant knight, ye chance to be hard
bested in any forest between Trent and Tees, wind three mots 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 as a loan, but I will repay thee with usury as deep as ever thy prisoner
there exacted in his traffic."
"I will prove that presently," said the Friar.
"Hola!" cried the Captain, "what art thou after, mad Friar? brawling beneath
our Trysting-tree?"
"No brawling," said the Knight, "it is but a friendly interchange of courtesy.—
Friar, strike an thou darest—I will stand thy blow, if thou wilt stand mine."
"Thou hast the advantage with that iron pot on thy head," said the churchman;
"but have at thee—Down thou goest, an thou wert Goliath of Gath in his
brazen helmet."
The Friar bared his brawny arm up to the elbow, and putting his full strength
to the blow, gave the Knight a buffet that might have felled an ox. But his
adversary stood firm as a rock. A loud shout was uttered by all the yeomen
around; for the Clerk's cuff was proverbial amongst them, and there were few
who, in jest or earnest, had not had the occasion to know its vigour.
"Now, Priest," said, the Knight, pulling off his gauntlet, "if I had vantage on
my head, I will have none on my hand—stand fast as a true man."
"'Genam meam dedi vapulatori'—I have given my cheek to the smiter," said
the Priest; "an thou canst stir me from the spot, fellow, I will freely bestow on
thee the Jew's ransom."
So spoke the burly Priest, assuming, on his part, high defiance. But who may
resist his fate? The buffet of the Knight was given with such strength and
good-will, that the Friar rolled head over heels upon the plain, to the great
amazement of all the spectators. But he arose neither angry nor crestfallen.
"Brother," said he to the Knight, "thou shouldst have used thy strength with
more discretion. I had mumbled but a lame mass an thou hadst broken my jaw,
for the piper plays ill that wants the nether chops. Nevertheless, there is my
hand, in friendly witness, that I will exchange no more cuffs with thee, having
been a loser by the barter. End now all unkindness. Let us put the Jew to
ransom, since the leopard will not change his spots, and a Jew he will continue
to be."
"The Priest," said Clement, "is not half so confident of the Jew's conversion,
since he received that buffet on the ear."
"Go to, knave, what pratest thou of conversions?—what, is there no respect?
—all masters and no men?—I tell thee, fellow, I was somewhat totty when I
received the good knight's blow, or I had kept my ground under it. But an thou
gibest more of it, thou shalt learn I can give as well as take."
"Peace all!" said the Captain. "And thou, Jew, think of thy ransom; thou
needest not to be told that thy race are held to be accursed in all Christian
communities, and trust me that we cannot endure thy presence among us.
Think, therefore, of an offer, while I examine a prisoner of another cast."
"Were many of Front-de-Boeuf's men taken?" demanded the Black Knight.
"None of note enough to be put to ransom," answered the Captain; "a set of
hilding fellows there were, whom we dismissed to find them a new master—
enough had been done for revenge and profit; the bunch of them were not
worth a cardecu. The prisoner I speak of is better booty—a jolly monk riding
to visit his leman, an I may judge by his horse-gear and wearing apparel.—
Here cometh the worthy prelate, as pert as a pyet." And, between two yeomen,
was brought before the silvan throne of the outlaw Chief, our old friend, Prior
Aymer of Jorvaulx.

CHAPTER XXXIII

—-Flower of warriors,
How is't with Titus Lartius?
MARCIUS.—As with a man busied about decrees,
Condemning some to death and some to exile,
 Ransoming him or pitying, threatening the other.
—Coriolanus
The captive Abbot's features and manners exhibited a whimsical mixture of
offended pride, and deranged foppery and bodily terror.
"Why, how now, my masters?" said he, with a voice in which all three
emotions were blended. "What order is this among ye? Be ye Turks or
Christians, that handle a churchman?—Know ye what it is, 'manus imponere
in servos Domini'? Ye have plundered my mails—torn my cope of curious cut
lace, which might have served a cardinal!—Another in my place would have
been at his 'excommunicabo vos'; but I am placible, and if ye order forth my
palfreys, release my brethren, and restore my mails, tell down with all speed
an hundred crowns to be expended in masses at the high altar of Jorvaulx
Abbey, and make your vow to eat no venison until next Pentecost, it may be
you shall hear little more of this mad frolic."
"Holy Father," said the chief Outlaw, "it grieves me to think that you have met
with such usage from any of my followers, as calls for your fatherly
reprehension."
"Usage!" echoed the priest, encouraged by the mild tone of the silvan leader;
"it were usage fit for no hound of good race—much less for a Christian—far
less for a priest—and least of all for the Prior of the holy community of
Jorvaulx. Here is a profane and drunken minstrel, called Allan-a-Dale
—'nebulo quidam'—who has menaced me with corporal punishment—nay,
with death itself, an I pay not down four hundred crowns of ransom, to the
boot of all the treasure he hath already robbed me of—gold chains and
gymmal rings to an unknown value; besides what is broken and spoiled among
their rude hands, such as my pouncer-box and silver crisping-tongs."
"It is impossible that Allan-a-Dale can have thus treated a man of your
reverend bearing," replied the Captain.
"It is true as the gospel of Saint Nicodemus," said the Prior; "he swore, with
many a cruel north-country oath, that he would hang me up on the highest tree
in the greenwood."
"Did he so in very deed? Nay, then, reverend father, I think you had better
comply with his demands—for Allan-a-Dale is the very man to abide by his
word when he has so pledged it."
"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 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, 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," said the Prior, in great wrath, "'excommunicabo
vos'."
"Thou be'st thyself more like a thief and a heretic," said the Friar, equally
indignant; "I will pouch up no such affront before my parishioners, as thou
thinkest it not shame to put upon me, although I be a reverend brother to thee.
'Ossa ejus perfringam', I will break your bones, as the Vulgate hath it."
"Hola!" cried the Captain, "come the reverend brethren to such terms?—Keep
thine assurance of peace, Friar.—Prior, an thou hast not made thy peace
perfect with God, provoke the Friar no further.—Hermit, let the reverend
father depart in peace, as a ransomed man."
The yeomen separated the incensed priests, who continued to raise their
voices, vituperating each other in bad Latin, which the Prior delivered the
more fluently, and the Hermit with the greater vehemence. The Prior at length
recollected himself sufficiently to be aware that he was compromising his
dignity, by squabbling with such a hedge-priest as the Outlaw's chaplain, and
being joined by his attendants, rode off with considerably less pomp, and in a
much more apostolical condition, so far as worldly matters were concerned,
than he had exhibited before this rencounter.
It remained that the Jew should produce some security for the ransom which
he was to pay on the Prior's account, as well as upon his own. He gave,
accordingly, an order sealed with his signet, to a brother of his tribe at York,
requiring him to pay to the bearer the sum of a thousand crowns, and to deliver
certain merchandises specified in the note.
"My brother Sheva," he said, groaning deeply, "hath the key of my
warehouses."
"And of the vaulted chamber," whispered Locksley.
"No, no—may Heaven forefend!" said Isaac; "evil is the hour that let any one
whomsoever into that secret!"
"It is safe with me," said the Outlaw, "so be that this thy scroll produce the
sum therein nominated and set down.—But what now, Isaac? art dead? art
stupefied? hath the payment of a thousand crowns put thy daughter's peril out
of thy mind?"
The Jew started to his feet—"No, Diccon, no—I will presently set forth.—
Farewell, thou whom I may not call good, and dare not and will not call evil."
Yet ere Isaac departed, the Outlaw Chief bestowed on him this parting advice:
—"Be liberal of thine offers, Isaac, and spare not thy purse for thy daughter's
safety. Credit me, that the gold thou shalt spare in her cause, will hereafter
give thee as much agony as if it were poured molten down thy throat."
Isaac acquiesced with a deep groan, and set forth on his journey, accompanied
by two tall foresters, who were to be his guides, and at the same time his
guards, through the wood.
The Black Knight, who had seen with no small interest these various
proceedings, now took his leave of the Outlaw in turn; nor could he avoid
expressing his surprise at having witnessed so much of civil policy amongst
persons cast out from all the ordinary protection and influence of the laws.
"Good fruit, Sir Knight," said the yeoman, "will sometimes grow on a sorry
tree; and evil times are not always productive of evil alone and unmixed.
Amongst those who are drawn into this lawless state, there are, doubtless,
numbers who wish to exercise its license with some moderation, and some
who regret, it may be, that they are obliged to follow such a trade at all."
"And to one of those," said the Knight, "I am now, I presume, speaking?"
"Sir Knight," said the Outlaw, "we have each our secret. You are welcome to
form your judgment of me, and I may use my conjectures touching you,
though neither of our shafts may hit the mark they are shot at. But as I do not
pray to be admitted into your mystery, be not offended that I preserve my
own."
"I crave pardon, brave Outlaw," said the Knight, "your reproof is just. But it
may be we shall meet hereafter with less of concealment on either side.—
Meanwhile we part friends, do we not?"
"There is my hand upon it," said Locksley; "and I will call it the hand of a true
Englishman, though an outlaw for the present."
"And there is mine in return," said the Knight, "and I hold it honoured by
being clasped with yours. For he that does good, having the unlimited power
to do evil, deserves praise not only for the good which he performs, but for the
evil which he forbears. Fare thee well, gallant Outlaw!" Thus parted that fair
fellowship; and He of the Fetterlock, mounting upon his strong war-horse,
rode off through the forest.

CHAPTER XXXIV

KING JOHN.—I'll tell thee what, my friend,

He is a very serpent in my way;
And wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread,
He lies before me.—Dost thou understand me?
—King John
There was brave feasting in the Castle of York, to which Prince John had
invited those nobles, prelates, and leaders, by whose assistance he hoped to
carry through his ambitious projects upon his brother's throne. Waldemar
Fitzurse, his able and politic agent, was at secret work among them, tempering
all to that pitch of courage which was necessary in making an open declaration
of their purpose. But their enterprise was delayed by the absence of more than
one main limb of the confederacy. The stubborn and daring, though brutal
courage of Front-de-Boeuf; the buoyant spirits and bold bearing of De Bracy;
the sagacity, martial experience, and renowned valour of Brian de Bois-
Guilbert, were important to the success of their conspiracy; and, while cursing
in secret their unnecessary and unmeaning absence, neither John nor his
adviser dared to proceed without them. Isaac the Jew also seemed to have
vanished, and with him the hope of certain sums of money, making up the
subsidy for which Prince John had contracted with that Israelite and his
brethren. This deficiency was likely to prove perilous in an emergency so
critical.
It was on the morning after the fall of Torquilstone, that a confused report
began to spread abroad in the city of York, that De Bracy and Bois-Guilbert,
with their confederate Front-de-Boeuf, had been taken or slain. Waldemar
brought the rumour to Prince John, announcing, that he feared its truth the
more that they had set out with a small attendance, for the purpose of
committing an assault on the Saxon Cedric and his attendants. At another time
the Prince would have treated this deed of violence as a good jest; but now,
that it interfered with and impeded his own plans, he exclaimed against the
perpetrators, and spoke of the broken laws, and the infringement of public
order and of private property, in a tone which might have become King Alfred.
"The unprincipled marauders," he said—"were I ever to become monarch of
England, I would hang such transgressors over the drawbridges of their own
castles."
"But to become monarch of England," said his Ahithophel coolly, "it is
necessary not only that your Grace should endure the transgressions of these
unprincipled marauders, but that you should afford them your protection,
notwithstanding your laudable zeal for the laws they are in the habit of
infringing. We shall be finely helped, if the churl Saxons should have realized
your Grace's vision, of converting feudal drawbridges into gibbets; and yonder
bold-spirited Cedric seemeth one to whom such an imagination might occur.
Your Grace is well aware, it will be dangerous to stir without Front-de-Boeuf,
De Bracy, and the Templar; and yet we have gone too far to recede with
safety."
Prince John struck his forehead with impatience, and then began to stride up
and down the apartment.
"The villains," he said, "the base treacherous villains, to desert me at this
pinch!"
"Nay, say rather the feather-pated giddy madmen," said Waldemar, "who must
be toying with follies when such business was in hand."
"What is to be done?" said the Prince, stopping short before Waldemar.
"I know nothing which can be done," answered his counsellor, "save that
which I have already taken order for.—I came not to bewail this evil chance
with your Grace, until I had done my best to remedy it."
"Thou art ever my better angel, Waldemar," said the Prince; "and when I have
such a chancellor to advise withal, the reign of John will be renowned in our
annals.—What hast thou commanded?"
"I have ordered Louis Winkelbrand, De Bracy's lieutenant, to cause his
trumpet sound to horse, and to display his banner, and to set presently forth
towards the castle of Front-de-Boeuf, to do what yet may be done for the
succour of our friends."
Prince John's face flushed with the pride of a spoilt child, who has undergone
what it conceives to be an insult. "By the face of God!" he said, "Waldemar
Fitzurse, much hast thou taken upon thee! and over malapert thou wert to
cause trumpet to blow, or banner to be raised, in a town where ourselves were
in presence, without our express command."
"I crave your Grace's pardon," said Fitzurse, internally cursing the idle vanity
of his patron; "but when time pressed, and even the loss of minutes might be
fatal, I judged it best to take this much burden upon me, in a matter of such
importance to your Grace's interest."
"Thou art pardoned, Fitzurse," said the prince, gravely; "thy purpose hath
atoned for thy hasty rashness.—But whom have we here?—De Bracy himself,
by the rood!—and in strange guise doth he come before us."
It was indeed De Bracy—"bloody with spurring, fiery red with speed." His
armour bore all the marks of the late obstinate fray, being broken, defaced, and
stained with blood in many places, and covered with clay and dust from the
crest to the spur. Undoing his helmet, he placed it on the table, and stood a
moment as if to collect himself before he told his news.
"De Bracy," said Prince John, "what means this?—Speak, I charge thee!—Are
the Saxons in rebellion?"
"Speak, De Bracy," said Fitzurse, almost in the same moment with his master,
"thou wert wont to be a man—Where is the Templar?—where Front-de-
Boeuf?"
"The Templar is fled," said De Bracy; "Front-de-Boeuf you will never see
more. He has found a red grave among the blazing rafters of his own castle
and I alone am escaped to tell you."
"Cold news," said Waldemar, "to us, though you speak of fire and
conflagration."
"The worst news is not yet said," answered De Bracy; and, coming up to
Prince John, he uttered in a low and emphatic tone—"Richard is in England—
I have seen and spoken with him."
Prince John turned pale, tottered, and caught at the back of an oaken bench to
support himself—much like to a man who receives an arrow in his bosom.
"Thou ravest, De Bracy," said Fitzurse, "it cannot be."
"It is as true as truth itself," said De Bracy; "I was his prisoner, and spoke with
him."
"With Richard Plantagenet, sayest thou?" continued Fitzurse.
"With Richard Plantagenet," replied De Bracy, "with Richard Coeur-de-Lion
—with Richard of England."
"And thou wert his prisoner?" said Waldemar; "he is then at the head of a
power?"
"No—only a few outlawed yeomen were around him, and to these his person
is unknown. I heard him say he was about to depart from them. He joined
them only to assist at the storming of Torquilstone."
"Ay," said Fitzurse, "such is indeed the fashion of Richard—a true knight-
errant he, and will wander in wild adventure, trusting the prowess of his single
arm, like any Sir Guy or Sir Bevis, while the weighty affairs of his kingdom
slumber, and his own safety is endangered.—What dost thou propose to do De
Bracy?"
"I?—I offered Richard the service of my Free Lances, and he refused them—I
will lead them to Hull, seize on shipping, and embark for Flanders; thanks to
the bustling times, a man of action will always find employment. And thou,
Waldemar, wilt thou take lance and shield, and lay down thy policies, and
wend along with me, and share the fate which God sends us?"
"I am too old, Maurice, and I have a daughter," answered Waldemar.
"Give her to me, Fitzurse, and I will maintain her as fits her rank, with the help
of lance and stirrup," said De Bracy.
"Not so," answered Fitzurse; "I will take sanctuary in this church of Saint
Peter—the Archbishop is my sworn brother."
During this discourse, Prince John had gradually awakened from the stupor
into which he had been thrown by the unexpected intelligence, and had been
attentive to the conversation which passed betwixt his followers. "They fall off
from me," he said to himself, "they hold no more by me than a withered leaf
by the bough when a breeze blows on it!—Hell and fiends! can I shape no
means for myself when I am deserted by these cravens?"—He paused, and
there was an expression of diabolical passion in the constrained laugh with
which he at length broke in on their conversation.
"Ha, ha, ha! my good lords, by the light of Our Lady's brow, I held ye sage
men, bold men, ready-witted men; yet ye throw down wealth, honour,
pleasure, all that our noble game promised you, at the moment it might be won
by one bold cast!"
"I understand you not," said De Bracy. "As soon as Richard's return is blown
abroad, he will be at the head of an army, and all is then over with us. I would
counsel you, my lord, either to fly to France or take the protection of the
Queen Mother."
"I seek no safety for myself," said Prince John, haughtily; "that I could secure
by a word spoken to my brother. But although you, De Bracy, and you,
Waldemar Fitzurse, are so ready to abandon me, I should not greatly delight to
see your heads blackening on Clifford's gate yonder. Thinkest thou, Waldemar,
that the wily Archbishop will not suffer thee to be taken from the very horns
of the altar, would it make his peace with King Richard? And forgettest thou,
De Bracy, that Robert Estoteville lies betwixt thee and Hull with all his forces,
and that the Earl of Essex is gathering his followers? If we had reason to fear
these levies even before Richard's return, trowest thou there is any doubt now
which party their leaders will take? Trust me, Estoteville alone has strength
enough to drive all thy Free Lances into the Humber."—Waldemar Fitzurse
and De Bracy looked in each other's faces with blank dismay.—"There is but
one road to safety," continued the Prince, and his brow grew black as
midnight; "this object of our terror journeys alone—He must be met withal."
"Not by me," said De Bracy, hastily; "I was his prisoner, and he took me to
mercy. I will not harm a feather in his crest."
"Who spoke of harming him?" said Prince John, with a hardened laugh; "the
knave will say next that I meant he should slay him!—No—a prison were
better; and whether in Britain or Austria, what matters it?—Things will be but
as they were when we commenced our enterprise—It was founded on the hope
that Richard would remain a captive in Germany—Our uncle Robert lived and
died in the castle of Cardiffe."
"Ay, but," said Waldemar, "your sire Henry sate more firm in his seat than
your Grace can. I say the best prison is that which is made by the sexton—no
dungeon like a church-vault! I have said my say."
"Prison or tomb," said De Bracy, "I wash my hands of the whole matter."
"Villain!" said Prince John, "thou wouldst not bewray our counsel?"
"Counsel was never bewrayed by me," said De Bracy, haughtily, "nor must the
name of villain be coupled with mine!"
"Peace, Sir Knight!" said Waldemar; "and you, good my lord, forgive the
scruples of valiant De Bracy; I trust I shall soon remove them."
"That passes your eloquence, Fitzurse," replied the Knight.
"Why, good Sir Maurice," rejoined the wily politician, "start not aside like a
scared steed, without, at least, considering the object of your terror.—This
Richard—but a day since, and it would have been thy dearest wish to have met
him hand to hand in the ranks of battle—a hundred times I have heard thee
wish it."
"Ay," said De Bracy, "but that was as thou sayest, hand to hand, and in the
ranks of battle! Thou never heardest me breathe a thought of assaulting him
alone, and in a forest."
"Thou art no good knight if thou dost scruple at it," said Waldemar. "Was it in
battle that Lancelot de Lac and Sir Tristram won renown? or was it not by
encountering gigantic knights under the shade of deep and unknown forests?"
"Ay, but I promise you," said De Bracy, "that neither Tristram nor Lancelot
would have been match, hand to hand, for Richard Plantagenet, and I think it
was not their wont to take odds against a single man."
"Thou art mad, De Bracy—what is it we propose to thee, a hired and retained
captain of Free Companions, whose swords are purchased for Prince John's
service? Thou art apprized of our enemy, and then thou scruplest, though thy
patron's fortunes, those of thy comrades, thine own, and the life and honour of
every one amongst us, be at stake!"
"I tell you," said De Bracy, sullenly, "that he gave me my life. True, he sent me
from his presence, and refused my homage—so far I owe him neither favour
nor allegiance—but I will not lift hand against him."
"It needs not—send Louis Winkelbrand and a score of thy lances."
"Ye have sufficient ruffians of your own," said De Bracy; "not one of mine
shall budge on such an errand."
"Art thou so obstinate, De Bracy?" said Prince John; "and wilt thou forsake
me, after so many protestations of zeal for my service?"
"I mean it not," said De Bracy; "I will abide by you in aught that becomes a
knight, whether in the lists or in the camp; but this highway practice comes not
within my vow."
"Come hither, Waldemar," said Prince John. "An unhappy prince am I. My
father, King Henry, had faithful servants—He had but to say that he was
plagued with a factious priest, and the blood of Thomas-a-Becket, saint though
he was, stained the steps of his own altar.—Tracy, Morville, Brito loyal and
daring subjects, your names, your spirit, are extinct! and although Reginald
Fitzurse hath left a son, he hath fallen off from his father's fidelity and
courage."
"He has fallen off from neither," said Waldemar Fitzurse; "and since it may not
better be, I will take on me the conduct of this perilous enterprise. Dearly,
however, did my father purchase the praise of a zealous friend; and yet did his
proof of loyalty to Henry fall far short of what I am about to afford; for rather
would I assail a whole calendar of saints, than put spear in rest against Coeur-
de-Lion.—De Bracy, to thee I must trust to keep up the spirits of the doubtful,
and to guard Prince John's person. If you receive such news as I trust to send
you, our enterprise will no longer wear a doubtful aspect.—Page," he said,
"hie to my lodgings, and tell my armourer to be there in readiness; and bid
Stephen Wetheral, Broad Thoresby, and the Three Spears of Spyinghow, come
to me instantly; and let the scout-master, Hugh Bardon, attend me also.—
Adieu, my Prince, till better times." Thus speaking, he left the apartment. "He
goes to make my brother prisoner," said Prince John to De Bracy, "with as
little touch of compunction, as if it but concerned the liberty of a Saxon
franklin. I trust he will observe our orders, and use our dear Richard's person
with all due respect."
De Bracy only answered by a smile.
"By the light of Our Lady's brow," said Prince John, "our orders to him were
most precise—though it may be you heard them not, as we stood together in
the oriel window—Most clear and positive was our charge that Richard's
safety should be cared for, and woe to Waldemar's head if he transgress it!"
"I had better pass to his lodgings," said De Bracy, "and make him fully aware
of your Grace's pleasure; for, as it quite escaped my ear, it may not perchance
have reached that of Waldemar."
"Nay, nay," said Prince John, impatiently, "I promise thee he heard me; and,
besides, I have farther occupation for thee. Maurice, come hither; let me lean
on thy shoulder."
They walked a turn through the hall in this familiar posture, and Prince John,
with an air of the most confidential intimacy, proceeded to say, "What thinkest
thou of this Waldemar Fitzurse, my De Bracy?—He trusts to be our
Chancellor. Surely we will pause ere we give an office so high to one who
shows evidently how little he reverences our blood, by his so readily
undertaking this enterprise against Richard. Thou dost think, I warrant, that
thou hast lost somewhat of our regard, by thy boldly declining this unpleasing
task—But no, Maurice! I rather honour thee for thy virtuous constancy. There
are things most necessary to be done, the perpetrator of which we neither love
nor honour; and there may be refusals to serve us, which shall rather exalt in
our estimation those who deny our request. The arrest of my unfortunate
brother forms no such good title to the high office of Chancellor, as thy
chivalrous and courageous denial establishes in thee to the truncheon of High
Marshal. Think of this, De Bracy, and begone to thy charge."
"Fickle tyrant!" muttered De Bracy, as he left the presence of the Prince; "evil
luck have they who trust thee. Thy Chancellor, indeed!—He who hath the
keeping of thy conscience shall have an easy charge, I trow. But High Marshal
of England! that," he said, extending his arm, as if to grasp the baton of office,
and assuming a loftier stride along the antechamber, "that is indeed a prize
worth playing for!"
De Bracy had no sooner left the apartment than Prince John summoned an
attendant.
"Bid Hugh Bardon, our scout-master, come hither, as soon as he shall have
spoken with Waldemar Fitzurse."
The scout-master arrived after a brief delay, during which John traversed the
apartment with, unequal and disordered steps.
"Bardon," said he, "what did Waldemar desire of thee?"
"Two resolute men, well acquainted with these northern wilds, and skilful in
tracking the tread of man and horse."
"And thou hast fitted him?"
"Let your grace never trust me else," answered the master of the spies. "One is
from Hexamshire; he is wont to trace the Tynedale and Teviotdale thieves, as a
bloodhound follows the slot of a hurt deer. The other is Yorkshire bred, and
has twanged his bowstring right oft in merry Sherwood; he knows each glade
and dingle, copse and high-wood, betwixt this and Richmond."
"'Tis well," said the Prince.—"Goes Waldemar forth with them?"
"Instantly," said Bardon.
"With what attendance?" asked John, carelessly.
"Broad Thoresby goes with him, and Wetheral, whom they call, for his cruelty,
Stephen Steel-heart; and three northern men-at-arms that belonged to Ralph
Middleton's gang—they are called the Spears of Spyinghow."
"'Tis well," said Prince John; then added, after a moment's pause, "Bardon, it
imports our service that thou keep a strict watch on Maurice De Bracy—so
that he shall not observe it, however—And let us know of his motions from
time to time—with whom he converses, what he proposeth. Fail not in this, as
thou wilt be answerable."
Hugh Bardon bowed, and retired.
"If Maurice betrays me," said Prince John—"if he betrays me, as his bearing
leads me to fear, I will have his head, were Richard thundering at the gates of
York."

CHAPTER XXXV

Arouse the tiger of Hyrcanian deserts,

Strive with the half-starved lion for his prey;
Lesser the risk, than rouse the slumbering fire
 Of wild Fanaticism.
—Anonymus
Our tale now returns to Isaac of York.—Mounted upon a mule, the gift of the
Outlaw, with two tall yeomen to act as his guard and guides, the Jew had set
out for the Preceptory of Templestowe, for the purpose of negotiating his
daughter's redemption. The Preceptory was but a day's journey from the
demolished castle of Torquilstone, and the Jew had hoped to reach it before
nightfall; accordingly, having dismissed his guides at the verge of the forest,
and rewarded them with a piece of silver, he began to press on with such speed
as his weariness permitted him to exert. But his strength failed him totally ere
he had reached within four miles of the Temple-Court; racking pains shot
along his back and through his limbs, and the excessive anguish which he felt
at heart being now augmented by bodily suffering, he was rendered altogether
incapable of proceeding farther than a small market-town, were dwelt a Jewish
Rabbi of his tribe, eminent in the medical profession, and to whom Isaac was
well known. Nathan Ben Israel received his suffering countryman with that
kindness which the law prescribed, and which the Jews practised to each other.
He insisted on his betaking himself to repose, and used such remedies as were
then in most repute to check the progress of the fever, which terror, fatigue, ill
usage, and sorrow, had brought upon the poor old Jew.
On the morrow, when Isaac proposed to arise and pursue his journey, Nathan
remonstrated against his purpose, both as his host and as his physician. It
might cost him, he said, his life. But Isaac replied, that more than life and
death depended upon his going that morning to Templestowe.
"To Templestowe!" said his host with surprise again felt his pulse, and then
muttered to himself, "His fever is abated, yet seems his mind somewhat
alienated and disturbed."
"And why not to Templestowe?" answered his patient. "I grant thee, Nathan,
that it is a dwelling of those to whom the despised Children of the Promise are
a stumbling-block and an abomination; yet thou knowest that pressing affairs
of traffic sometimes carry us among these bloodthirsty Nazarene soldiers, and
that we visit the Preceptories of the Templars, as well as the Commanderies of
the Knights Hospitallers, as they are called."
"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'.
"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.
"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-Boeuf'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?'"
"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-Boeuf—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, 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' 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, 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 Coeur-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 Coeur-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'."
"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 Coeur-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."
"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 Coeur-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.
When Coeur-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.
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', 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!
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-Boeuf 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."
"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.
"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 Coeur-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.
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