Ivanhoe

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Ivanhoe

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IVANHOE

A ROMANCE

By Sir Walter Scott

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




INTRODUCTION TO IVANHOE.


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

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

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

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

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

“Men bless their stars and call it luxury.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     “A night will soon be gone.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Mr Hartshorne’s collection, there is a romance on the same
foundation, called King Edward and the Shepherd, [4]

which, considered as illustrating manners, is still more curious than
the King and the Hermit; but it is foreign to the present purpose.
The reader has here the original legend from which the incident in the
romance is derived; and the identifying the irregular Eremite with the
Friar Tuck of Robin Hood’s story, was an obvious expedient.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Abbotsford, 1st September, 1830.




DEDICATORY EPISTLE

TO

THE REV. DR DRYASDUST, F.A.S.

Residing in the Castle-Gate, York.


Much esteemed and dear Sir,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reverend, and very dear Sir,

Your most faithful humble Servant.

Laurence Templeton.

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






IVANHOE.




CHAPTER I


     Thus communed these; while to their lowly dome,
     The full-fed swine return’d with evening home;
     Compell’d, reluctant, to the several sties,
     With din obstreperous, and ungrateful cries.
     Pope’s Odyssey


In that pleasant district of merry England which is watered by the
river Don, there extended in ancient times a large forest, covering
the greater part of the beautiful hills and valleys which lie between
Sheffield and the pleasant town of Doncaster. The remains of this
extensive wood are still to be seen at the noble seats of Wentworth, of
Warncliffe Park, and around Rotherham. Here haunted of yore the fabulous
Dragon of Wantley; here were fought many of the most desperate battles
during the Civil Wars of the Roses; and here also flourished in ancient
times those bands of gallant outlaws, whose deeds have been rendered so
popular in English song.

Such being our chief scene, the date of our story refers to a period
towards the end of the reign of Richard I., when his return from his
long captivity had become an event rather wished than hoped for by his
despairing subjects, who were in the meantime subjected to every species
of subordinate oppression. The nobles, whose power had become exorbitant
during the reign of Stephen, and whom the prudence of Henry the Second
had scarce reduced to some degree of subjection to the crown, had now
resumed their ancient license in its utmost extent; despising the feeble
interference of the English Council of State, fortifying their castles,
increasing the number of their dependants, reducing all around them to a
state of vassalage, and striving by every means in their power, to place
themselves each at the head of such forces as might enable him to make a
figure in the national convulsions which appeared to be impending.

The situation of the inferior gentry, or Franklins, as they were called,
who, by the law and spirit of the English constitution, were entitled
to hold themselves independent of feudal tyranny, became now unusually
precarious. If, as was most generally the case, they placed themselves
under the protection of any of the petty kings in their vicinity,
accepted of feudal offices in his household, or bound themselves by
mutual treaties of alliance and protection, to support him in his
enterprises, they might indeed purchase temporary repose; but it must
be with the sacrifice of that independence which was so dear to every
English bosom, and at the certain hazard of being involved as a party in
whatever rash expedition the ambition of their protector might lead him
to undertake. On the other hand, such and so multiplied were the means
of vexation and oppression possessed by the great Barons, that they
never wanted the pretext, and seldom the will, to harass and pursue,
even to the very edge of destruction, any of their less powerful
neighbours, who attempted to separate themselves from their authority,
and to trust for their protection, during the dangers of the times, to
their own inoffensive conduct, and to the laws of the land.

A circumstance which greatly tended to enhance the tyranny of the
nobility, and the sufferings of the inferior classes, arose from
the consequences of the Conquest by Duke William of Normandy. Four
generations had not sufficed to blend the hostile blood of the Normans
and Anglo-Saxons, or to unite, by common language and mutual interests,
two hostile races, one of which still felt the elation of triumph, while
the other groaned under all the consequences of defeat. The power had
been completely placed in the hands of the Norman nobility, by the event
of the battle of Hastings, and it had been used, as our histories assure
us, with no moderate hand. The whole race of Saxon princes and nobles
had been extirpated or disinherited, with few or no exceptions; nor were
the numbers great who possessed land in the country of their fathers,
even as proprietors of the second, or of yet inferior classes. The royal
policy had long been to weaken, by every means, legal or illegal, the
strength of a part of the population which was justly considered as
nourishing the most inveterate antipathy to their victor. All the
monarchs of the Norman race had shown the most marked predilection for
their Norman subjects; the laws of the chase, and many others equally
unknown to the milder and more free spirit of the Saxon constitution,
had been fixed upon the necks of the subjugated inhabitants, to add
weight, as it were, to the feudal chains with which they were loaded. At
court, and in the castles of the great nobles, where the pomp and state
of a court was emulated, Norman-French was the only language employed;
in courts of law, the pleadings and judgments were delivered in the same
tongue. In short, French was the language of honour, of chivalry, and
even of justice, while the far more manly and expressive Anglo-Saxon
was abandoned to the use of rustics and hinds, who knew no other. Still,
however, the necessary intercourse between the lords of the soil,
and those oppressed inferior beings by whom that soil was cultivated,
occasioned the gradual formation of a dialect, compounded betwixt
the French and the Anglo-Saxon, in which they could render themselves
mutually intelligible to each other; and from this necessity arose by
degrees the structure of our present English language, in which the
speech of the victors and the vanquished have been so happily blended
together; and which has since been so richly improved by importations
from the classical languages, and from those spoken by the southern
nations of Europe.

This state of things I have thought it necessary to premise for the
information of the general reader, who might be apt to forget, that,
although no great historical events, such as war or insurrection, mark
the existence of the Anglo-Saxons as a separate people subsequent to the
reign of William the Second; yet the great national distinctions betwixt
them and their conquerors, the recollection of what they had formerly
been, and to what they were now reduced, continued down to the reign
of Edward the Third, to keep open the wounds which the Conquest had
inflicted, and to maintain a line of separation betwixt the descendants
of the victor Normans and the vanquished Saxons.

The sun was setting upon one of the rich grassy glades of that forest,
which we have mentioned in the beginning of the chapter. Hundreds of
broad-headed, short-stemmed, wide-branched oaks, which had witnessed
perhaps the stately march of the Roman soldiery, flung their gnarled
arms over a thick carpet of the most delicious green sward; in some
places they were intermingled with beeches, hollies, and copsewood of
various descriptions, so closely as totally to intercept the level beams
of the sinking sun; in others they receded from each other, forming
those long sweeping vistas, in the intricacy of which the eye delights
to lose itself, while imagination considers them as the paths to yet
wilder scenes of silvan solitude. Here the red rays of the sun shot a
broken and discoloured light, that partially hung upon the shattered
boughs and mossy trunks of the trees, and there they illuminated in
brilliant patches the portions of turf to which they made their way. A
considerable open space, in the midst of this glade, seemed formerly to
have been dedicated to the rites of Druidical superstition; for, on
the summit of a hillock, so regular as to seem artificial, there still
remained part of a circle of rough unhewn stones, of large dimensions.
Seven stood upright; the rest had been dislodged from their places,
probably by the zeal of some convert to Christianity, and lay, some
prostrate near their former site, and others on the side of the hill.
One large stone only had found its way to the bottom, and in stopping
the course of a small brook, which glided smoothly round the foot of
the eminence, gave, by its opposition, a feeble voice of murmur to the
placid and elsewhere silent streamlet.

The human figures which completed this landscape, were in number two,
partaking, in their dress and appearance, of that wild and rustic
character, which belonged to the woodlands of the West-Riding of
Yorkshire at that early period. The eldest of these men had a
stern, savage, and wild aspect. His garment was of the simplest form
imaginable, being a close jacket with sleeves, composed of the tanned
skin of some animal, on which the hair had been originally left, but
which had been worn off in so many places, that it would have been
difficult to distinguish from the patches that remained, to what
creature the fur had belonged. This primeval vestment reached from
the throat to the knees, and served at once all the usual purposes
of body-clothing; there was no wider opening at the collar, than
was necessary to admit the passage of the head, from which it may be
inferred, that it was put on by slipping it over the head and shoulders,
in the manner of a modern shirt, or ancient hauberk. Sandals, bound
with thongs made of boars’ hide, protected the feet, and a roll of thin
leather was twined artificially round the legs, and, ascending above the
calf, left the knees bare, like those of a Scottish Highlander. To make
the jacket sit yet more close to the body, it was gathered at the middle
by a broad leathern belt, secured by a brass buckle; to one side of
which was attached a sort of scrip, and to the other a ram’s horn,
accoutred with a mouthpiece, for the purpose of blowing. In the same
belt was stuck one of those long, broad, sharp-pointed, and two-edged
knives, with a buck’s-horn handle, which were fabricated in the
neighbourhood, and bore even at this early period the name of a
Sheffield whittle. The man had no covering upon his head, which was
only defended by his own thick hair, matted and twisted together, and
scorched by the influence of the sun into a rusty dark-red colour,
forming a contrast with the overgrown beard upon his cheeks, which was
rather of a yellow or amber hue. One part of his dress only remains, but
it is too remarkable to be suppressed; it was a brass ring, resembling a
dog’s collar, but without any opening, and soldered fast round his neck,
so loose as to form no impediment to his breathing, yet so tight as to
be incapable of being removed, excepting by the use of the file. On this
singular gorget was engraved, in Saxon characters, an inscription of the
following purport:--“Gurth, the son of Beowulph, is the born thrall of
Cedric of Rotherwood.”

Beside the swine-herd, for such was Gurth’s occupation, was seated, upon
one of the fallen Druidical monuments, a person about ten years younger
in appearance, and whose dress, though resembling his companion’s in
form, was of better materials, and of a more fantastic appearance. His
jacket had been stained of a bright purple hue, upon which there had
been some attempt to paint grotesque ornaments in different colours. To
the jacket he added a short cloak, which scarcely reached half way down
his thigh; it was of crimson cloth, though a good deal soiled, lined
with bright yellow; and as he could transfer it from one shoulder to the
other, or at his pleasure draw it all around him, its width, contrasted
with its want of longitude, formed a fantastic piece of drapery. He had
thin silver bracelets upon his arms, and on his neck a collar of the
same metal bearing the inscription, “Wamba, the son of Witless, is the
thrall of Cedric of Rotherwood.” This personage had the same sort of
sandals with his companion, but instead of the roll of leather thong,
his legs were cased in a sort of gaiters, of which one was red and the
other yellow. He was provided also with a cap, having around it more
than one bell, about the size of those attached to hawks, which jingled
as he turned his head to one side or other; and as he seldom remained a
minute in the same posture, the sound might be considered as incessant.
Around the edge of this cap was a stiff bandeau of leather, cut at the
top into open work, resembling a coronet, while a prolonged bag arose
from within it, and fell down on one shoulder like an old-fashioned
nightcap, or a jelly-bag, or the head-gear of a modern hussar. It was to
this part of the cap that the bells were attached; which circumstance,
as well as the shape of his head-dress, and his own half-crazed,
half-cunning expression of countenance, sufficiently pointed him out as
belonging to the race of domestic clowns or jesters, maintained in the
houses of the wealthy, to help away the tedium of those lingering
hours which they were obliged to spend within doors. He bore, like
his companion, a scrip, attached to his belt, but had neither horn nor
knife, being probably considered as belonging to a class whom it is
esteemed dangerous to intrust with edge-tools. In place of these, he
was equipped with a sword of lath, resembling that with which Harlequin
operates his wonders upon the modern stage.

The outward appearance of these two men formed scarce a stronger
contrast than their look and demeanour. That of the serf, or bondsman,
was sad and sullen; his aspect was bent on the ground with an appearance
of deep dejection, which might be almost construed into apathy, had
not the fire which occasionally sparkled in his red eye manifested that
there slumbered, under the appearance of sullen despondency, a sense of
oppression, and a disposition to resistance. The looks of Wamba, on
the other hand, indicated, as usual with his class, a sort of vacant
curiosity, and fidgetty impatience of any posture of repose, together
with the utmost self-satisfaction respecting his own situation, and the
appearance which he made. The dialogue which they maintained between
them, was carried on in Anglo-Saxon, which, as we said before, was
universally spoken by the inferior classes, excepting the Norman
soldiers, and the immediate personal dependants of the great feudal
nobles. But to give their conversation in the original would convey but
little information to the modern reader, for whose benefit we beg to
offer the following translation:

“The curse of St Withold upon these infernal porkers!” said the
swine-herd, after blowing his horn obstreperously, to collect together
the scattered herd of swine, which, answering his call with notes
equally melodious, made, however, no haste to remove themselves from the
luxurious banquet of beech-mast and acorns on which they had fattened,
or to forsake the marshy banks of the rivulet, where several of them,
half plunged in mud, lay stretched at their ease, altogether regardless
of the voice of their keeper. “The curse of St Withold upon them and
upon me!” said Gurth; “if the two-legged wolf snap not up some of them
ere nightfall, I am no true man. Here, Fangs! Fangs!” he ejaculated at
the top of his voice to a ragged wolfish-looking dog, a sort of lurcher,
half mastiff, half greyhound, which ran limping about as if with the
purpose of seconding his master in collecting the refractory grunters;
but which, in fact, from misapprehension of the swine-herd’s signals,
ignorance of his own duty, or malice prepense, only drove them hither
and thither, and increased the evil which he seemed to design to remedy.
“A devil draw the teeth of him,” said Gurth, “and the mother of mischief
confound the Ranger of the forest, that cuts the foreclaws off our dogs,
and makes them unfit for their trade! [8] Wamba, up and help me an thou
be’st a man; take a turn round the back o’ the hill to gain the wind
on them; and when thous’t got the weather-gage, thou mayst drive them
before thee as gently as so many innocent lambs.”

“Truly,” said Wamba, without stirring from the spot, “I have consulted
my legs upon this matter, and they are altogether of opinion, that
to carry my gay garments through these sloughs, would be an act of
unfriendship to my sovereign person and royal wardrobe; wherefore,
Gurth, I advise thee to call off Fangs, and leave the herd to their
destiny, which, whether they meet with bands of travelling soldiers,
or of outlaws, or of wandering pilgrims, can be little else than to
be converted into Normans before morning, to thy no small ease and
comfort.”

“The swine turned Normans to my comfort!” quoth Gurth; “expound that
to me, Wamba, for my brain is too dull, and my mind too vexed, to read
riddles.”

“Why, how call you those grunting brutes running about on their four
legs?” demanded Wamba.

“Swine, fool, swine,” said the herd, “every fool knows that.”

“And swine is good Saxon,” said the Jester; “but how call you the sow
when she is flayed, and drawn, and quartered, and hung up by the heels,
like a traitor?”

“Pork,” answered the swine-herd.

“I am very glad every fool knows that too,” said Wamba, “and pork, I
think, is good Norman-French; and so when the brute lives, and is in
the charge of a Saxon slave, she goes by her Saxon name; but becomes a
Norman, and is called pork, when she is carried to the Castle-hall to
feast among the nobles; what dost thou think of this, friend Gurth, ha?”

“It is but too true doctrine, friend Wamba, however it got into thy
fool’s pate.”

“Nay, I can tell you more,” said Wamba, in the same tone; “there is old
Alderman Ox continues to hold his Saxon epithet, while he is under the
charge of serfs and bondsmen such as thou, but becomes Beef, a fiery
French gallant, when he arrives before the worshipful jaws that are
destined to consume him. Mynheer Calf, too, becomes Monsieur de Veau
in the like manner; he is Saxon when he requires tendance, and takes a
Norman name when he becomes matter of enjoyment.”

“By St Dunstan,” answered Gurth, “thou speakest but sad truths; little
is left to us but the air we breathe, and that appears to have been
reserved with much hesitation, solely for the purpose of enabling us to
endure the tasks they lay upon our shoulders. The finest and the fattest
is for their board; the loveliest is for their couch; the best and
bravest supply their foreign masters with soldiers, and whiten distant
lands with their bones, leaving few here who have either will or the
power to protect the unfortunate Saxon. God’s blessing on our master
Cedric, he hath done the work of a man in standing in the gap; but
Reginald Front-de-Boeuf is coming down to this country in person, and we
shall soon see how little Cedric’s trouble will avail him.--Here, here,”
 he exclaimed again, raising his voice, “So ho! so ho! well done, Fangs!
thou hast them all before thee now, and bring’st them on bravely, lad.”

“Gurth,” said the Jester, “I know thou thinkest me a fool, or thou
wouldst not be so rash in putting thy head into my mouth. One word to
Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, or Philip de Malvoisin, that thou hast
spoken treason against the Norman,--and thou art but a cast-away
swineherd,--thou wouldst waver on one of these trees as a terror to all
evil speakers against dignities.”

“Dog, thou wouldst not betray me,” said Gurth, “after having led me on
to speak so much at disadvantage?”

“Betray thee!” answered the Jester; “no, that were the trick of a wise
man; a fool cannot half so well help himself--but soft, whom have we
here?” he said, listening to the trampling of several horses which
became then audible.

“Never mind whom,” answered Gurth, who had now got his herd before him,
and, with the aid of Fangs, was driving them down one of the long dim
vistas which we have endeavoured to describe.

“Nay, but I must see the riders,” answered Wamba; “perhaps they are come
from Fairy-land with a message from King Oberon.”

“A murrain take thee,” rejoined the swine-herd; “wilt thou talk of such
things, while a terrible storm of thunder and lightning is raging within
a few miles of us? Hark, how the thunder rumbles! and for summer rain,
I never saw such broad downright flat drops fall out of the clouds; the
oaks, too, notwithstanding the calm weather, sob and creak with their
great boughs as if announcing a tempest. Thou canst play the rational if
thou wilt; credit me for once, and let us home ere the storm begins to
rage, for the night will be fearful.”

Wamba seemed to feel the force of this appeal, and accompanied his
companion, who began his journey after catching up a long quarter-staff
which lay upon the grass beside him. This second Eumaeus strode hastily
down the forest glade, driving before him, with the assistance of Fangs,
the whole herd of his inharmonious charge.




CHAPTER II

     A Monk there was, a fayre for the maistrie,
     An outrider that loved venerie;
     A manly man, to be an Abbot able,
     Full many a daintie horse had he in stable:
     And whan he rode, men might his bridle hear
     Gingeling in a whistling wind as clear,
     And eke as loud, as doth the chapell bell,
     There as this lord was keeper of the cell.
     --Chaucer.

Notwithstanding the occasional exhortation and chiding of his companion,
the noise of the horsemen’s feet continuing to approach, Wamba could
not be prevented from lingering occasionally on the road, upon every
pretence which occurred; now catching from the hazel a cluster of
half-ripe nuts, and now turning his head to leer after a cottage maiden
who crossed their path. The horsemen, therefore, soon overtook them on
the road.

Their numbers amounted to ten men, of whom the two who rode foremost
seemed to be persons of considerable importance, and the others
their attendants. It was not difficult to ascertain the condition and
character of one of these personages. He was obviously an ecclesiastic
of high rank; his dress was that of a Cistercian Monk, but composed of
materials much finer than those which the rule of that order admitted.
His mantle and hood were of the best Flanders cloth, and fell in ample,
and not ungraceful folds, around a handsome, though somewhat corpulent
person. His countenance bore as little the marks of self-denial, as his
habit indicated contempt of worldly splendour. His features might have
been called good, had there not lurked under the pent-house of his eye,
that sly epicurean twinkle which indicates the cautious voluptuary.
In other respects, his profession and situation had taught him a ready
command over his countenance, which he could contract at pleasure into
solemnity, although its natural expression was that of good-humoured
social indulgence. In defiance of conventual rules, and the edicts of
popes and councils, the sleeves of this dignitary were lined and turned
up with rich furs, his mantle secured at the throat with a golden
clasp, and the whole dress proper to his order as much refined upon and
ornamented, as that of a quaker beauty of the present day, who, while
she retains the garb and costume of her sect continues to give to its
simplicity, by the choice of materials and the mode of disposing them,
a certain air of coquettish attraction, savouring but too much of the
vanities of the world.

This worthy churchman rode upon a well-fed ambling mule, whose furniture
was highly decorated, and whose bridle, according to the fashion of the
day, was ornamented with silver bells. In his seat he had nothing of the
awkwardness of the convent, but displayed the easy and habitual grace of
a well-trained horseman. Indeed, it seemed that so humble a conveyance
as a mule, in however good case, and however well broken to a pleasant
and accommodating amble, was only used by the gallant monk for
travelling on the road. A lay brother, one of those who followed in the
train, had, for his use on other occasions, one of the most handsome
Spanish jennets ever bred at Andalusia, which merchants used at that
time to import, with great trouble and risk, for the use of persons of
wealth and distinction. The saddle and housings of this superb palfrey
were covered by a long foot-cloth, which reached nearly to the ground,
and on which were richly embroidered, mitres, crosses, and other
ecclesiastical emblems. Another lay brother led a sumpter mule, loaded
probably with his superior’s baggage; and two monks of his own order,
of inferior station, rode together in the rear, laughing and conversing
with each other, without taking much notice of the other members of the
cavalcade.

The companion of the church dignitary was a man past forty, thin,
strong, tall, and muscular; an athletic figure, which long fatigue and
constant exercise seemed to have left none of the softer part of the
human form, having reduced the whole to brawn, bones, and sinews, which
had sustained a thousand toils, and were ready to dare a thousand more.
His head was covered with a scarlet cap, faced with fur--of that kind
which the French call “mortier”, from its resemblance to the shape of an
inverted mortar. His countenance was therefore fully displayed, and its
expression was calculated to impress a degree of awe, if not of
fear, upon strangers. High features, naturally strong and powerfully
expressive, had been burnt almost into Negro blackness by constant
exposure to the tropical sun, and might, in their ordinary state, be
said to slumber after the storm of passion had passed away; but the
projection of the veins of the forehead, the readiness with which the
upper lip and its thick black moustaches quivered upon the slightest
emotion, plainly intimated that the tempest might be again and easily
awakened. His keen, piercing, dark eyes, told in every glance a history
of difficulties subdued, and dangers dared, and seemed to challenge
opposition to his wishes, for the pleasure of sweeping it from his road
by a determined exertion of courage and of will; a deep scar on his brow
gave additional sternness to his countenance, and a sinister expression
to one of his eyes, which had been slightly injured on the same
occasion, and of which the vision, though perfect, was in a slight and
partial degree distorted.

The upper dress of this personage resembled that of his companion in
shape, being a long monastic mantle; but the colour, being scarlet,
showed that he did not belong to any of the four regular orders of
monks. On the right shoulder of the mantle there was cut, in white
cloth, a cross of a peculiar form. This upper robe concealed what at
first view seemed rather inconsistent with its form, a shirt, namely, of
linked mail, with sleeves and gloves of the same, curiously plaited and
interwoven, as flexible to the body as those which are now wrought in
the stocking-loom, out of less obdurate materials. The fore-part of his
thighs, where the folds of his mantle permitted them to be seen, were
also covered with linked mail; the knees and feet were defended by
splints, or thin plates of steel, ingeniously jointed upon each
other; and mail hose, reaching from the ankle to the knee, effectually
protected the legs, and completed the rider’s defensive armour. In
his girdle he wore a long and double-edged dagger, which was the only
offensive weapon about his person.

He rode, not a mule, like his companion, but a strong hackney for the
road, to save his gallant war-horse, which a squire led behind, fully
accoutred for battle, with a chamfron or plaited head-piece upon his
head, having a short spike projecting from the front. On one side of the
saddle hung a short battle-axe, richly inlaid with Damascene carving;
on the other the rider’s plumed head-piece and hood of mail, with a long
two-handed sword, used by the chivalry of the period. A second squire
held aloft his master’s lance, from the extremity of which fluttered a
small banderole, or streamer, bearing a cross of the same form with that
embroidered upon his cloak. He also carried his small triangular
shield, broad enough at the top to protect the breast, and from thence
diminishing to a point. It was covered with a scarlet cloth, which
prevented the device from being seen.

These two squires were followed by two attendants, whose dark visages,
white turbans, and the Oriental form of their garments, showed them to
be natives of some distant Eastern country. [9]

The whole appearance of this warrior and his retinue was wild and
outlandish; the dress of his squires was gorgeous, and his Eastern
attendants wore silver collars round their throats, and bracelets of the
same metal upon their swarthy arms and legs, of which the former were
naked from the elbow, and the latter from mid-leg to ankle. Silk and
embroidery distinguished their dresses, and marked the wealth and
importance of their master; forming, at the same time, a striking
contrast with the martial simplicity of his own attire. They were armed
with crooked sabres, having the hilt and baldric inlaid with gold, and
matched with Turkish daggers of yet more costly workmanship. Each of
them bore at his saddle-bow a bundle of darts or javelins, about four
feet in length, having sharp steel heads, a weapon much in use among
the Saracens, and of which the memory is yet preserved in the martial
exercise called “El Jerrid”, still practised in the Eastern countries.

The steeds of these attendants were in appearance as foreign as their
riders. They were of Saracen origin, and consequently of Arabian
descent; and their fine slender limbs, small fetlocks, thin manes, and
easy springy motion, formed a marked contrast with the large-jointed,
heavy horses, of which the race was cultivated in Flanders and in
Normandy, for mounting the men-at-arms of the period in all the panoply
of plate and mail; and which, placed by the side of those Eastern
coursers, might have passed for a personification of substance and of
shadow.

The singular appearance of this cavalcade not only attracted the
curiosity of Wamba, but excited even that of his less volatile
companion. The monk he instantly knew to be the Prior of Jorvaulx
Abbey, well known for many miles around as a lover of the chase, of
the banquet, and, if fame did him not wrong, of other worldly pleasures
still more inconsistent with his monastic vows.

Yet so loose were the ideas of the times respecting the conduct of the
clergy, whether secular or regular, that the Prior Aymer maintained a
fair character in the neighbourhood of his abbey. His free and jovial
temper, and the readiness with which he granted absolution from all
ordinary delinquencies, rendered him a favourite among the nobility and
principal gentry, to several of whom he was allied by birth, being of
a distinguished Norman family. The ladies, in particular, were not
disposed to scan too nicely the morals of a man who was a professed
admirer of their sex, and who possessed many means of dispelling the
ennui which was too apt to intrude upon the halls and bowers of an
ancient feudal castle. The Prior mingled in the sports of the field with
more than due eagerness, and was allowed to possess the best-trained
hawks, and the fleetest greyhounds in the North Riding; circumstances
which strongly recommended him to the youthful gentry. With the old,
he had another part to play, which, when needful, he could sustain
with great decorum. His knowledge of books, however superficial, was
sufficient to impress upon their ignorance respect for his supposed
learning; and the gravity of his deportment and language, with the high
tone which he exerted in setting forth the authority of the church
and of the priesthood, impressed them no less with an opinion of his
sanctity. Even the common people, the severest critics of the conduct of
their betters, had commiseration with the follies of Prior Aymer. He
was generous; and charity, as it is well known, covereth a multitude
of sins, in another sense than that in which it is said to do so in
Scripture. The revenues of the monastery, of which a large part was at
his disposal, while they gave him the means of supplying his own very
considerable expenses, afforded also those largesses which he bestowed
among the peasantry, and with which he frequently relieved the
distresses of the oppressed. If Prior Aymer rode hard in the chase, or
remained long at the banquet,--if Prior Aymer was seen, at the early
peep of dawn, to enter the postern of the abbey, as he glided home
from some rendezvous which had occupied the hours of darkness, men
only shrugged up their shoulders, and reconciled themselves to his
irregularities, by recollecting that the same were practised by many
of his brethren who had no redeeming qualities whatsoever to atone for
them. Prior Aymer, therefore, and his character, were well known to
our Saxon serfs, who made their rude obeisance, and received his
“benedicite, mes filz,” in return.

But the singular appearance of his companion and his attendants,
arrested their attention and excited their wonder, and they could
scarcely attend to the Prior of Jorvaulx’ question, when he demanded if
they knew of any place of harbourage in the vicinity; so much were they
surprised at the half monastic, half military appearance of the swarthy
stranger, and at the uncouth dress and arms of his Eastern attendants.
It is probable, too, that the language in which the benediction was
conferred, and the information asked, sounded ungracious, though not
probably unintelligible, in the ears of the Saxon peasants.

“I asked you, my children,” said the Prior, raising his voice, and using
the lingua Franca, or mixed language, in which the Norman and Saxon
races conversed with each other, “if there be in this neighbourhood any
good man, who, for the love of God, and devotion to Mother Church,
will give two of her humblest servants, with their train, a night’s
hospitality and refreshment?”

This he spoke with a tone of conscious importance, which formed a strong
contrast to the modest terms which he thought it proper to employ.

“Two of the humblest servants of Mother Church!” repeated Wamba to
himself,--but, fool as he was, taking care not to make his observation
audible; “I should like to see her seneschals, her chief butlers, and
other principal domestics!”

After this internal commentary on the Prior’s speech, he raised his
eyes, and replied to the question which had been put.

“If the reverend fathers,” he said, “loved good cheer and soft lodging,
few miles of riding would carry them to the Priory of Brinxworth, where
their quality could not but secure them the most honourable reception;
or if they preferred spending a penitential evening, they might turn
down yonder wild glade, which would bring them to the hermitage of
Copmanhurst, where a pious anchoret would make them sharers for the
night of the shelter of his roof and the benefit of his prayers.”

The Prior shook his head at both proposals.

“Mine honest friend,” said he, “if the jangling of thy bells had not
dizzied thine understanding, thou mightst know “Clericus clericum non
decimat”; that is to say, we churchmen do not exhaust each other’s
hospitality, but rather require that of the laity, giving them thus
an opportunity to serve God in honouring and relieving his appointed
servants.”

“It is true,” replied Wamba, “that I, being but an ass, am,
nevertheless, honoured to hear the bells as well as your reverence’s
mule; notwithstanding, I did conceive that the charity of Mother Church
and her servants might be said, with other charity, to begin at home.”

“A truce to thine insolence, fellow,” said the armed rider, breaking in
on his prattle with a high and stern voice, “and tell us, if thou canst,
the road to--How call’d you your Franklin, Prior Aymer?”

“Cedric,” answered the Prior; “Cedric the Saxon.--Tell me, good fellow,
are we near his dwelling, and can you show us the road?”

“The road will be uneasy to find,” answered Gurth, who broke silence for
the first time, “and the family of Cedric retire early to rest.”

“Tush, tell not me, fellow,” said the military rider; “‘tis easy for
them to arise and supply the wants of travellers such as we are, who
will not stoop to beg the hospitality which we have a right to command.”

“I know not,” said Gurth, sullenly, “if I should show the way to my
master’s house, to those who demand as a right, the shelter which most
are fain to ask as a favour.”

“Do you dispute with me, slave!” said the soldier; and, setting spurs
to his horse, he caused him make a demivolte across the path, raising at
the same time the riding rod which he held in his hand, with a purpose
of chastising what he considered as the insolence of the peasant.

Gurth darted at him a savage and revengeful scowl, and with a fierce,
yet hesitating motion, laid his hand on the haft of his knife; but the
interference of Prior Aymer, who pushed his mule betwixt his companion
and the swineherd, prevented the meditated violence.

“Nay, by St Mary, brother Brian, you must not think you are now in
Palestine, predominating over heathen Turks and infidel Saracens; we
islanders love not blows, save those of holy Church, who chasteneth whom
she loveth.--Tell me, good fellow,” said he to Wamba, and seconded his
speech by a small piece of silver coin, “the way to Cedric the Saxon’s;
you cannot be ignorant of it, and it is your duty to direct the wanderer
even when his character is less sanctified than ours.”

“In truth, venerable father,” answered the Jester, “the Saracen head of
your right reverend companion has frightened out of mine the way home--I
am not sure I shall get there to-night myself.”

“Tush,” said the Abbot, “thou canst tell us if thou wilt. This reverend
brother has been all his life engaged in fighting among the Saracens
for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre; he is of the order of Knights
Templars, whom you may have heard of; he is half a monk, half a
soldier.”

“If he is but half a monk,” said the Jester, “he should not be wholly
unreasonable with those whom he meets upon the road, even if they should
be in no hurry to answer questions that no way concern them.”

“I forgive thy wit,” replied the Abbot, “on condition thou wilt show me
the way to Cedric’s mansion.”

“Well, then,” answered Wamba, “your reverences must hold on this path
till you come to a sunken cross, of which scarce a cubit’s length
remains above ground; then take the path to the left, for there are
four which meet at Sunken Cross, and I trust your reverences will obtain
shelter before the storm comes on.”

The Abbot thanked his sage adviser; and the cavalcade, setting spurs to
their horses, rode on as men do who wish to reach their inn before the
bursting of a night-storm. As their horses’ hoofs died away, Gurth
said to his companion, “If they follow thy wise direction, the reverend
fathers will hardly reach Rotherwood this night.”

“No,” said the Jester, grinning, “but they may reach Sheffield if they
have good luck, and that is as fit a place for them. I am not so bad a
woodsman as to show the dog where the deer lies, if I have no mind he
should chase him.”

“Thou art right,” said Gurth; “it were ill that Aymer saw the Lady
Rowena; and it were worse, it may be, for Cedric to quarrel, as is most
likely he would, with this military monk. But, like good servants let us
hear and see, and say nothing.”

We return to the riders, who had soon left the bondsmen far behind
them, and who maintained the following conversation in the Norman-French
language, usually employed by the superior classes, with the exception
of the few who were still inclined to boast their Saxon descent.

“What mean these fellows by their capricious insolence?” said the
Templar to the Benedictine, “and why did you prevent me from chastising
it?”

“Marry, brother Brian,” replied the Prior, “touching the one of them, it
were hard for me to render a reason for a fool speaking according to his
folly; and the other churl is of that savage, fierce, intractable race,
some of whom, as I have often told you, are still to be found among the
descendants of the conquered Saxons, and whose supreme pleasure it is
to testify, by all means in their power, their aversion to their
conquerors.”

“I would soon have beat him into courtesy,” observed Brian; “I am
accustomed to deal with such spirits: Our Turkish captives are as fierce
and intractable as Odin himself could have been; yet two months in my
household, under the management of my master of the slaves, has made
them humble, submissive, serviceable, and observant of your will. Marry,
sir, you must be aware of the poison and the dagger; for they use either
with free will when you give them the slightest opportunity.”

“Ay, but,” answered Prior Aymer, “every land has its own manners and
fashions; and, besides that beating this fellow could procure us no
information respecting the road to Cedric’s house, it would have been
sure to have established a quarrel betwixt you and him had we found our
way thither. Remember what I told you: this wealthy franklin is proud,
fierce, jealous, and irritable, a withstander of the nobility, and even
of his neighbors, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf and Philip Malvoisin, who are
no babies to strive with. He stands up sternly for the privileges of
his race, and is so proud of his uninterrupted descend from Hereward, a
renowned champion of the Heptarchy, that he is universally called Cedric
the Saxon; and makes a boast of his belonging to a people from whom
many others endeaver to hide their descent, lest they should encounter a
share of the ‘vae victis,’ or severities imposed upon the vanquished.”

“Prior Aymer,” said the Templar, “you are a man of gallantry, learned
in the study of beauty, and as expert as a troubadour in all matters
concerning the ‘arrets’ of love; but I shall expect much beauty in this
celebrated Rowena to counterbalance the self-denial and forbearance
which I must exert if I am to court the favor of such a seditious churl
as you have described her father Cedric.”

“Cedric is not her father,” replied the Prior, “and is but of remote
relation: she is descended from higher blood than even he pretends to,
and is but distantly connected with him by birth. Her guardian, however,
he is, self-constituted as I believe; but his ward is as dear to him as
if she were his own child. Of her beauty you shall soon be judge; and if
the purity of her complexion, and the majestic, yet soft expression of a
mild blue eye, do not chase from your memory the black-tressed girls of
Palestine, ay, or the houris of old Mahound’s paradise, I am an infidel,
and no true son of the church.”

“Should your boasted beauty,” said the Templar, “be weighed in the
balance and found wanting, you know our wager?”

“My gold collar,” answered the Prior, “against ten butts of Chian
wine;--they are mine as securely as if they were already in the convent
vaults, under the key of old Dennis the cellarer.”

“And I am myself to be judge,” said the Templar, “and am only to be
convicted on my own admission, that I have seen no maiden so beautiful
since Pentecost was a twelvemonth. Ran it not so?--Prior, your collar
is in danger; I will wear it over my gorget in the lists of
Ashby-de-la-Zouche.”

“Win it fairly,” said the Prior, “and wear it as ye will; I will trust
your giving true response, on your word as a knight and as a churchman.
Yet, brother, take my advice, and file your tongue to a little more
courtesy than your habits of predominating over infidel captives
and Eastern bondsmen have accustomed you. Cedric the Saxon, if
offended,--and he is noway slack in taking offence,--is a man who,
without respect to your knighthood, my high office, or the sanctity
of either, would clear his house of us, and send us to lodge with the
larks, though the hour were midnight. And be careful how you look on
Rowena, whom he cherishes with the most jealous care; an he take the
least alarm in that quarter we are but lost men. It is said he banished
his only son from his family for lifting his eyes in the way of
affection towards this beauty, who may be worshipped, it seems, at a
distance, but is not to be approached with other thoughts than such as
we bring to the shrine of the Blessed Virgin.”

“Well, you have said enough,” answered the Templar; “I will for a night
put on the needful restraint, and deport me as meekly as a maiden; but
as for the fear of his expelling us by violence, myself and squires,
with Hamet and Abdalla, will warrant you against that disgrace. Doubt
not that we shall be strong enough to make good our quarters.”

“We must not let it come so far,” answered the Prior; “but here is the
clown’s sunken cross, and the night is so dark that we can hardly see
which of the roads we are to follow. He bid us turn, I think to the
left.”

“To the right,” said Brian, “to the best of my remembrance.”

“To the left, certainly, the left; I remember his pointing with his
wooden sword.”

“Ay, but he held his sword in his left hand, and so pointed across his
body with it,” said the Templar.

Each maintained his opinion with sufficient obstinacy, as is usual in
all such cases; the attendants were appealed to, but they had not been
near enough to hear Wamba’s directions. At length Brian remarked, what
had at first escaped him in the twilight; “Here is some one either
asleep, or lying dead at the foot of this cross--Hugo, stir him with the
butt-end of thy lance.”

This was no sooner done than the figure arose, exclaiming in good
French, “Whosoever thou art, it is discourteous in you to disturb my
thoughts.”

“We did but wish to ask you,” said the Prior, “the road to Rotherwood,
the abode of Cedric the Saxon.”

“I myself am bound thither,” replied the stranger; “and if I had a
horse, I would be your guide, for the way is somewhat intricate, though
perfectly well known to me.”

“Thou shalt have both thanks and reward, my friend,” said the Prior, “if
thou wilt bring us to Cedric’s in safety.”

And he caused one of his attendants to mount his own led horse, and give
that upon which he had hitherto ridden to the stranger, who was to serve
for a guide.

Their conductor pursued an opposite road from that which Wamba had
recommended, for the purpose of misleading them. The path soon led
deeper into the woodland, and crossed more than one brook, the approach
to which was rendered perilous by the marshes through which it flowed;
but the stranger seemed to know, as if by instinct, the soundest ground
and the safest points of passage; and by dint of caution and attention,
brought the party safely into a wilder avenue than any they had yet
seen; and, pointing to a large low irregular building at the upper
extremity, he said to the Prior, “Yonder is Rotherwood, the dwelling of
Cedric the Saxon.”

This was a joyful intimation to Aymer, whose nerves were none of the
strongest, and who had suffered such agitation and alarm in the course
of passing through the dangerous bogs, that he had not yet had the
curiosity to ask his guide a single question. Finding himself now at his
ease and near shelter, his curiosity began to awake, and he demanded of
the guide who and what he was.

“A Palmer, just returned from the Holy Land,” was the answer.

“You had better have tarried there to fight for the recovery of the Holy
Sepulchre,” said the Templar.

“True, Reverend Sir Knight,” answered the Palmer, to whom the appearance
of the Templar seemed perfectly familiar; “but when those who are under
oath to recover the holy city, are found travelling at such a distance
from the scene of their duties, can you wonder that a peaceful peasant
like me should decline the task which they have abandoned?”

The Templar would have made an angry reply, but was interrupted by the
Prior, who again expressed his astonishment, that their guide, after
such long absence, should be so perfectly acquainted with the passes of
the forest.

“I was born a native of these parts,” answered their guide, and as he
made the reply they stood before the mansion of Cedric;--a low irregular
building, containing several court-yards or enclosures, extending over
a considerable space of ground, and which, though its size argued the
inhabitant to be a person of wealth, differed entirely from the tall,
turretted, and castellated buildings in which the Norman nobility
resided, and which had become the universal style of architecture
throughout England.

Rotherwood was not, however, without defences; no habitation, in
that disturbed period, could have been so, without the risk of being
plundered and burnt before the next morning. A deep fosse, or ditch,
was drawn round the whole building, and filled with water from a
neighbouring stream. A double stockade, or palisade, composed of pointed
beams, which the adjacent forest supplied, defended the outer and inner
bank of the trench. There was an entrance from the west through the
outer stockade, which communicated by a drawbridge, with a similar
opening in the interior defences. Some precautions had been taken to
place those entrances under the protection of projecting angles, by
which they might be flanked in case of need by archers or slingers.

Before this entrance the Templar wound his horn loudly; for the rain,
which had long threatened, began now to descend with great violence.




CHAPTER III

     Then (sad relief!) from the bleak coast that hears
     The German Ocean roar, deep-blooming, strong,
     And yellow hair’d, the blue-eyed Saxon came.
     Thomson’s Liberty

In a hall, the height of which was greatly disproportioned to its
extreme length and width, a long oaken table, formed of planks
rough-hewn from the forest, and which had scarcely received any polish,
stood ready prepared for the evening meal of Cedric the Saxon. The roof,
composed of beams and rafters, had nothing to divide the apartment from
the sky excepting the planking and thatch; there was a huge fireplace at
either end of the hall, but as the chimneys were constructed in a very
clumsy manner, at least as much of the smoke found its way into the
apartment as escaped by the proper vent. The constant vapour which this
occasioned, had polished the rafters and beams of the low-browed hall,
by encrusting them with a black varnish of soot. On the sides of the
apartment hung implements of war and of the chase, and there were at
each corner folding doors, which gave access to other parts of the
extensive building.

The other appointments of the mansion partook of the rude simplicity
of the Saxon period, which Cedric piqued himself upon maintaining.
The floor was composed of earth mixed with lime, trodden into a hard
substance, such as is often employed in flooring our modern barns. For
about one quarter of the length of the apartment, the floor was raised
by a step, and this space, which was called the dais, was occupied only
by the principal members of the family, and visitors of distinction.
For this purpose, a table richly covered with scarlet cloth was placed
transversely across the platform, from the middle of which ran the
longer and lower board, at which the domestics and inferior persons fed,
down towards the bottom of the hall. The whole resembled the form of the
letter T, or some of those ancient dinner-tables, which, arranged on the
same principles, may be still seen in the antique Colleges of Oxford or
Cambridge. Massive chairs and settles of carved oak were placed upon the
dais, and over these seats and the more elevated table was fastened a
canopy of cloth, which served in some degree to protect the dignitaries
who occupied that distinguished station from the weather, and
especially from the rain, which in some places found its way through the
ill-constructed roof.

The walls of this upper end of the hall, as far as the dais extended,
were covered with hangings or curtains, and upon the floor there was a
carpet, both of which were adorned with some attempts at tapestry, or
embroidery, executed with brilliant or rather gaudy colouring. Over the
lower range of table, the roof, as we have noticed, had no covering;
the rough plastered walls were left bare, and the rude earthen floor was
uncarpeted; the board was uncovered by a cloth, and rude massive benches
supplied the place of chairs.

In the centre of the upper table, were placed two chairs more elevated
than the rest, for the master and mistress of the family, who presided
over the scene of hospitality, and from doing so derived their Saxon
title of honour, which signifies “the Dividers of Bread.”

To each of these chairs was added a footstool, curiously carved and
inlaid with ivory, which mark of distinction was peculiar to them. One
of these seats was at present occupied by Cedric the Saxon, who, though
but in rank a thane, or, as the Normans called him, a Franklin, felt, at
the delay of his evening meal, an irritable impatience, which might have
become an alderman, whether of ancient or of modern times.

It appeared, indeed, from the countenance of this proprietor, that he
was of a frank, but hasty and choleric temper. He was not above the
middle stature, but broad-shouldered, long-armed, and powerfully made,
like one accustomed to endure the fatigue of war or of the chase; his
face was broad, with large blue eyes, open and frank features, fine
teeth, and a well formed head, altogether expressive of that sort of
good-humour which often lodges with a sudden and hasty temper. Pride and
jealousy there was in his eye, for his life had been spent in asserting
rights which were constantly liable to invasion; and the prompt, fiery,
and resolute disposition of the man, had been kept constantly upon the
alert by the circumstances of his situation. His long yellow hair was
equally divided on the top of his head and upon his brow, and combed
down on each side to the length of his shoulders; it had but little
tendency to grey, although Cedric was approaching to his sixtieth year.

His dress was a tunic of forest green, furred at the throat and cuffs
with what was called minever; a kind of fur inferior in quality to
ermine, and formed, it is believed, of the skin of the grey squirrel.
This doublet hung unbuttoned over a close dress of scarlet which sat
tight to his body; he had breeches of the same, but they did not reach
below the lower part of the thigh, leaving the knee exposed. His
feet had sandals of the same fashion with the peasants, but of finer
materials, and secured in the front with golden clasps. He had bracelets
of gold upon his arms, and a broad collar of the same precious metal
around his neck. About his waist he wore a richly-studded belt, in
which was stuck a short straight two-edged sword, with a sharp point, so
disposed as to hang almost perpendicularly by his side. Behind his seat
was hung a scarlet cloth cloak lined with fur, and a cap of the same
materials richly embroidered, which completed the dress of the opulent
landholder when he chose to go forth. A short boar-spear, with a broad
and bright steel head, also reclined against the back of his chair,
which served him, when he walked abroad, for the purposes of a staff or
of a weapon, as chance might require.

Several domestics, whose dress held various proportions betwixt the
richness of their master’s, and the coarse and simple attire of Gurth
the swine-herd, watched the looks and waited the commands of the Saxon
dignitary. Two or three servants of a superior order stood behind their
master upon the dais; the rest occupied the lower part of the hall.
Other attendants there were of a different description; two or three
large and shaggy greyhounds, such as were then employed in hunting the
stag and wolf; as many slow-hounds of a large bony breed, with thick
necks, large heads, and long ears; and one or two of the smaller dogs,
now called terriers, which waited with impatience the arrival of the
supper; but, with the sagacious knowledge of physiognomy peculiar to
their race, forbore to intrude upon the moody silence of their master,
apprehensive probably of a small white truncheon which lay by Cedric’s
trencher, for the purpose of repelling the advances of his four-legged
dependants. One grisly old wolf-dog alone, with the liberty of an
indulged favourite, had planted himself close by the chair of state, and
occasionally ventured to solicit notice by putting his large hairy head
upon his master’s knee, or pushing his nose into his hand. Even he was
repelled by the stern command, “Down, Balder, down! I am not in the
humour for foolery.”

In fact, Cedric, as we have observed, was in no very placid state of
mind. The Lady Rowena, who had been absent to attend an evening mass at
a distant church, had but just returned, and was changing her garments,
which had been wetted by the storm. There were as yet no tidings of
Gurth and his charge, which should long since have been driven home from
the forest and such was the insecurity of the period, as to render it
probable that the delay might be explained by some depreciation of the
outlaws, with whom the adjacent forest abounded, or by the violence
of some neighbouring baron, whose consciousness of strength made
him equally negligent of the laws of property. The matter was of
consequence, for great part of the domestic wealth of the Saxon
proprietors consisted in numerous herds of swine, especially in
forest-land, where those animals easily found their food.

Besides these subjects of anxiety, the Saxon thane was impatient for the
presence of his favourite clown Wamba, whose jests, such as they were,
served for a sort of seasoning to his evening meal, and to the deep
draughts of ale and wine with which he was in the habit of accompanying
it. Add to all this, Cedric had fasted since noon, and his usual supper
hour was long past, a cause of irritation common to country squires,
both in ancient and modern times. His displeasure was expressed in
broken sentences, partly muttered to himself, partly addressed to the
domestics who stood around; and particularly to his cupbearer, who
offered him from time to time, as a sedative, a silver goblet filled
with wine--“Why tarries the Lady Rowena?”

“She is but changing her head-gear,” replied a female attendant, with as
much confidence as the favourite lady’s-maid usually answers the master
of a modern family; “you would not wish her to sit down to the banquet
in her hood and kirtle? and no lady within the shire can be quicker in
arraying herself than my mistress.”

This undeniable argument produced a sort of acquiescent umph! on the
part of the Saxon, with the addition, “I wish her devotion may choose
fair weather for the next visit to St John’s Kirk;--but what, in the
name of ten devils,” continued he, turning to the cupbearer, and raising
his voice as if happy to have found a channel into which he might divert
his indignation without fear or control--“what, in the name of ten
devils, keeps Gurth so long afield? I suppose we shall have an evil
account of the herd; he was wont to be a faithful and cautious drudge,
and I had destined him for something better; perchance I might even have
made him one of my warders.” [11]

Oswald the cupbearer modestly suggested, “that it was scarce an hour
since the tolling of the curfew;” an ill-chosen apology, since it turned
upon a topic so harsh to Saxon ears.

“The foul fiend,” exclaimed Cedric, “take the curfew-bell, and the
tyrannical bastard by whom it was devised, and the heartless slave who
names it with a Saxon tongue to a Saxon ear! The curfew!” he added,
pausing, “ay, the curfew; which compels true men to extinguish their
lights, that thieves and robbers may work their deeds in darkness!--Ay,
the curfew;--Reginald Front-de-Boeuf and Philip de Malvoisin know the
use of the curfew as well as William the Bastard himself, or e’er a
Norman adventurer that fought at Hastings. I shall hear, I guess,
that my property has been swept off to save from starving the hungry
banditti, whom they cannot support but by theft and robbery. My faithful
slave is murdered, and my goods are taken for a prey--and Wamba--where
is Wamba? Said not some one he had gone forth with Gurth?”

Oswald replied in the affirmative.

“Ay? why this is better and better! he is carried off too, the Saxon
fool, to serve the Norman lord. Fools are we all indeed that serve them,
and fitter subjects for their scorn and laughter, than if we were born
with but half our wits. But I will be avenged,” he added, starting from
his chair in impatience at the supposed injury, and catching hold of his
boar-spear; “I will go with my complaint to the great council; I have
friends, I have followers--man to man will I appeal the Norman to the
lists; let him come in his plate and his mail, and all that can render
cowardice bold; I have sent such a javelin as this through a stronger
fence than three of their war shields!--Haply they think me old; but
they shall find, alone and childless as I am, the blood of Hereward is
in the veins of Cedric.--Ah, Wilfred, Wilfred!” he exclaimed in a lower
tone, “couldst thou have ruled thine unreasonable passion, thy father
had not been left in his age like the solitary oak that throws out
its shattered and unprotected branches against the full sweep of the
tempest!” The reflection seemed to conjure into sadness his irritated
feelings. Replacing his javelin, he resumed his seat, bent his looks
downward, and appeared to be absorbed in melancholy reflection.

From his musing, Cedric was suddenly awakened by the blast of a horn,
which was replied to by the clamorous yells and barking of all the dogs
in the hall, and some twenty or thirty which were quartered in other
parts of the building. It cost some exercise of the white truncheon,
well seconded by the exertions of the domestics, to silence this canine
clamour.

“To the gate, knaves!” said the Saxon, hastily, as soon as the tumult
was so much appeased that the dependants could hear his voice. “See what
tidings that horn tells us of--to announce, I ween, some hership [12]
and robbery which has been done upon my lands.”

Returning in less than three minutes, a warder announced “that the Prior
Aymer of Jorvaulx, and the good knight Brian de Bois-Guilbert, commander
of the valiant and venerable order of Knights Templars, with a small
retinue, requested hospitality and lodging for the night, being on
their way to a tournament which was to be held not far from
Ashby-de-la-Zouche, on the second day from the present.”

“Aymer, the Prior Aymer? Brian de Bois-Guilbert?”--muttered Cedric;
“Normans both;--but Norman or Saxon, the hospitality of Rotherwood must
not be impeached; they are welcome, since they have chosen to halt--more
welcome would they have been to have ridden further on their way--But it
were unworthy to murmur for a night’s lodging and a night’s food; in
the quality of guests, at least, even Normans must suppress their
insolence.--Go, Hundebert,” he added, to a sort of major-domo who stood
behind him with a white wand; “take six of the attendants, and introduce
the strangers to the guests’ lodging. Look after their horses and mules,
and see their train lack nothing. Let them have change of vestments if
they require it, and fire, and water to wash, and wine and ale; and bid
the cooks add what they hastily can to our evening meal; and let it
be put on the board when those strangers are ready to share it. Say to
them, Hundebert, that Cedric would himself bid them welcome, but he is
under a vow never to step more than three steps from the dais of his own
hall to meet any who shares not the blood of Saxon royalty. Begone! see
them carefully tended; let them not say in their pride, the Saxon churl
has shown at once his poverty and his avarice.”

The major-domo departed with several attendants, to execute his master’s
commands.

“The Prior Aymer!” repeated Cedric, looking to Oswald, “the brother, if
I mistake not, of Giles de Mauleverer, now lord of Middleham?”

Oswald made a respectful sign of assent. “His brother sits in the
seat, and usurps the patrimony, of a better race, the race of Ulfgar of
Middleham; but what Norman lord doth not the same? This Prior is, they
say, a free and jovial priest, who loves the wine-cup and the bugle-horn
better than bell and book: Good; let him come, he shall be welcome. How
named ye the Templar?”

“Brian de Bois-Guilbert.”

“Bois-Guilbert,” said Cedric, still in the musing, half-arguing tone,
which the habit of living among dependants had accustomed him to employ,
and which resembled a man who talks to himself rather than to those
around him--“Bois-Guilbert? that name has been spread wide both for
good and evil. They say he is valiant as the bravest of his order;
but stained with their usual vices, pride, arrogance, cruelty, and
voluptuousness; a hard-hearted man, who knows neither fear of earth,
nor awe of heaven. So say the few warriors who have returned from
Palestine.--Well; it is but for one night; he shall be welcome
too.--Oswald, broach the oldest wine-cask; place the best mead, the
mightiest ale, the richest morat, the most sparkling cider, the most
odoriferous pigments, upon the board; fill the largest horns [13]
--Templars and Abbots love good wines and good measure.--Elgitha, let
thy Lady Rowena, know we shall not this night expect her in the hall,
unless such be her especial pleasure.”

“But it will be her especial pleasure,” answered Elgitha, with great
readiness, “for she is ever desirous to hear the latest news from
Palestine.”

Cedric darted at the forward damsel a glance of hasty resentment; but
Rowena, and whatever belonged to her, were privileged and secure from
his anger. He only replied, “Silence, maiden; thy tongue outruns thy
discretion. Say my message to thy mistress, and let her do her pleasure.
Here, at least, the descendant of Alfred still reigns a princess.”
 Elgitha left the apartment.

“Palestine!” repeated the Saxon; “Palestine! how many ears are turned
to the tales which dissolute crusaders, or hypocritical pilgrims, bring
from that fatal land! I too might ask--I too might enquire--I too might
listen with a beating heart to fables which the wily strollers devise
to cheat us into hospitality--but no--The son who has disobeyed me is no
longer mine; nor will I concern myself more for his fate than for that
of the most worthless among the millions that ever shaped the cross on
their shoulder, rushed into excess and blood-guiltiness, and called it
an accomplishment of the will of God.”

He knit his brows, and fixed his eyes for an instant on the ground; as
he raised them, the folding doors at the bottom of the hall were cast
wide, and, preceded by the major-domo with his wand, and four domestics
bearing blazing torches, the guests of the evening entered the
apartment.




CHAPTER IV

     With sheep and shaggy goats the porkers bled,
     And the proud steer was on the marble spread;
     With fire prepared, they deal the morsels round,
     Wine rosy bright the brimming goblets crown’d.
     * * * * *
     Disposed apart, Ulysses shares the treat;
     A trivet table and ignobler seat,
     The Prince assigns--
     --Odyssey, Book XXI

The Prior Aymer had taken the opportunity afforded him, of changing his
riding robe for one of yet more costly materials, over which he wore
a cope curiously embroidered. Besides the massive golden signet ring,
which marked his ecclesiastical dignity, his fingers, though contrary
to the canon, were loaded with precious gems; his sandals were of the
finest leather which was imported from Spain; his beard trimmed to as
small dimensions as his order would possibly permit, and his shaven
crown concealed by a scarlet cap richly embroidered.

The appearance of the Knight Templar was also changed; and, though
less studiously bedecked with ornament, his dress was as rich, and
his appearance far more commanding, than that of his companion. He had
exchanged his shirt of mail for an under tunic of dark purple silk,
garnished with furs, over which flowed his long robe of spotless white,
in ample folds. The eight-pointed cross of his order was cut on the
shoulder of his mantle in black velvet. The high cap no longer invested
his brows, which were only shaded by short and thick curled hair of
a raven blackness, corresponding to his unusually swart complexion.
Nothing could be more gracefully majestic than his step and manner,
had they not been marked by a predominant air of haughtiness, easily
acquired by the exercise of unresisted authority.

These two dignified persons were followed by their respective
attendants, and at a more humble distance by their guide, whose figure
had nothing more remarkable than it derived from the usual weeds of a
pilgrim. A cloak or mantle of coarse black serge, enveloped his whole
body. It was in shape something like the cloak of a modern hussar,
having similar flaps for covering the arms, and was called a “Sclaveyn”,
or “Sclavonian”. Coarse sandals, bound with thongs, on his bare feet;
a broad and shadowy hat, with cockle-shells stitched on its brim, and
a long staff shod with iron, to the upper end of which was attached a
branch of palm, completed the palmer’s attire. He followed modestly the
last of the train which entered the hall, and, observing that the lower
table scarce afforded room sufficient for the domestics of Cedric and
the retinue of his guests, he withdrew to a settle placed beside and
almost under one of the large chimneys, and seemed to employ himself in
drying his garments, until the retreat of some one should make room
at the board, or the hospitality of the steward should supply him with
refreshments in the place he had chosen apart.

Cedric rose to receive his guests with an air of dignified hospitality,
and, descending from the dais, or elevated part of his hall, made three
steps towards them, and then awaited their approach.

“I grieve,” he said, “reverend Prior, that my vow binds me to advance
no farther upon this floor of my fathers, even to receive such guests
as you, and this valiant Knight of the Holy Temple. But my steward has
expounded to you the cause of my seeming discourtesy. Let me also pray,
that you will excuse my speaking to you in my native language, and that
you will reply in the same if your knowledge of it permits; if not, I
sufficiently understand Norman to follow your meaning.”

“Vows,” said the Abbot, “must be unloosed, worthy Franklin, or permit
me rather to say, worthy Thane, though the title is antiquated. Vows
are the knots which tie us to Heaven--they are the cords which bind
the sacrifice to the horns of the altar,--and are therefore,--as I said
before,--to be unloosened and discharged, unless our holy Mother Church
shall pronounce the contrary. And respecting language, I willingly
hold communication in that spoken by my respected grandmother, Hilda
of Middleham, who died in odour of sanctity, little short, if we may
presume to say so, of her glorious namesake, the blessed Saint Hilda of
Whitby, God be gracious to her soul!”

When the Prior had ceased what he meant as a conciliatory harangue,
his companion said briefly and emphatically, “I speak ever French,
the language of King Richard and his nobles; but I understand English
sufficiently to communicate with the natives of the country.”

Cedric darted at the speaker one of those hasty and impatient glances,
which comparisons between the two rival nations seldom failed to call
forth; but, recollecting the duties of hospitality, he suppressed
further show of resentment, and, motioning with his hand, caused his
guests to assume two seats a little lower than his own, but placed close
beside him, and gave a signal that the evening meal should be placed
upon the board.

While the attendants hastened to obey Cedric’s commands, his eye
distinguished Gurth the swineherd, who, with his companion Wamba, had
just entered the hall. “Send these loitering knaves up hither,” said the
Saxon, impatiently. And when the culprits came before the dais,--“How
comes it, villains! that you have loitered abroad so late as this? Hast
thou brought home thy charge, sirrah Gurth, or hast thou left them to
robbers and marauders?”

“The herd is safe, so please ye,” said Gurth.

“But it does not please me, thou knave,” said Cedric, “that I should be
made to suppose otherwise for two hours, and sit here devising vengeance
against my neighbours for wrongs they have not done me. I tell thee,
shackles and the prison-house shall punish the next offence of this
kind.”

Gurth, knowing his master’s irritable temper, attempted no exculpation;
but the Jester, who could presume upon Cedric’s tolerance, by virtue
of his privileges as a fool, replied for them both; “In troth, uncle
Cedric, you are neither wise nor reasonable to-night.”

“‘How, sir?” said his master; “you shall to the porter’s lodge, and
taste of the discipline there, if you give your foolery such license.”

“First let your wisdom tell me,” said Wamba, “is it just and reasonable
to punish one person for the fault of another?”

“Certainly not, fool,” answered Cedric.

“Then why should you shackle poor Gurth, uncle, for the fault of his dog
Fangs? for I dare be sworn we lost not a minute by the way, when we had
got our herd together, which Fangs did not manage until we heard the
vesper-bell.”

“Then hang up Fangs,” said Cedric, turning hastily towards the
swineherd, “if the fault is his, and get thee another dog.”

“Under favour, uncle,” said the Jester, “that were still somewhat on the
bow-hand of fair justice; for it was no fault of Fangs that he was lame
and could not gather the herd, but the fault of those that struck off
two of his fore-claws, an operation for which, if the poor fellow had
been consulted, he would scarce have given his voice.”

“And who dared to lame an animal which belonged to my bondsman?” said
the Saxon, kindling in wrath.

“Marry, that did old Hubert,” said Wamba, “Sir Philip de Malvoisin’s
keeper of the chase. He caught Fangs strolling in the forest, and said
he chased the deer contrary to his master’s right, as warden of the
walk.”

“The foul fiend take Malvoisin,” answered the Saxon, “and his keeper
both! I will teach them that the wood was disforested in terms of
the great Forest Charter. But enough of this. Go to, knave, go to thy
place--and thou, Gurth, get thee another dog, and should the keeper dare
to touch it, I will mar his archery; the curse of a coward on my head,
if I strike not off the forefinger of his right hand!--he shall draw
bowstring no more.--I crave your pardon, my worthy guests. I am beset
here with neighbours that match your infidels, Sir Knight, in Holy Land.
But your homely fare is before you; feed, and let welcome make amends
for hard fare.”

The feast, however, which was spread upon the board, needed no apologies
from the lord of the mansion. Swine’s flesh, dressed in several modes,
appeared on the lower part of the board, as also that of fowls, deer,
goats, and hares, and various kinds of fish, together with huge loaves
and cakes of bread, and sundry confections made of fruits and honey.
The smaller sorts of wild-fowl, of which there was abundance, were
not served up in platters, but brought in upon small wooden spits or
broaches, and offered by the pages and domestics who bore them, to each
guest in succession, who cut from them such a portion as he pleased.
Beside each person of rank was placed a goblet of silver; the lower
board was accommodated with large drinking horns.

When the repast was about to commence, the major-domo, or steward,
suddenly raising his wand, said aloud,--“Forbear!--Place for the Lady
Rowena.”

A side-door at the upper end of the hall now opened behind the banquet
table, and Rowena, followed by four female attendants, entered the
apartment. Cedric, though surprised, and perhaps not altogether
agreeably so, at his ward appearing in public on this occasion, hastened
to meet her, and to conduct her, with respectful ceremony, to the
elevated seat at his own right hand, appropriated to the lady of the
mansion. All stood up to receive her; and, replying to their courtesy by
a mute gesture of salutation, she moved gracefully forward to assume her
place at the board. Ere she had time to do so, the Templar whispered to
the Prior, “I shall wear no collar of gold of yours at the tournament.
The Chian wine is your own.”

“Said I not so?” answered the Prior; “but check your raptures, the
Franklin observes you.”

Unheeding this remonstrance, and accustomed only to act upon the
immediate impulse of his own wishes, Brian de Bois-Guilbert kept
his eyes riveted on the Saxon beauty, more striking perhaps to his
imagination, because differing widely from those of the Eastern
sultanas.

Formed in the best proportions of her sex, Rowena was tall in stature,
yet not so much so as to attract observation on account of superior
height. Her complexion was exquisitely fair, but the noble cast of her
head and features prevented the insipidity which sometimes attaches
to fair beauties. Her clear blue eye, which sat enshrined beneath a
graceful eyebrow of brown sufficiently marked to give expression to the
forehead, seemed capable to kindle as well as melt, to command as well
as to beseech. If mildness were the more natural expression of such a
combination of features, it was plain, that in the present instance, the
exercise of habitual superiority, and the reception of general homage,
had given to the Saxon lady a loftier character, which mingled with and
qualified that bestowed by nature. Her profuse hair, of a colour betwixt
brown and flaxen, was arranged in a fanciful and graceful manner in
numerous ringlets, to form which art had probably aided nature. These
locks were braided with gems, and, being worn at full length, intimated
the noble birth and free-born condition of the maiden. A golden chain,
to which was attached a small reliquary of the same metal, hung round
her neck. She wore bracelets on her arms, which were bare. Her dress was
an under-gown and kirtle of pale sea-green silk, over which hung a long
loose robe, which reached to the ground, having very wide sleeves, which
came down, however, very little below the elbow. This robe was crimson,
and manufactured out of the very finest wool. A veil of silk, interwoven
with gold, was attached to the upper part of it, which could be, at
the wearer’s pleasure, either drawn over the face and bosom after the
Spanish fashion, or disposed as a sort of drapery round the shoulders.

When Rowena perceived the Knight Templar’s eyes bent on her with an
ardour, that, compared with the dark caverns under which they moved,
gave them the effect of lighted charcoal, she drew with dignity the veil
around her face, as an intimation that the determined freedom of his
glance was disagreeable. Cedric saw the motion and its cause. “Sir
Templar,” said he, “the cheeks of our Saxon maidens have seen too little
of the sun to enable them to bear the fixed glance of a crusader.”

“If I have offended,” replied Sir Brian, “I crave your pardon,--that
is, I crave the Lady Rowena’s pardon,--for my humility will carry me no
lower.”

“The Lady Rowena,” said the Prior, “has punished us all, in chastising
the boldness of my friend. Let me hope she will be less cruel to the
splendid train which are to meet at the tournament.”

“Our going thither,” said Cedric, “is uncertain. I love not these
vanities, which were unknown to my fathers when England was free.”

“Let us hope, nevertheless,” said the Prior, “our company may determine
you to travel thitherward; when the roads are so unsafe, the escort of
Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert is not to be despised.”

“Sir Prior,” answered the Saxon, “wheresoever I have travelled in this
land, I have hitherto found myself, with the assistance of my good sword
and faithful followers, in no respect needful of other aid. At present,
if we indeed journey to Ashby-de-la-Zouche, we do so with my noble
neighbour and countryman Athelstane of Coningsburgh, and with such a
train as would set outlaws and feudal enemies at defiance.--I drink
to you, Sir Prior, in this cup of wine, which I trust your taste will
approve, and I thank you for your courtesy. Should you be so rigid
in adhering to monastic rule,” he added, “as to prefer your acid
preparation of milk, I hope you will not strain courtesy to do me
reason.”

“Nay,” said the Priest, laughing, “it is only in our abbey that we
confine ourselves to the ‘lac dulce’ or the ‘lac acidum’ either.
Conversing with, the world, we use the world’s fashions, and therefore
I answer your pledge in this honest wine, and leave the weaker liquor to
my lay-brother.”

“And I,” said the Templar, filling his goblet, “drink wassail to the
fair Rowena; for since her namesake introduced the word into England,
has never been one more worthy of such a tribute. By my faith, I could
pardon the unhappy Vortigern, had he half the cause that we now witness,
for making shipwreck of his honour and his kingdom.”

“I will spare your courtesy, Sir Knight,” said Rowena with dignity, and
without unveiling herself; “or rather I will tax it so far as to require
of you the latest news from Palestine, a theme more agreeable to our
English ears than the compliments which your French breeding teaches.”

“I have little of importance to say, lady,” answered Sir Brian de
Bois-Guilbert, “excepting the confirmed tidings of a truce with
Saladin.”

He was interrupted by Wamba, who had taken his appropriated seat upon
a chair, the back of which was decorated with two ass’s ears, and which
was placed about two steps behind that of his master, who, from time
to time, supplied him with victuals from his own trencher; a favour,
however, which the Jester shared with the favourite dogs, of whom, as we
have already noticed, there were several in attendance. Here sat Wamba,
with a small table before him, his heels tucked up against the bar of
the chair, his cheeks sucked up so as to make his jaws resemble a pair
of nut-crackers, and his eyes half-shut, yet watching with alertness
every opportunity to exercise his licensed foolery.

“These truces with the infidels,” he exclaimed, without caring how
suddenly he interrupted the stately Templar, “make an old man of me!”

“Go to, knave, how so?” said Cedric, his features prepared to receive
favourably the expected jest.

“Because,” answered Wamba, “I remember three of them in my day, each
of which was to endure for the course of fifty years; so that, by
computation, I must be at least a hundred and fifty years old.”

“I will warrant you against dying of old age, however,” said the
Templar, who now recognised his friend of the forest; “I will assure
you from all deaths but a violent one, if you give such directions to
wayfarers, as you did this night to the Prior and me.”

“How, sirrah!” said Cedric, “misdirect travellers? We must have you
whipt; you are at least as much rogue as fool.”

“I pray thee, uncle,” answered the Jester, “let my folly, for once,
protect my roguery. I did but make a mistake between my right hand and
my left; and he might have pardoned a greater, who took a fool for his
counsellor and guide.”

Conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of the porter’s
page, who announced that there was a stranger at the gate, imploring
admittance and hospitality.

“Admit him,” said Cedric, “be he who or what he may;--a night like that
which roars without, compels even wild animals to herd with tame, and to
seek the protection of man, their mortal foe, rather than perish by
the elements. Let his wants be ministered to with all care--look to it,
Oswald.”

And the steward left the banqueting hall to see the commands of his
patron obeyed.




CHAPTER V


  Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions,
  senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, hurt with
  the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the
  same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as
  a Christian is?
  --Merchant of Venice

Oswald, returning, whispered into the ear of his master, “It is a Jew,
who calls himself Isaac of York; is it fit I should marshall him into
the hall?”

“Let Gurth do thine office, Oswald,” said Wamba with his usual
effrontery; “the swineherd will be a fit usher to the Jew.”

“St Mary,” said the Abbot, crossing himself, “an unbelieving Jew, and
admitted into this presence!”

“A dog Jew,” echoed the Templar, “to approach a defender of the Holy
Sepulchre?”

“By my faith,” said Wamba, “it would seem the Templars love the Jews’
inheritance better than they do their company.”

“Peace, my worthy guests,” said Cedric; “my hospitality must not be
bounded by your dislikes. If Heaven bore with the whole nation of
stiff-necked unbelievers for more years than a layman can number, we may
endure the presence of one Jew for a few hours. But I constrain no man
to converse or to feed with him.--Let him have a board and a morsel
apart,--unless,” he said smiling, “these turban’d strangers will admit
his society.”

“Sir Franklin,” answered the Templar, “my Saracen slaves are true
Moslems, and scorn as much as any Christian to hold intercourse with a
Jew.”

“Now, in faith,” said Wamba, “I cannot see that the worshippers of
Mahound and Termagaunt have so greatly the advantage over the people
once chosen of Heaven.”

“He shall sit with thee, Wamba,” said Cedric; “the fool and the knave
will be well met.”

“The fool,” answered Wamba, raising the relics of a gammon of bacon,
“will take care to erect a bulwark against the knave.”

“Hush,” said Cedric, “for here he comes.”

Introduced with little ceremony, and advancing with fear and hesitation,
and many a bow of deep humility, a tall thin old man, who, however, had
lost by the habit of stooping much of his actual height, approached the
lower end of the board. His features, keen and regular, with an aquiline
nose, and piercing black eyes; his high and wrinkled forehead, and long
grey hair and beard, would have been considered as handsome, had they
not been the marks of a physiognomy peculiar to a race, which, during
those dark ages, was alike detested by the credulous and prejudiced
vulgar, and persecuted by the greedy and rapacious nobility, and who,
perhaps, owing to that very hatred and persecution, had adopted a
national character, in which there was much, to say the least, mean and
unamiable.

The Jew’s dress, which appeared to have suffered considerably from the
storm, was a plain russet cloak of many folds, covering a dark purple
tunic. He had large boots lined with fur, and a belt around his
waist, which sustained a small knife, together with a case for writing
materials, but no weapon. He wore a high square yellow cap of a peculiar
fashion, assigned to his nation to distinguish them from Christians, and
which he doffed with great humility at the door of the hall.

The reception of this person in the hall of Cedric the Saxon, was such
as might have satisfied the most prejudiced enemy of the tribes of
Israel. Cedric himself coldly nodded in answer to the Jew’s repeated
salutations, and signed to him to take place at the lower end of the
table, where, however, no one offered to make room for him. On the
contrary, as he passed along the file, casting a timid supplicating
glance, and turning towards each of those who occupied the lower end of
the board, the Saxon domestics squared their shoulders, and continued
to devour their supper with great perseverance, paying not the least
attention to the wants of the new guest. The attendants of the Abbot
crossed themselves, with looks of pious horror, and the very heathen
Saracens, as Isaac drew near them, curled up their whiskers with
indignation, and laid their hands on their poniards, as if ready to
rid themselves by the most desperate means from the apprehended
contamination of his nearer approach.

Probably the same motives which induced Cedric to open his hall to this
son of a rejected people, would have made him insist on his attendants
receiving Isaac with more courtesy. But the Abbot had, at this moment,
engaged him in a most interesting discussion on the breed and character
of his favourite hounds, which he would not have interrupted for matters
of much greater importance than that of a Jew going to bed supperless.
While Isaac thus stood an outcast in the present society, like his
people among the nations, looking in vain for welcome or resting
place, the pilgrim who sat by the chimney took compassion upon him, and
resigned his seat, saying briefly, “Old man, my garments are dried,
my hunger is appeased, thou art both wet and fasting.” So saying, he
gathered together, and brought to a flame, the decaying brands which
lay scattered on the ample hearth; took from the larger board a mess of
pottage and seethed kid, placed it upon the small table at which he had
himself supped, and, without waiting the Jew’s thanks, went to the
other side of the hall;--whether from unwillingness to hold more close
communication with the object of his benevolence, or from a wish to draw
near to the upper end of the table, seemed uncertain.

Had there been painters in those days capable to execute such a subject,
the Jew, as he bent his withered form, and expanded his chilled and
trembling hands over the fire, would have formed no bad emblematical
personification of the Winter season. Having dispelled the cold, he
turned eagerly to the smoking mess which was placed before him, and
ate with a haste and an apparent relish, that seemed to betoken long
abstinence from food.

Meanwhile the Abbot and Cedric continued their discourse upon hunting;
the Lady Rowena seemed engaged in conversation with one of her attendant
females; and the haughty Templar, whose eye wandered from the Jew to
the Saxon beauty, revolved in his mind thoughts which appeared deeply to
interest him.

“I marvel, worthy Cedric,” said the Abbot, as their discourse proceeded,
“that, great as your predilection is for your own manly language, you do
not receive the Norman-French into your favour, so far at least as the
mystery of wood-craft and hunting is concerned. Surely no tongue is so
rich in the various phrases which the field-sports demand, or furnishes
means to the experienced woodman so well to express his jovial art.”

“Good Father Aymer,” said the Saxon, “be it known to you, I care not
for those over-sea refinements, without which I can well enough take my
pleasure in the woods. I can wind my horn, though I call not the blast
either a ‘recheate’ or a ‘morte’--I can cheer my dogs on the prey, and
I can flay and quarter the animal when it is brought down, without using
the newfangled jargon of ‘curee, arbor, nombles’, and all the babble of
the fabulous Sir Tristrem.” [14]

“The French,” said the Templar, raising his voice with the presumptuous
and authoritative tone which he used upon all occasions, “is not only
the natural language of the chase, but that of love and of war, in which
ladies should be won and enemies defied.”

“Pledge me in a cup of wine, Sir Templar,” said Cedric, “and fill
another to the Abbot, while I look back some thirty years to tell you
another tale. As Cedric the Saxon then was, his plain English tale
needed no garnish from French troubadours, when it was told in the ear
of beauty; and the field of Northallerton, upon the day of the Holy
Standard, could tell whether the Saxon war-cry was not heard as far
within the ranks of the Scottish host as the ‘cri de guerre’ of
the boldest Norman baron. To the memory of the brave who fought
there!--Pledge me, my guests.” He drank deep, and went on with
increasing warmth. “Ay, that was a day of cleaving of shields, when a
hundred banners were bent forwards over the heads of the valiant, and
blood flowed round like water, and death was held better than flight.
A Saxon bard had called it a feast of the swords--a gathering of the
eagles to the prey--the clashing of bills upon shield and helmet, the
shouting of battle more joyful than the clamour of a bridal. But our
bards are no more,” he said; “our deeds are lost in those of another
race--our language--our very name--is hastening to decay, and none
mourns for it save one solitary old man--Cupbearer! knave, fill the
goblets--To the strong in arms, Sir Templar, be their race or language
what it will, who now bear them best in Palestine among the champions of
the Cross!”

“It becomes not one wearing this badge to answer,” said Sir Brian de
Bois-Guilbert; “yet to whom, besides the sworn Champions of the Holy
Sepulchre, can the palm be assigned among the champions of the Cross?”

“To the Knights Hospitallers,” said the Abbot; “I have a brother of
their order.”

“I impeach not their fame,” said the Templar; “nevertheless---”

“I think, friend Cedric,” said Wamba, interfering, “that had Richard
of the Lion’s Heart been wise enough to have taken a fool’s advice,
he might have staid at home with his merry Englishmen, and left the
recovery of Jerusalem to those same Knights who had most to do with the
loss of it.”

“Were there, then, none in the English army,” said the Lady Rowena,
“whose names are worthy to be mentioned with the Knights of the Temple,
and of St John?”

“Forgive me, lady,” replied De Bois-Guilbert; “the English monarch did,
indeed, bring to Palestine a host of gallant warriors, second only to
those whose breasts have been the unceasing bulwark of that blessed
land.”

“Second to NONE,” said the Pilgrim, who had stood near enough to hear,
and had listened to this conversation with marked impatience. All turned
toward the spot from whence this unexpected asseveration was heard.

“I say,” repeated the Pilgrim in a firm and strong voice, “that the
English chivalry were second to NONE who ever drew sword in defence of
the Holy Land. I say besides, for I saw it, that King Richard himself,
and five of his knights, held a tournament after the taking of St
John-de-Acre, as challengers against all comers. I say that, on that
day, each knight ran three courses, and cast to the ground three
antagonists. I add, that seven of these assailants were Knights of the
Temple--and Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert well knows the truth of what I
tell you.”

It is impossible for language to describe the bitter scowl of rage
which rendered yet darker the swarthy countenance of the Templar. In the
extremity of his resentment and confusion, his quivering fingers griped
towards the handle of his sword, and perhaps only withdrew, from the
consciousness that no act of violence could be safely executed in that
place and presence. Cedric, whose feelings were all of a right onward
and simple kind, and were seldom occupied by more than one object at
once, omitted, in the joyous glee with which he heard of the glory of
his countrymen, to remark the angry confusion of his guest; “I would
give thee this golden bracelet, Pilgrim,” he said, “couldst thou tell me
the names of those knights who upheld so gallantly the renown of merry
England.”

“That will I do blithely,” replied the Pilgrim, “and without guerdon; my
oath, for a time, prohibits me from touching gold.”

“I will wear the bracelet for you, if you will, friend Palmer,” said
Wamba.

“The first in honour as in arms, in renown as in place,” said the
Pilgrim, “was the brave Richard, King of England.”

“I forgive him,” said Cedric; “I forgive him his descent from the tyrant
Duke William.”

“The Earl of Leicester was the second,” continued the Pilgrim; “Sir
Thomas Multon of Gilsland was the third.”

“Of Saxon descent, he at least,” said Cedric, with exultation.

“Sir Foulk Doilly the fourth,” proceeded the Pilgrim.

“Saxon also, at least by the mother’s side,” continued Cedric, who
listened with the utmost eagerness, and forgot, in part at least, his
hatred to the Normans, in the common triumph of the King of England and
his islanders. “And who was the fifth?” he demanded.

“The fifth was Sir Edwin Turneham.”

“Genuine Saxon, by the soul of Hengist!” shouted Cedric--“And the
sixth?” he continued with eagerness--“how name you the sixth?”

“The sixth,” said the Palmer, after a pause, in which he seemed to
recollect himself, “was a young knight of lesser renown and lower rank,
assumed into that honourable company, less to aid their enterprise than
to make up their number--his name dwells not in my memory.”

“Sir Palmer,” said Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert scornfully, “this assumed
forgetfulness, after so much has been remembered, comes too late to
serve your purpose. I will myself tell the name of the knight before
whose lance fortune and my horse’s fault occasioned my falling--it was
the Knight of Ivanhoe; nor was there one of the six that, for his years,
had more renown in arms.--Yet this will I say, and loudly--that were he
in England, and durst repeat, in this week’s tournament, the challenge
of St John-de-Acre, I, mounted and armed as I now am, would give him
every advantage of weapons, and abide the result.”

“Your challenge would soon be answered,” replied the Palmer, “were your
antagonist near you. As the matter is, disturb not the peaceful hall
with vaunts of the issue of the conflict, which you well know cannot
take place. If Ivanhoe ever returns from Palestine, I will be his surety
that he meets you.”

“A goodly security!” said the Knight Templar; “and what do you proffer
as a pledge?”

“This reliquary,” said the Palmer, taking a small ivory box from his
bosom, and crossing himself, “containing a portion of the true cross,
brought from the Monastery of Mount Carmel.”

The Prior of Jorvaulx crossed himself and repeated a pater noster, in
which all devoutly joined, excepting the Jew, the Mahomedans, and the
Templar; the latter of whom, without vailing his bonnet, or testifying
any reverence for the alleged sanctity of the relic, took from his neck
a gold chain, which he flung on the board, saying--“Let Prior Aymer
hold my pledge and that of this nameless vagrant, in token that when the
Knight of Ivanhoe comes within the four seas of Britain, he underlies
the challenge of Brian de Bois-Guilbert, which, if he answer not, I will
proclaim him as a coward on the walls of every Temple Court in Europe.”

“It will not need,” said the Lady Rowena, breaking silence; “My voice
shall be heard, if no other in this hall is raised in behalf of the
absent Ivanhoe. I affirm he will meet fairly every honourable challenge.
Could my weak warrant add security to the inestimable pledge of this
holy pilgrim, I would pledge name and fame that Ivanhoe gives this proud
knight the meeting he desires.”

A crowd of conflicting emotions seemed to have occupied Cedric, and
kept him silent during this discussion. Gratified pride, resentment,
embarrassment, chased each other over his broad and open brow, like the
shadow of clouds drifting over a harvest-field; while his attendants,
on whom the name of the sixth knight seemed to produce an effect almost
electrical, hung in suspense upon their master’s looks. But when Rowena
spoke, the sound of her voice seemed to startle him from his silence.

“Lady,” said Cedric, “this beseems not; were further pledge necessary, I
myself, offended, and justly offended, as I am, would yet gage my honour
for the honour of Ivanhoe. But the wager of battle is complete, even
according to the fantastic fashions of Norman chivalry--Is it not,
Father Aymer?”

“It is,” replied the Prior; “and the blessed relic and rich chain will I
bestow safely in the treasury of our convent, until the decision of this
warlike challenge.”

Having thus spoken, he crossed himself again and again, and after
many genuflections and muttered prayers, he delivered the reliquary to
Brother Ambrose, his attendant monk, while he himself swept up with less
ceremony, but perhaps with no less internal satisfaction, the golden
chain, and bestowed it in a pouch lined with perfumed leather, which
opened under his arm. “And now, Sir Cedric,” he said, “my ears are
chiming vespers with the strength of your good wine--permit us another
pledge to the welfare of the Lady Rowena, and indulge us with liberty to
pass to our repose.”

“By the rood of Bromholme,” said the Saxon, “you do but small credit to
your fame, Sir Prior! Report speaks you a bonny monk, that would hear
the matin chime ere he quitted his bowl; and, old as I am, I feared to
have shame in encountering you. But, by my faith, a Saxon boy of twelve,
in my time, would not so soon have relinquished his goblet.”

The Prior had his own reasons, however, for persevering in the course
of temperance which he had adopted. He was not only a professional
peacemaker, but from practice a hater of all feuds and brawls. It was
not altogether from a love to his neighbour, or to himself, or from
a mixture of both. On the present occasion, he had an instinctive
apprehension of the fiery temper of the Saxon, and saw the danger that
the reckless and presumptuous spirit, of which his companion had
already given so many proofs, might at length produce some disagreeable
explosion. He therefore gently insinuated the incapacity of the native
of any other country to engage in the genial conflict of the bowl
with the hardy and strong-headed Saxons; something he mentioned, but
slightly, about his own holy character, and ended by pressing his
proposal to depart to repose.

The grace-cup was accordingly served round, and the guests, after making
deep obeisance to their landlord and to the Lady Rowena, arose and
mingled in the hall, while the heads of the family, by separate doors,
retired with their attendants.

“Unbelieving dog,” said the Templar to Isaac the Jew, as he passed him
in the throng, “dost thou bend thy course to the tournament?”

“I do so propose,” replied Isaac, bowing in all humility, “if it please
your reverend valour.”

“Ay,” said the Knight, “to gnaw the bowels of our nobles with usury,
and to gull women and boys with gauds and toys--I warrant thee store of
shekels in thy Jewish scrip.”

“Not a shekel, not a silver penny, not a halfling--so help me the God
of Abraham!” said the Jew, clasping his hands; “I go but to seek the
assistance of some brethren of my tribe to aid me to pay the fine which
the Exchequer of the Jews have imposed upon me--Father Jacob be my
speed! I am an impoverished wretch--the very gaberdine I wear is
borrowed from Reuben of Tadcaster.” [15]

The Templar smiled sourly as he replied, “Beshrew thee for a
false-hearted liar!” and passing onward, as if disdaining farther
conference, he communed with his Moslem slaves in a language unknown to
the bystanders. The poor Israelite seemed so staggered by the address
of the military monk, that the Templar had passed on to the extremity
of the hall ere he raised his head from the humble posture which he had
assumed, so far as to be sensible of his departure. And when he did
look around, it was with the astonished air of one at whose feet a
thunderbolt has just burst, and who hears still the astounding report
ringing in his ears.

The Templar and Prior were shortly after marshalled to their sleeping
apartments by the steward and the cupbearer, each attended by two
torchbearers and two servants carrying refreshments, while servants of
inferior condition indicated to their retinue and to the other guests
their respective places of repose.




CHAPTER VI

     To buy his favour I extend this friendship:
     If he will take it, so; if not, adieu;
     And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not.
     --Merchant of Venice

As the Palmer, lighted by a domestic with a torch, passed through the
intricate combination of apartments of this large and irregular mansion,
the cupbearer coming behind him whispered in his ear, that if he had
no objection to a cup of good mead in his apartment, there were many
domestics in that family who would gladly hear the news he had brought
from the Holy Land, and particularly that which concerned the Knight of
Ivanhoe. Wamba presently appeared to urge the same request, observing
that a cup after midnight was worth three after curfew. Without
disputing a maxim urged by such grave authority, the Palmer thanked them
for their courtesy, but observed that he had included in his religious
vow, an obligation never to speak in the kitchen on matters which were
prohibited in the hall. “That vow,” said Wamba to the cupbearer, “would
scarce suit a serving-man.”

The cupbearer shrugged up his shoulders in displeasure. “I thought to
have lodged him in the solere chamber,” said he; “but since he is so
unsocial to Christians, e’en let him take the next stall to Isaac the
Jew’s.--Anwold,” said he to the torchbearer, “carry the Pilgrim to the
southern cell.--I give you good-night,” he added, “Sir Palmer, with
small thanks for short courtesy.”

“Good-night, and Our Lady’s benison,” said the Palmer, with composure;
and his guide moved forward.

In a small antechamber, into which several doors opened, and which was
lighted by a small iron lamp, they met a second interruption from the
waiting-maid of Rowena, who, saying in a tone of authority, that her
mistress desired to speak with the Palmer, took the torch from the hand
of Anwold, and, bidding him await her return, made a sign to the
Palmer to follow. Apparently he did not think it proper to decline this
invitation as he had done the former; for, though his gesture
indicated some surprise at the summons, he obeyed it without answer or
remonstrance.

A short passage, and an ascent of seven steps, each of which was
composed of a solid beam of oak, led him to the apartment of the Lady
Rowena, the rude magnificence of which corresponded to the respect which
was paid to her by the lord of the mansion. The walls were covered with
embroidered hangings, on which different-coloured silks, interwoven with
gold and silver threads, had been employed with all the art of which the
age was capable, to represent the sports of hunting and hawking. The bed
was adorned with the same rich tapestry, and surrounded with curtains
dyed with purple. The seats had also their stained coverings, and one,
which was higher than the rest, was accommodated with a footstool of
ivory, curiously carved.

No fewer than four silver candelabras, holding great waxen torches,
served to illuminate this apartment. Yet let not modern beauty envy the
magnificence of a Saxon princess. The walls of the apartment were so ill
finished and so full of crevices, that the rich hangings shook in the
night blast, and, in despite of a sort of screen intended to protect
them from the wind, the flame of the torches streamed sideways into the
air, like the unfurled pennon of a chieftain. Magnificence there was,
with some rude attempt at taste; but of comfort there was little, and,
being unknown, it was unmissed.

The Lady Rowena, with three of her attendants standing at her back, and
arranging her hair ere she lay down to rest, was seated in the sort of
throne already mentioned, and looked as if born to exact general homage.
The Pilgrim acknowledged her claim to it by a low genuflection.

“Rise, Palmer,” said she graciously. “The defender of the absent has
a right to favourable reception from all who value truth, and honour
manhood.” She then said to her train, “Retire, excepting only Elgitha; I
would speak with this holy Pilgrim.”

The maidens, without leaving the apartment, retired to its further
extremity, and sat down on a small bench against the wall, where they
remained mute as statues, though at such a distance that their whispers
could not have interrupted the conversation of their mistress.

“Pilgrim,” said the lady, after a moment’s pause, during which she
seemed uncertain how to address him, “you this night mentioned a name--I
mean,” she said, with a degree of effort, “the name of Ivanhoe, in
the halls where by nature and kindred it should have sounded most
acceptably; and yet, such is the perverse course of fate, that of many
whose hearts must have throbbed at the sound, I, only, dare ask you
where, and in what condition, you left him of whom you spoke?--We heard,
that, having remained in Palestine, on account of his impaired health,
after the departure of the English army, he had experienced the
persecution of the French faction, to whom the Templars are known to be
attached.”

“I know little of the Knight of Ivanhoe,” answered the Palmer, with
a troubled voice. “I would I knew him better, since you, lady, are
interested in his fate. He hath, I believe, surmounted the persecution
of his enemies in Palestine, and is on the eve of returning to England,
where you, lady, must know better than I, what is his chance of
happiness.”

The Lady Rowena sighed deeply, and asked more particularly when the
Knight of Ivanhoe might be expected in his native country, and whether
he would not be exposed to great dangers by the road. On the first
point, the Palmer professed ignorance; on the second, he said that the
voyage might be safely made by the way of Venice and Genoa, and from
thence through France to England. “Ivanhoe,” he said, “was so well
acquainted with the language and manners of the French, that there was
no fear of his incurring any hazard during that part of his travels.”

“Would to God,” said the Lady Rowena, “he were here safely arrived, and
able to bear arms in the approaching tourney, in which the chivalry
of this land are expected to display their address and valour. Should
Athelstane of Coningsburgh obtain the prize, Ivanhoe is like to hear
evil tidings when he reaches England.--How looked he, stranger, when
you last saw him? Had disease laid her hand heavy upon his strength and
comeliness?”

“He was darker,” said the Palmer, “and thinner, than when he came from
Cyprus in the train of Coeur-de-Lion, and care seemed to sit heavy on
his brow; but I approached not his presence, because he is unknown to
me.”

“He will,” said the lady, “I fear, find little in his native land to
clear those clouds from his countenance. Thanks, good Pilgrim, for your
information concerning the companion of my childhood.--Maidens,” she
said, “draw near--offer the sleeping cup to this holy man, whom I will
no longer detain from repose.”

One of the maidens presented a silver cup, containing a rich mixture of
wine and spice, which Rowena barely put to her lips. It was then offered
to the Palmer, who, after a low obeisance, tasted a few drops.

“Accept this alms, friend,” continued the lady, offering a piece of
gold, “in acknowledgment of thy painful travail, and of the shrines thou
hast visited.”

The Palmer received the boon with another low reverence, and followed
Edwina out of the apartment.

In the anteroom he found his attendant Anwold, who, taking the torch
from the hand of the waiting-maid, conducted him with more haste than
ceremony to an exterior and ignoble part of the building, where a number
of small apartments, or rather cells, served for sleeping places to the
lower order of domestics, and to strangers of mean degree.

“In which of these sleeps the Jew?” said the Pilgrim.

“The unbelieving dog,” answered Anwold, “kennels in the cell next your
holiness.--St Dunstan, how it must be scraped and cleansed ere it be
again fit for a Christian!”

“And where sleeps Gurth the swineherd?” said the stranger.

“Gurth,” replied the bondsman, “sleeps in the cell on your right, as the
Jew on that to your left; you serve to keep the child of circumcision
separate from the abomination of his tribe. You might have occupied a
more honourable place had you accepted of Oswald’s invitation.”

“It is as well as it is,” said the Palmer; “the company, even of a Jew,
can hardly spread contamination through an oaken partition.”

So saying, he entered the cabin allotted to him, and taking the torch
from the domestic’s hand, thanked him, and wished him good-night. Having
shut the door of his cell, he placed the torch in a candlestick made of
wood, and looked around his sleeping apartment, the furniture of which
was of the most simple kind. It consisted of a rude wooden stool,
and still ruder hutch or bed-frame, stuffed with clean straw, and
accommodated with two or three sheepskins by way of bed-clothes.

The Palmer, having extinguished his torch, threw himself, without taking
off any part of his clothes, on this rude couch, and slept, or at least
retained his recumbent posture, till the earliest sunbeams found their
way through the little grated window, which served at once to admit both
air and light to his uncomfortable cell. He then started up, and after
repeating his matins, and adjusting his dress, he left it, and entered
that of Isaac the Jew, lifting the latch as gently as he could.

The inmate was lying in troubled slumber upon a couch similar to that on
which the Palmer himself had passed the night. Such parts of his dress
as the Jew had laid aside on the preceding evening, were disposed
carefully around his person, as if to prevent the hazard of their
being carried off during his slumbers. There was a trouble on his brow
amounting almost to agony. His hands and arms moved convulsively, as
if struggling with the nightmare; and besides several ejaculations in
Hebrew, the following were distinctly heard in the Norman-English, or
mixed language of the country: “For the sake of the God of Abraham,
spare an unhappy old man! I am poor, I am penniless--should your irons
wrench my limbs asunder, I could not gratify you!”

The Palmer awaited not the end of the Jew’s vision, but stirred him with
his pilgrim’s staff. The touch probably associated, as is usual, with
some of the apprehensions excited by his dream; for the old man started
up, his grey hair standing almost erect upon his head, and huddling some
part of his garments about him, while he held the detached pieces with
the tenacious grasp of a falcon, he fixed upon the Palmer his keen black
eyes, expressive of wild surprise and of bodily apprehension.

“Fear nothing from me, Isaac,” said the Palmer, “I come as your friend.”

“The God of Israel requite you,” said the Jew, greatly relieved; “I
dreamed--But Father Abraham be praised, it was but a dream.” Then,
collecting himself, he added in his usual tone, “And what may it be your
pleasure to want at so early an hour with the poor Jew?”

“It is to tell you,” said the Palmer, “that if you leave not this
mansion instantly, and travel not with some haste, your journey may
prove a dangerous one.”

“Holy father!” said the Jew, “whom could it interest to endanger so poor
a wretch as I am?”

“The purpose you can best guess,” said the Pilgrim; “but rely on this,
that when the Templar crossed the hall yesternight, he spoke to his
Mussulman slaves in the Saracen language, which I well understand, and
charged them this morning to watch the journey of the Jew, to seize upon
him when at a convenient distance from the mansion, and to conduct
him to the castle of Philip de Malvoisin, or to that of Reginald
Front-de-Boeuf.”

It is impossible to describe the extremity of terror which seized upon
the Jew at this information, and seemed at once to overpower his whole
faculties. His arms fell down to his sides, and his head drooped on his
breast, his knees bent under his weight, every nerve and muscle of his
frame seemed to collapse and lose its energy, and he sunk at the foot of
the Palmer, not in the fashion of one who intentionally stoops, kneels,
or prostrates himself to excite compassion, but like a man borne down on
all sides by the pressure of some invisible force, which crushes him to
the earth without the power of resistance.

“Holy God of Abraham!” was his first exclamation, folding and elevating
his wrinkled hands, but without raising his grey head from the pavement;
“Oh, holy Moses! O, blessed Aaron! the dream is not dreamed for nought,
and the vision cometh not in vain! I feel their irons already tear my
sinews! I feel the rack pass over my body like the saws, and harrows,
and axes of iron over the men of Rabbah, and of the cities of the
children of Ammon!”

“Stand up, Isaac, and hearken to me,” said the Palmer, who viewed
the extremity of his distress with a compassion in which contempt was
largely mingled; “you have cause for your terror, considering how your
brethren have been used, in order to extort from them their hoards, both
by princes and nobles; but stand up, I say, and I will point out to you
the means of escape. Leave this mansion instantly, while its inmates
sleep sound after the last night’s revel. I will guide you by the secret
paths of the forest, known as well to me as to any forester that ranges
it, and I will not leave you till you are under safe conduct of some
chief or baron going to the tournament, whose good-will you have
probably the means of securing.”

As the ears of Isaac received the hopes of escape which this speech
intimated, he began gradually, and inch by inch, as it were, to raise
himself up from the ground, until he fairly rested upon his knees,
throwing back his long grey hair and beard, and fixing his keen black
eyes upon the Palmer’s face, with a look expressive at once of hope and
fear, not unmingled with suspicion. But when he heard the concluding
part of the sentence, his original terror appeared to revive in full
force, and he dropt once more on his face, exclaiming, “‘I’ possess the
means of securing good-will! alas! there is but one road to the favour
of a Christian, and how can the poor Jew find it, whom extortions have
already reduced to the misery of Lazarus?” Then, as if suspicion had
overpowered his other feelings, he suddenly exclaimed, “For the love of
God, young man, betray me not--for the sake of the Great Father who
made us all, Jew as well as Gentile, Israelite and Ishmaelite--do me no
treason! I have not means to secure the good-will of a Christian beggar,
were he rating it at a single penny.” As he spoke these last words, he
raised himself, and grasped the Palmer’s mantle with a look of the
most earnest entreaty. The pilgrim extricated himself, as if there were
contamination in the touch.

“Wert thou loaded with all the wealth of thy tribe,” he said, “what
interest have I to injure thee?--In this dress I am vowed to poverty,
nor do I change it for aught save a horse and a coat of mail. Yet think
not that I care for thy company, or propose myself advantage by it;
remain here if thou wilt--Cedric the Saxon may protect thee.”

“Alas!” said the Jew, “he will not let me travel in his train--Saxon or
Norman will be equally ashamed of the poor Israelite; and to travel
by myself through the domains of Philip de Malvoisin and Reginald
Front-de-Boeuf--Good youth, I will go with you!--Let us haste--let
us gird up our loins--let us flee!--Here is thy staff, why wilt thou
tarry?”

“I tarry not,” said the Pilgrim, giving way to the urgency of his
companion; “but I must secure the means of leaving this place--follow
me.”

He led the way to the adjoining cell, which, as the reader is apprised,
was occupied by Gurth the swineherd.--“Arise, Gurth,” said the Pilgrim,
“arise quickly. Undo the postern gate, and let out the Jew and me.”

Gurth, whose occupation, though now held so mean, gave him as much
consequence in Saxon England as that of Eumaeus in Ithaca, was offended
at the familiar and commanding tone assumed by the Palmer. “The Jew
leaving Rotherwood,” said he, raising himself on his elbow, and looking
superciliously at him without quitting his pallet, “and travelling in
company with the Palmer to boot--”

“I should as soon have dreamt,” said Wamba, who entered the apartment at
the instant, “of his stealing away with a gammon of bacon.”

“Nevertheless,” said Gurth, again laying down his head on the wooden log
which served him for a pillow, “both Jew and Gentile must be content to
abide the opening of the great gate--we suffer no visitors to depart by
stealth at these unseasonable hours.”

“Nevertheless,” said the Pilgrim, in a commanding tone, “you will not, I
think, refuse me that favour.”

So saying, he stooped over the bed of the recumbent swineherd, and
whispered something in his ear in Saxon. Gurth started up as if
electrified. The Pilgrim, raising his finger in an attitude as if to
express caution, added, “Gurth, beware--thou are wont to be prudent. I
say, undo the postern--thou shalt know more anon.”

With hasty alacrity Gurth obeyed him, while Wamba and the Jew followed,
both wondering at the sudden change in the swineherd’s demeanour. “My
mule, my mule!” said the Jew, as soon as they stood without the postern.

“Fetch him his mule,” said the Pilgrim; “and, hearest thou,--let me have
another, that I may bear him company till he is beyond these parts--I
will return it safely to some of Cedric’s train at Ashby. And do
thou”--he whispered the rest in Gurth’s ear.

“Willingly, most willingly shall it be done,” said Gurth, and instantly
departed to execute the commission.

“I wish I knew,” said Wamba, when his comrade’s back was turned, “what
you Palmers learn in the Holy Land.”

“To say our orisons, fool,” answered the Pilgrim, “to repent our sins,
and to mortify ourselves with fastings, vigils, and long prayers.”

“Something more potent than that,” answered the Jester; “for when would
repentance or prayer make Gurth do a courtesy, or fasting or vigil
persuade him to lend you a mule?--I trow you might as well have told his
favourite black boar of thy vigils and penance, and wouldst have gotten
as civil an answer.”

“Go to,” said the Pilgrim, “thou art but a Saxon fool.”

“Thou sayst well,” said the Jester; “had I been born a Norman, as I
think thou art, I would have had luck on my side, and been next door to
a wise man.”

At this moment Gurth appeared on the opposite side of the moat with the
mules. The travellers crossed the ditch upon a drawbridge of only two
planks breadth, the narrowness of which was matched with the straitness
of the postern, and with a little wicket in the exterior palisade, which
gave access to the forest. No sooner had they reached the mules, than
the Jew, with hasty and trembling hands, secured behind the saddle
a small bag of blue buckram, which he took from under his cloak,
containing, as he muttered, “a change of raiment--only a change of
raiment.” Then getting upon the animal with more alacrity and haste
than could have been anticipated from his years, he lost no time in so
disposing of the skirts of his gabardine as to conceal completely from
observation the burden which he had thus deposited “en croupe”.

The Pilgrim mounted with more deliberation, reaching, as he departed,
his hand to Gurth, who kissed it with the utmost possible veneration.
The swineherd stood gazing after the travellers until they were lost
under the boughs of the forest path, when he was disturbed from his
reverie by the voice of Wamba.

“Knowest thou,” said the Jester, “my good friend Gurth, that thou art
strangely courteous and most unwontedly pious on this summer morning? I
would I were a black Prior or a barefoot Palmer, to avail myself of thy
unwonted zeal and courtesy--certes, I would make more out of it than a
kiss of the hand.”

“Thou art no fool thus far, Wamba,” answered Gurth, “though thou arguest
from appearances, and the wisest of us can do no more--But it is time to
look after my charge.”

So saying, he turned back to the mansion, attended by the Jester.

Meanwhile the travellers continued to press on their journey with a
dispatch which argued the extremity of the Jew’s fears, since persons at
his age are seldom fond of rapid motion. The Palmer, to whom every path
and outlet in the wood appeared to be familiar, led the way through the
most devious paths, and more than once excited anew the suspicion of
the Israelite, that he intended to betray him into some ambuscade of his
enemies.

His doubts might have been indeed pardoned; for, except perhaps the
flying fish, there was no race existing on the earth, in the air, or
the waters, who were the object of such an unintermitting, general, and
relentless persecution as the Jews of this period. Upon the slightest
and most unreasonable pretences, as well as upon accusations the most
absurd and groundless, their persons and property were exposed to every
turn of popular fury; for Norman, Saxon, Dane, and Briton, however
adverse these races were to each other, contended which should look with
greatest detestation upon a people, whom it was accounted a point of
religion to hate, to revile, to despise, to plunder, and to persecute.
The kings of the Norman race, and the independent nobles, who followed
their example in all acts of tyranny, maintained against this devoted
people a persecution of a more regular, calculated, and self-interested
kind. It is a well-known story of King John, that he confined a wealthy
Jew in one of the royal castles, and daily caused one of his teeth to
be torn out, until, when the jaw of the unhappy Israelite was half
disfurnished, he consented to pay a large sum, which it was the tyrant’s
object to extort from him. The little ready money which was in the
country was chiefly in possession of this persecuted people, and the
nobility hesitated not to follow the example of their sovereign, in
wringing it from them by every species of oppression, and even personal
torture. Yet the passive courage inspired by the love of gain, induced
the Jews to dare the various evils to which they were subjected, in
consideration of the immense profits which they were enabled to realize
in a country naturally so wealthy as England. In spite of every kind
of discouragement, and even of the special court of taxations already
mentioned, called the Jews’ Exchequer, erected for the very purpose of
despoiling and distressing them, the Jews increased, multiplied, and
accumulated huge sums, which they transferred from one hand to another
by means of bills of exchange--an invention for which commerce is said
to be indebted to them, and which enabled them to transfer their wealth
from land to land, that when threatened with oppression in one country,
their treasure might be secured in another.

The obstinacy and avarice of the Jews being thus in a measure placed
in opposition to the fanaticism that tyranny of those under whom they
lived, seemed to increase in proportion to the persecution with which
they were visited; and the immense wealth they usually acquired in
commerce, while it frequently placed them in danger, was at other times
used to extend their influence, and to secure to them a certain
degree of protection. On these terms they lived; and their character,
influenced accordingly, was watchful, suspicious, and timid--yet
obstinate, uncomplying, and skilful in evading the dangers to which they
were exposed.

When the travellers had pushed on at a rapid rate through many devious
paths, the Palmer at length broke silence.

“That large decayed oak,” he said, “marks the boundaries over which
Front-de-Boeuf claims authority--we are long since far from those of
Malvoisin. There is now no fear of pursuit.”

“May the wheels of their chariots be taken off,” said the Jew, “like
those of the host of Pharaoh, that they may drive heavily!--But leave me
not, good Pilgrim--Think but of that fierce and savage Templar, with
his Saracen slaves--they will regard neither territory, nor manor, nor
lordship.”

“Our road,” said the Palmer, “should here separate; for it beseems not
men of my character and thine to travel together longer than needs must
be. Besides, what succour couldst thou have from me, a peaceful Pilgrim,
against two armed heathens?”

“O good youth,” answered the Jew, “thou canst defend me, and I know thou
wouldst. Poor as I am, I will requite it--not with money, for money, so
help me my Father Abraham, I have none--but---”

“Money and recompense,” said the Palmer, interrupting him, “I have
already said I require not of thee. Guide thee I can; and, it may be,
even in some sort defend thee; since to protect a Jew against a Saracen,
can scarce be accounted unworthy of a Christian. Therefore, Jew, I will
see thee safe under some fitting escort. We are now not far from the
town of Sheffield, where thou mayest easily find many of thy tribe with
whom to take refuge.”

“The blessing of Jacob be upon thee, good youth!” said the Jew; “in
Sheffield I can harbour with my kinsman Zareth, and find some means of
travelling forth with safety.”

“Be it so,” said the Palmer; “at Sheffield then we part, and
half-an-hour’s riding will bring us in sight of that town.”

The half hour was spent in perfect silence on both parts; the Pilgrim
perhaps disdaining to address the Jew, except in case of absolute
necessity, and the Jew not presuming to force a conversation with a
person whose journey to the Holy Sepulchre gave a sort of sanctity to
his character. They paused on the top of a gently rising bank, and the
Pilgrim, pointing to the town of Sheffield, which lay beneath them,
repeated the words, “Here, then, we part.”

“Not till you have had the poor Jew’s thanks,” said Isaac; “for I
presume not to ask you to go with me to my kinsman Zareth’s, who might
aid me with some means of repaying your good offices.”

“I have already said,” answered the Pilgrim, “that I desire no
recompense. If among the huge list of thy debtors, thou wilt, for my
sake, spare the gyves and the dungeon to some unhappy Christian who
stands in thy danger, I shall hold this morning’s service to thee well
bestowed.”

“Stay, stay,” said the Jew, laying hold of his garment; “something
would I do more than this, something for thyself.--God knows the Jew
is poor--yes, Isaac is the beggar of his tribe--but forgive me should I
guess what thou most lackest at this moment.”

“If thou wert to guess truly,” said the Palmer, “it is what thou canst
not supply, wert thou as wealthy as thou sayst thou art poor.”

“As I say?” echoed the Jew; “O! believe it, I say but the truth; I am
a plundered, indebted, distressed man. Hard hands have wrung from me my
goods, my money, my ships, and all that I possessed--Yet I can tell thee
what thou lackest, and, it may be, supply it too. Thy wish even now is
for a horse and armour.”

The Palmer started, and turned suddenly towards the Jew:--“What fiend
prompted that guess?” said he, hastily.

“No matter,” said the Jew, smiling, “so that it be a true one--and, as I
can guess thy want, so I can supply it.”

“But consider,” said the Palmer, “my character, my dress, my vow.”

“I know you Christians,” replied the Jew, “and that the noblest of you
will take the staff and sandal in superstitious penance, and walk afoot
to visit the graves of dead men.”

“Blaspheme not, Jew,” said the Pilgrim, sternly.

“Forgive me,” said the Jew; “I spoke rashly. But there dropt words from
you last night and this morning, that, like sparks from flint, showed
the metal within; and in the bosom of that Palmer’s gown, is hidden a
knight’s chain and spurs of gold. They glanced as you stooped over my
bed in the morning.”

The Pilgrim could not forbear smiling. “Were thy garments searched by as
curious an eye, Isaac,” said he, “what discoveries might not be made?”

“No more of that,” said the Jew, changing colour; and drawing forth his
writing materials in haste, as if to stop the conversation, he began to
write upon a piece of paper which he supported on the top of his
yellow cap, without dismounting from his mule. When he had finished, he
delivered the scroll, which was in the Hebrew character, to the Pilgrim,
saying, “In the town of Leicester all men know the rich Jew, Kirjath
Jairam of Lombardy; give him this scroll--he hath on sale six Milan
harnesses, the worst would suit a crowned head--ten goodly steeds, the
worst might mount a king, were he to do battle for his throne. Of these
he will give thee thy choice, with every thing else that can furnish
thee forth for the tournament: when it is over, thou wilt return them
safely--unless thou shouldst have wherewith to pay their value to the
owner.”

“But, Isaac,” said the Pilgrim, smiling, “dost thou know that in these
sports, the arms and steed of the knight who is unhorsed are forfeit to
his victor? Now I may be unfortunate, and so lose what I cannot replace
or repay.”

The Jew looked somewhat astounded at this possibility; but collecting
his courage, he replied hastily. “No--no--no--It is impossible--I will
not think so. The blessing of Our Father will be upon thee. Thy lance
will be powerful as the rod of Moses.”

So saying, he was turning his mule’s head away, when the Palmer, in his
turn, took hold of his gaberdine. “Nay, but Isaac, thou knowest not all
the risk. The steed may be slain, the armour injured--for I will spare
neither horse nor man. Besides, those of thy tribe give nothing for
nothing; something there must be paid for their use.”

The Jew twisted himself in the saddle, like a man in a fit of the colic;
but his better feelings predominated over those which were most familiar
to him. “I care not,” he said, “I care not--let me go. If there is
damage, it will cost you nothing--if there is usage money, Kirjath
Jairam will forgive it for the sake of his kinsman Isaac. Fare thee
well!--Yet hark thee, good youth,” said he, turning about, “thrust
thyself not too forward into this vain hurly-burly--I speak not for
endangering the steed, and coat of armour, but for the sake of thine own
life and limbs.”

“Gramercy for thy caution,” said the Palmer, again smiling; “I will use
thy courtesy frankly, and it will go hard with me but I will requite
it.”

They parted, and took different roads for the town of Sheffield.




CHAPTER VII

     Knights, with a long retinue of their squires,
     In gaudy liveries march and quaint attires;
     One laced the helm, another held the lance,
     A third the shining buckler did advance.
     The courser paw’d the ground with restless feet,
     And snorting foam’d and champ’d the golden bit.
     The smiths and armourers on palfreys ride,
     Files in their hands, and hammers at their side;
     And nails for loosen’d spears, and thongs for shields provide.
     The yeomen guard the streets in seemly bands;
     And clowns come crowding on, with cudgels in their hands.
     --Palamon and Arcite

The condition of the English nation was at this time sufficiently
miserable. King Richard was absent a prisoner, and in the power of
the perfidious and cruel Duke of Austria. Even the very place of his
captivity was uncertain, and his fate but very imperfectly known to the
generality of his subjects, who were, in the meantime, a prey to every
species of subaltern oppression.

Prince John, in league with Philip of France, Coeur-de-Lion’s mortal
enemy, was using every species of influence with the Duke of Austria, to
prolong the captivity of his brother Richard, to whom he stood indebted
for so many favours. In the meantime, he was strengthening his own
faction in the kingdom, of which he proposed to dispute the succession,
in case of the King’s death, with the legitimate heir, Arthur Duke of
Brittany, son of Geoffrey Plantagenet, the elder brother of John. This
usurpation, it is well known, he afterwards effected. His own character
being light, profligate, and perfidious, John easily attached to his
person and faction, not only all who had reason to dread the resentment
of Richard for criminal proceedings during his absence, but also the
numerous class of “lawless resolutes,” whom the crusades had turned back
on their country, accomplished in the vices of the East, impoverished
in substance, and hardened in character, and who placed their hopes
of harvest in civil commotion. To these causes of public distress and
apprehension, must be added, the multitude of outlaws, who, driven
to despair by the oppression of the feudal nobility, and the severe
exercise of the forest laws, banded together in large gangs, and,
keeping possession of the forests and the wastes, set at defiance the
justice and magistracy of the country. The nobles themselves, each
fortified within his own castle, and playing the petty sovereign over
his own dominions, were the leaders of bands scarce less lawless and
oppressive than those of the avowed depredators. To maintain these
retainers, and to support the extravagance and magnificence which their
pride induced them to affect, the nobility borrowed sums of money from
the Jews at the most usurious interest, which gnawed into their estates
like consuming cankers, scarce to be cured unless when circumstances
gave them an opportunity of getting free, by exercising upon their
creditors some act of unprincipled violence.

Under the various burdens imposed by this unhappy state of affairs,
the people of England suffered deeply for the present, and had yet
more dreadful cause to fear for the future. To augment their misery, a
contagious disorder of a dangerous nature spread through the land; and,
rendered more virulent by the uncleanness, the indifferent food, and
the wretched lodging of the lower classes, swept off many whose fate the
survivors were tempted to envy, as exempting them from the evils which
were to come.

Yet amid these accumulated distresses, the poor as well as the rich, the
vulgar as well as the noble, in the event of a tournament, which was the
grand spectacle of that age, felt as much interested as the half-starved
citizen of Madrid, who has not a real left to buy provisions for his
family, feels in the issue of a bull-feast. Neither duty nor infirmity
could keep youth or age from such exhibitions. The Passage of Arms,
as it was called, which was to take place at Ashby, in the county of
Leicester, as champions of the first renown were to take the field
in the presence of Prince John himself, who was expected to grace the
lists, had attracted universal attention, and an immense confluence of
persons of all ranks hastened upon the appointed morning to the place of
combat.

The scene was singularly romantic. On the verge of a wood, which
approached to within a mile of the town of Ashby, was an extensive
meadow, of the finest and most beautiful green turf, surrounded on one
side by the forest, and fringed on the other by straggling oak-trees,
some of which had grown to an immense size. The ground, as if fashioned
on purpose for the martial display which was intended, sloped gradually
down on all sides to a level bottom, which was enclosed for the lists
with strong palisades, forming a space of a quarter of a mile in length,
and about half as broad. The form of the enclosure was an oblong square,
save that the corners were considerably rounded off, in order to afford
more convenience for the spectators. The openings for the entry of the
combatants were at the northern and southern extremities of the lists,
accessible by strong wooden gates, each wide enough to admit two
horsemen riding abreast. At each of these portals were stationed two
heralds, attended by six trumpets, as many pursuivants, and a strong
body of men-at-arms for maintaining order, and ascertaining the quality
of the knights who proposed to engage in this martial game.

On a platform beyond the southern entrance, formed by a natural
elevation of the ground, were pitched five magnificent pavilions,
adorned with pennons of russet and black, the chosen colours of the five
knights challengers. The cords of the tents were of the same colour.
Before each pavilion was suspended the shield of the knight by whom it
was occupied, and beside it stood his squire, quaintly disguised as a
salvage or silvan man, or in some other fantastic dress, according to
the taste of his master, and the character he was pleased to assume
during the game. [16]

The central pavilion, as the place of honour, had been assigned to Brian
be Bois-Guilbert, whose renown in all games of chivalry, no less than
his connexions with the knights who had undertaken this Passage of
Arms, had occasioned him to be eagerly received into the company of the
challengers, and even adopted as their chief and leader, though he had
so recently joined them. On one side of his tent were pitched those of
Reginald Front-de-Boeuf and Richard de Malvoisin, and on the other was
the pavilion of Hugh de Grantmesnil, a noble baron in the vicinity,
whose ancestor had been Lord High Steward of England in the time of the
Conqueror, and his son William Rufus. Ralph de Vipont, a knight of St
John of Jerusalem, who had some ancient possessions at a place called
Heather, near Ashby-de-la-Zouche, occupied the fifth pavilion. From the
entrance into the lists, a gently sloping passage, ten yards in breadth,
led up to the platform on which the tents were pitched. It was strongly
secured by a palisade on each side, as was the esplanade in front of the
pavilions, and the whole was guarded by men-at-arms.

The northern access to the lists terminated in a similar entrance of
thirty feet in breadth, at the extremity of which was a large enclosed
space for such knights as might be disposed to enter the lists with the
challengers, behind which were placed tents containing refreshments of
every kind for their accommodation, with armourers, tarriers, and other
attendants, in readiness to give their services wherever they might be
necessary.

The exterior of the lists was in part occupied by temporary galleries,
spread with tapestry and carpets, and accommodated with cushions for the
convenience of those ladies and nobles who were expected to attend the
tournament. A narrow space, betwixt these galleries and the lists, gave
accommodation for yeomanry and spectators of a better degree than
the mere vulgar, and might be compared to the pit of a theatre. The
promiscuous multitude arranged themselves upon large banks of turf
prepared for the purpose, which, aided by the natural elevation of the
ground, enabled them to overlook the galleries, and obtain a fair view
into the lists. Besides the accommodation which these stations afforded,
many hundreds had perched themselves on the branches of the trees which
surrounded the meadow; and even the steeple of a country church, at some
distance, was crowded with spectators.

It only remains to notice respecting the general arrangement, that
one gallery in the very centre of the eastern side of the lists, and
consequently exactly opposite to the spot where the shock of the combat
was to take place, was raised higher than the others, more richly
decorated, and graced by a sort of throne and canopy, on which the
royal arms were emblazoned. Squires, pages, and yeomen in rich liveries,
waited around this place of honour, which was designed for Prince John
and his attendants. Opposite to this royal gallery was another, elevated
to the same height, on the western side of the lists; and more gaily, if
less sumptuously decorated, than that destined for the Prince himself.
A train of pages and of young maidens, the most beautiful who could be
selected, gaily dressed in fancy habits of green and pink, surrounded
a throne decorated in the same colours. Among pennons and flags bearing
wounded hearts, burning hearts, bleeding hearts, bows and quivers,
and all the commonplace emblems of the triumphs of Cupid, a blazoned
inscription informed the spectators, that this seat of honour was
designed for “La Royne de las Beaulte et des Amours”. But who was to
represent the Queen of Beauty and of Love on the present occasion no one
was prepared to guess.

Meanwhile, spectators of every description thronged forward to occupy
their respective stations, and not without many quarrels concerning
those which they were entitled to hold. Some of these were settled by
the men-at-arms with brief ceremony; the shafts of their battle-axes,
and pummels of their swords, being readily employed as arguments to
convince the more refractory. Others, which involved the rival claims
of more elevated persons, were determined by the heralds, or by the two
marshals of the field, William de Wyvil, and Stephen de Martival, who,
armed at all points, rode up and down the lists to enforce and preserve
good order among the spectators.

Gradually the galleries became filled with knights and nobles, in their
robes of peace, whose long and rich-tinted mantles were contrasted with
the gayer and more splendid habits of the ladies, who, in a greater
proportion than even the men themselves, thronged to witness a sport,
which one would have thought too bloody and dangerous to afford their
sex much pleasure. The lower and interior space was soon filled by
substantial yeomen and burghers, and such of the lesser gentry, as, from
modesty, poverty, or dubious title, durst not assume any higher place.
It was of course amongst these that the most frequent disputes for
precedence occurred.

“Dog of an unbeliever,” said an old man, whose threadbare tunic bore
witness to his poverty, as his sword, and dagger, and golden chain
intimated his pretensions to rank,--“whelp of a she-wolf! darest
thou press upon a Christian, and a Norman gentleman of the blood of
Montdidier?”

This rough expostulation was addressed to no other than our acquaintance
Isaac, who, richly and even magnificently dressed in a gaberdine
ornamented with lace and lined with fur, was endeavouring to make place
in the foremost row beneath the gallery for his daughter, the beautiful
Rebecca, who had joined him at Ashby, and who was now hanging on her
father’s arm, not a little terrified by the popular displeasure which
seemed generally excited by her parent’s presumption. But Isaac, though
we have seen him sufficiently timid on other occasions, knew well that
at present he had nothing to fear. It was not in places of general
resort, or where their equals were assembled, that any avaricious or
malevolent noble durst offer him injury. At such meetings the Jews
were under the protection of the general law; and if that proved a
weak assurance, it usually happened that there were among the persons
assembled some barons, who, for their own interested motives, were ready
to act as their protectors. On the present occasion, Isaac felt more
than usually confident, being aware that Prince John was even then in
the very act of negotiating a large loan from the Jews of York, to
be secured upon certain jewels and lands. Isaac’s own share in this
transaction was considerable, and he well knew that the Prince’s eager
desire to bring it to a conclusion would ensure him his protection in
the dilemma in which he stood.

Emboldened by these considerations, the Jew pursued his point, and
jostled the Norman Christian, without respect either to his descent,
quality, or religion. The complaints of the old man, however, excited
the indignation of the bystanders. One of these, a stout well-set
yeoman, arrayed in Lincoln green, having twelve arrows stuck in his
belt, with a baldric and badge of silver, and a bow of six feet length
in his hand, turned short round, and while his countenance, which his
constant exposure to weather had rendered brown as a hazel nut, grew
darker with anger, he advised the Jew to remember that all the wealth
he had acquired by sucking the blood of his miserable victims had but
swelled him like a bloated spider, which might be overlooked while he
kept in a corner, but would be crushed if it ventured into the light.
This intimation, delivered in Norman-English with a firm voice and
a stern aspect, made the Jew shrink back; and he would have probably
withdrawn himself altogether from a vicinity so dangerous, had not the
attention of every one been called to the sudden entrance of Prince
John, who at that moment entered the lists, attended by a numerous and
gay train, consisting partly of laymen, partly of churchmen, as light in
their dress, and as gay in their demeanour, as their companions. Among
the latter was the Prior of Jorvaulx, in the most gallant trim which a
dignitary of the church could venture to exhibit. Fur and gold were not
spared in his garments; and the points of his boots, out-heroding
the preposterous fashion of the time, turned up so very far, as to
be attached, not to his knees merely, but to his very girdle, and
effectually prevented him from putting his foot into the stirrup. This,
however, was a slight inconvenience to the gallant Abbot, who,
perhaps, even rejoicing in the opportunity to display his accomplished
horsemanship before so many spectators, especially of the fair sex,
dispensed with the use of these supports to a timid rider. The rest
of Prince John’s retinue consisted of the favourite leaders of his
mercenary troops, some marauding barons and profligate attendants upon
the court, with several Knights Templars and Knights of St John.

It may be here remarked, that the knights of these two orders were
accounted hostile to King Richard, having adopted the side of Philip
of France in the long train of disputes which took place in Palestine
betwixt that monarch and the lion-hearted King of England. It was the
well-known consequence of this discord that Richard’s repeated victories
had been rendered fruitless, his romantic attempts to besiege Jerusalem
disappointed, and the fruit of all the glory which he had acquired had
dwindled into an uncertain truce with the Sultan Saladin. With the same
policy which had dictated the conduct of their brethren in the Holy
Land, the Templars and Hospitallers in England and Normandy attached
themselves to the faction of Prince John, having little reason to desire
the return of Richard to England, or the succession of Arthur, his
legitimate heir. For the opposite reason, Prince John hated and
contemned the few Saxon families of consequence which subsisted in
England, and omitted no opportunity of mortifying and affronting them;
being conscious that his person and pretensions were disliked by them,
as well as by the greater part of the English commons, who feared
farther innovation upon their rights and liberties, from a sovereign of
John’s licentious and tyrannical disposition.

Attended by this gallant equipage, himself well mounted, and splendidly
dressed in crimson and in gold, bearing upon his hand a falcon, and
having his head covered by a rich fur bonnet, adorned with a circle of
precious stones, from which his long curled hair escaped and overspread
his shoulders, Prince John, upon a grey and high-mettled palfrey,
caracoled within the lists at the head of his jovial party, laughing
loud with his train, and eyeing with all the boldness of royal criticism
the beauties who adorned the lofty galleries.

Those who remarked in the physiognomy of the Prince a dissolute
audacity, mingled with extreme haughtiness and indifference to the
feelings of others could not yet deny to his countenance that sort of
comeliness which belongs to an open set of features, well formed by
nature, modelled by art to the usual rules of courtesy, yet so far
frank and honest, that they seemed as if they disclaimed to conceal the
natural workings of the soul. Such an expression is often mistaken for
manly frankness, when in truth it arises from the reckless indifference
of a libertine disposition, conscious of superiority of birth, of
wealth, or of some other adventitious advantage, totally unconnected
with personal merit. To those who did not think so deeply, and they were
the greater number by a hundred to one, the splendour of Prince John’s
“rheno”, (i.e. fur tippet,) the richness of his cloak, lined with the
most costly sables, his maroquin boots and golden spurs, together with
the grace with which he managed his palfrey, were sufficient to merit
clamorous applause.

In his joyous caracole round the lists, the attention of the Prince
was called by the commotion, not yet subsided, which had attended the
ambitious movement of Isaac towards the higher places of the assembly.
The quick eye of Prince John instantly recognised the Jew, but was
much more agreeably attracted by the beautiful daughter of Zion, who,
terrified by the tumult, clung close to the arm of her aged father.

The figure of Rebecca might indeed have compared with the proudest
beauties of England, even though it had been judged by as shrewd a
connoisseur as Prince John. Her form was exquisitely symmetrical,
and was shown to advantage by a sort of Eastern dress, which she wore
according to the fashion of the females of her nation. Her turban
of yellow silk suited well with the darkness of her complexion. The
brilliancy of her eyes, the superb arch of her eyebrows, her well-formed
aquiline nose, her teeth as white as pearl, and the profusion of her
sable tresses, which, each arranged in its own little spiral of twisted
curls, fell down upon as much of a lovely neck and bosom as a simarre
of the richest Persian silk, exhibiting flowers in their natural colours
embossed upon a purple ground, permitted to be visible--all these
constituted a combination of loveliness, which yielded not to the most
beautiful of the maidens who surrounded her. It is true, that of the
golden and pearl-studded clasps, which closed her vest from the throat
to the waist, the three uppermost were left unfastened on account of
the heat, which somewhat enlarged the prospect to which we allude. A
diamond necklace, with pendants of inestimable value, were by this means
also made more conspicuous. The feather of an ostrich, fastened in her
turban by an agraffe set with brilliants, was another distinction of
the beautiful Jewess, scoffed and sneered at by the proud dames who sat
above her, but secretly envied by those who affected to deride them.

“By the bald scalp of Abraham,” said Prince John, “yonder Jewess must be
the very model of that perfection, whose charms drove frantic the wisest
king that ever lived! What sayest thou, Prior Aymer?--By the Temple
of that wise king, which our wiser brother Richard proved unable to
recover, she is the very Bride of the Canticles!”

“The Rose of Sharon and the Lily of the Valley,”--answered the Prior, in
a sort of snuffling tone; “but your Grace must remember she is still but
a Jewess.”

“Ay!” added Prince John, without heeding him, “and there is my Mammon
of unrighteousness too--the Marquis of Marks, the Baron of Byzants,
contesting for place with penniless dogs, whose threadbare cloaks have
not a single cross in their pouches to keep the devil from dancing
there. By the body of St Mark, my prince of supplies, with his lovely
Jewess, shall have a place in the gallery!--What is she, Isaac? Thy wife
or thy daughter, that Eastern houri that thou lockest under thy arm as
thou wouldst thy treasure-casket?”

“My daughter Rebecca, so please your Grace,” answered Isaac, with a
low congee, nothing embarrassed by the Prince’s salutation, in which,
however, there was at least as much mockery as courtesy.

“The wiser man thou,” said John, with a peal of laughter, in which his
gay followers obsequiously joined. “But, daughter or wife, she should
be preferred according to her beauty and thy merits.--Who sits above
there?” he continued, bending his eye on the gallery. “Saxon churls,
lolling at their lazy length!--out upon them!--let them sit close, and
make room for my prince of usurers and his lovely daughter. I’ll make
the hinds know they must share the high places of the synagogue with
those whom the synagogue properly belongs to.”

Those who occupied the gallery to whom this injurious and unpolite
speech was addressed, were the family of Cedric the Saxon, with that of
his ally and kinsman, Athelstane of Coningsburgh, a personage, who, on
account of his descent from the last Saxon monarchs of England, was held
in the highest respect by all the Saxon natives of the north of England.
But with the blood of this ancient royal race, many of their infirmities
had descended to Athelstane. He was comely in countenance, bulky
and strong in person, and in the flower of his age--yet inanimate in
expression, dull-eyed, heavy-browed, inactive and sluggish in all his
motions, and so slow in resolution, that the soubriquet of one of his
ancestors was conferred upon him, and he was very generally called
Athelstane the Unready. His friends, and he had many, who, as well as
Cedric, were passionately attached to him, contended that this sluggish
temper arose not from want of courage, but from mere want of decision;
others alleged that his hereditary vice of drunkenness had obscured his
faculties, never of a very acute order, and that the passive courage
and meek good-nature which remained behind, were merely the dregs of a
character that might have been deserving of praise, but of which all the
valuable parts had flown off in the progress of a long course of brutal
debauchery.

It was to this person, such as we have described him, that the Prince
addressed his imperious command to make place for Isaac and Rebecca.
Athelstane, utterly confounded at an order which the manners and
feelings of the times rendered so injuriously insulting, unwilling to
obey, yet undetermined how to resist, opposed only the “vis inertiae” to
the will of John; and, without stirring or making any motion whatever of
obedience, opened his large grey eyes, and stared at the Prince with
an astonishment which had in it something extremely ludicrous. But the
impatient John regarded it in no such light.

“The Saxon porker,” he said, “is either asleep or minds me not--Prick
him with your lance, De Bracy,” speaking to a knight who rode near him,
the leader of a band of Free Companions, or Condottieri; that is, of
mercenaries belonging to no particular nation, but attached for the time
to any prince by whom they were paid. There was a murmur even among the
attendants of Prince John; but De Bracy, whose profession freed him from
all scruples, extended his long lance over the space which separated
the gallery from the lists, and would have executed the commands of
the Prince before Athelstane the Unready had recovered presence of mind
sufficient even to draw back his person from the weapon, had not Cedric,
as prompt as his companion was tardy, unsheathed, with the speed of
lightning, the short sword which he wore, and at a single blow severed
the point of the lance from the handle. The blood rushed into the
countenance of Prince John. He swore one of his deepest oaths, and
was about to utter some threat corresponding in violence, when he was
diverted from his purpose, partly by his own attendants, who gathered
around him conjuring him to be patient, partly by a general exclamation
of the crowd, uttered in loud applause of the spirited conduct of
Cedric. The Prince rolled his eyes in indignation, as if to collect some
safe and easy victim; and chancing to encounter the firm glance of the
same archer whom we have already noticed, and who seemed to persist
in his gesture of applause, in spite of the frowning aspect which the
Prince bent upon him, he demanded his reason for clamouring thus.

“I always add my hollo,” said the yeoman, “when I see a good shot, or a
gallant blow.”

“Sayst thou?” answered the Prince; “then thou canst hit the white
thyself, I’ll warrant.”

“A woodsman’s mark, and at woodsman’s distance, I can hit,” answered the
yeoman.

“And Wat Tyrrel’s mark, at a hundred yards,” said a voice from behind,
but by whom uttered could not be discerned.

This allusion to the fate of William Rufus, his Relative, at once
incensed and alarmed Prince John. He satisfied himself, however, with
commanding the men-at-arms, who surrounded the lists, to keep an eye on
the braggart, pointing to the yeoman.

“By St Grizzel,” he added, “we will try his own skill, who is so ready
to give his voice to the feats of others!”

“I shall not fly the trial,” said the yeoman, with the composure which
marked his whole deportment.

“Meanwhile, stand up, ye Saxon churls,” said the fiery Prince; “for, by
the light of Heaven, since I have said it, the Jew shall have his seat
amongst ye!”

“By no means, an it please your Grace!--it is not fit for such as we
to sit with the rulers of the land,” said the Jew; whose ambition for
precedence though it had led him to dispute Place with the extenuated
and impoverished descendant of the line of Montdidier, by no means
stimulated him to an intrusion upon the privileges of the wealthy
Saxons.

“Up, infidel dog when I command you,” said Prince John, “or I will have
thy swarthy hide stript off, and tanned for horse-furniture.”

Thus urged, the Jew began to ascend the steep and narrow steps which led
up to the gallery.

“Let me see,” said the Prince, “who dare stop him,” fixing his eye on
Cedric, whose attitude intimated his intention to hurl the Jew down
headlong.

The catastrophe was prevented by the clown Wamba, who, springing
betwixt his master and Isaac, and exclaiming, in answer to the Prince’s
defiance, “Marry, that will I!” opposed to the beard of the Jew a shield
of brawn, which he plucked from beneath his cloak, and with which,
doubtless, he had furnished himself, lest the tournament should have
proved longer than his appetite could endure abstinence. Finding the
abomination of his tribe opposed to his very nose, while the Jester,
at the same time, flourished his wooden sword above his head, the Jew
recoiled, missed his footing, and rolled down the steps,--an excellent
jest to the spectators, who set up a loud laughter, in which Prince John
and his attendants heartily joined.

“Deal me the prize, cousin Prince,” said Wamba; “I have vanquished my
foe in fair fight with sword and shield,” he added, brandishing the
brawn in one hand and the wooden sword in the other.

“Who, and what art thou, noble champion?” said Prince John, still
laughing.

“A fool by right of descent,” answered the Jester; “I am Wamba, the
son of Witless, who was the son of Weatherbrain, who was the son of an
Alderman.”

“Make room for the Jew in front of the lower ring,” said Prince John,
not unwilling perhaps to, seize an apology to desist from his original
purpose; “to place the vanquished beside the victor were false
heraldry.”

“Knave upon fool were worse,” answered the Jester, “and Jew upon bacon
worst of all.”

“Gramercy! good fellow,” cried Prince John, “thou pleasest me--Here,
Isaac, lend me a handful of byzants.”

As the Jew, stunned by the request, afraid to refuse, and unwilling
to comply, fumbled in the furred bag which hung by his girdle, and
was perhaps endeavouring to ascertain how few coins might pass for a
handful, the Prince stooped from his jennet and settled Isaac’s doubts
by snatching the pouch itself from his side; and flinging to Wamba a
couple of the gold pieces which it contained, he pursued his career
round the lists, leaving the Jew to the derision of those around him,
and himself receiving as much applause from the spectators as if he had
done some honest and honourable action.




CHAPTER VIII

     At this the challenger with fierce defy
     His trumpet sounds; the challenged makes reply:
     With clangour rings the field, resounds the vaulted sky.
     Their visors closed, their lances in the rest,
     Or at the helmet pointed or the crest,
     They vanish from the barrier, speed the race,
     And spurring see decrease the middle space.
     Palamon and Arcite

In the midst of Prince John’s cavalcade, he suddenly stopt, and
appealing to the Prior of Jorvaulx, declared the principal business of
the day had been forgotten.

“By my halidom,” said he, “we have forgotten, Sir Prior, to name the
fair Sovereign of Love and of Beauty, by whose white hand the palm is to
be distributed. For my part, I am liberal in my ideas, and I care not if
I give my vote for the black-eyed Rebecca.”

“Holy Virgin,” answered the Prior, turning up his eyes in horror, “a
Jewess!--We should deserve to be stoned out of the lists; and I am not
yet old enough to be a martyr. Besides, I swear by my patron saint, that
she is far inferior to the lovely Saxon, Rowena.”

“Saxon or Jew,” answered the Prince, “Saxon or Jew, dog or hog, what
matters it? I say, name Rebecca, were it only to mortify the Saxon
churls.”

A murmur arose even among his own immediate attendants.

“This passes a jest, my lord,” said De Bracy; “no knight here will lay
lance in rest if such an insult is attempted.”

“It is the mere wantonness of insult,” said one of the oldest and most
important of Prince John’s followers, Waldemar Fitzurse, “and if your
Grace attempt it, cannot but prove ruinous to your projects.”

“I entertained you, sir,” said John, reining up his palfrey haughtily,
“for my follower, but not for my counsellor.”

“Those who follow your Grace in the paths which you tread,” said
Waldemar, but speaking in a low voice, “acquire the right of
counsellors; for your interest and safety are not more deeply gaged than
their own.”

From the tone in which this was spoken, John saw the necessity of
acquiescence “I did but jest,” he said; “and you turn upon me like
so many adders! Name whom you will, in the fiend’s name, and please
yourselves.”

“Nay, nay,” said De Bracy, “let the fair sovereign’s throne remain
unoccupied, until the conqueror shall be named, and then let him choose
the lady by whom it shall be filled. It will add another grace to his
triumph, and teach fair ladies to prize the love of valiant knights, who
can exalt them to such distinction.”

“If Brian de Bois-Guilbert gain the prize,” said the Prior, “I will gage
my rosary that I name the Sovereign of Love and Beauty.”

“Bois-Guilbert,” answered De Bracy, “is a good lance; but there are
others around these lists, Sir Prior, who will not fear to encounter
him.”

“Silence, sirs,” said Waldemar, “and let the Prince assume his seat.
The knights and spectators are alike impatient, the time advances, and
highly fit it is that the sports should commence.”

Prince John, though not yet a monarch, had in Waldemar Fitzurse all the
inconveniences of a favourite minister, who, in serving his sovereign,
must always do so in his own way. The Prince acquiesced, however,
although his disposition was precisely of that kind which is apt to be
obstinate upon trifles, and, assuming his throne, and being surrounded
by his followers, gave signal to the heralds to proclaim the laws of the
tournament, which were briefly as follows:

First, the five challengers were to undertake all comers.

Secondly, any knight proposing to combat, might, if he pleased, select
a special antagonist from among the challengers, by touching his shield.
If he did so with the reverse of his lance, the trial of skill was made
with what were called the arms of courtesy, that is, with lances at
whose extremity a piece of round flat board was fixed, so that no danger
was encountered, save from the shock of the horses and riders. But if
the shield was touched with the sharp end of the lance, the combat was
understood to be at “outrance”, that is, the knights were to fight with
sharp weapons, as in actual battle.

Thirdly, when the knights present had accomplished their vow, by each of
them breaking five lances, the Prince was to declare the victor in the
first day’s tourney, who should receive as prize a warhorse of exquisite
beauty and matchless strength; and in addition to this reward of valour,
it was now declared, he should have the peculiar honour of naming the
Queen of Love and Beauty, by whom the prize should be given on the
ensuing day.

Fourthly, it was announced, that, on the second day, there should be a
general tournament, in which all the knights present, who were desirous
to win praise, might take part; and being divided into two bands of
equal numbers, might fight it out manfully, until the signal was given
by Prince John to cease the combat. The elected Queen of Love and Beauty
was then to crown the knight whom the Prince should adjudge to have
borne himself best in this second day, with a coronet composed of thin
gold plate, cut into the shape of a laurel crown. On this second day
the knightly games ceased. But on that which was to follow, feats of
archery, of bull-baiting, and other popular amusements, were to be
practised, for the more immediate amusement of the populace. In this
manner did Prince John endeavour to lay the foundation of a popularity,
which he was perpetually throwing down by some inconsiderate act of
wanton aggression upon the feelings and prejudices of the people.

The lists now presented a most splendid spectacle. The sloping galleries
were crowded with all that was noble, great, wealthy, and beautiful
in the northern and midland parts of England; and the contrast of the
various dresses of these dignified spectators, rendered the view as
gay as it was rich, while the interior and lower space, filled with the
substantial burgesses and yeomen of merry England, formed, in their more
plain attire, a dark fringe, or border, around this circle of brilliant
embroidery, relieving, and, at the same time, setting off its splendour.

The heralds finished their proclamation with their usual cry of
“Largesse, largesse, gallant knights!” and gold and silver pieces were
showered on them from the galleries, it being a high point of chivalry
to exhibit liberality towards those whom the age accounted at once the
secretaries and the historians of honour. The bounty of the spectators
was acknowledged by the customary shouts of “Love of Ladies--Death of
Champions--Honour to the Generous--Glory to the Brave!” To which the
more humble spectators added their acclamations, and a numerous band of
trumpeters the flourish of their martial instruments. When these sounds
had ceased, the heralds withdrew from the lists in gay and glittering
procession, and none remained within them save the marshals of the
field, who, armed cap-a-pie, sat on horseback, motionless as statues,
at the opposite ends of the lists. Meantime, the enclosed space at the
northern extremity of the lists, large as it was, was now completely
crowded with knights desirous to prove their skill against the
challengers, and, when viewed from the galleries, presented the
appearance of a sea of waving plumage, intermixed with glistening
helmets, and tall lances, to the extremities of which were, in many
cases, attached small pennons of about a span’s breadth, which,
fluttering in the air as the breeze caught them, joined with the
restless motion of the feathers to add liveliness to the scene.

At length the barriers were opened, and five knights, chosen by lot,
advanced slowly into the area; a single champion riding in front, and
the other four following in pairs. All were splendidly armed, and my
Saxon authority (in the Wardour Manuscript) records at great length
their devices, their colours, and the embroidery of their horse
trappings. It is unnecessary to be particular on these subjects. To
borrow lines from a contemporary poet, who has written but too little:

     “The knights are dust,
     And their good swords are rust,
     Their souls are with the saints, we trust.” [17]

Their escutcheons have long mouldered from the walls of their castles.
Their castles themselves are but green mounds and shattered ruins--the
place that once knew them, knows them no more--nay, many a race since
theirs has died out and been forgotten in the very land which they
occupied, with all the authority of feudal proprietors and feudal
lords. What, then, would it avail the reader to know their names, or the
evanescent symbols of their martial rank!

Now, however, no whit anticipating the oblivion which awaited their
names and feats, the champions advanced through the lists, restraining
their fiery steeds, and compelling them to move slowly, while, at the
same time, they exhibited their paces, together with the grace and
dexterity of the riders. As the procession entered the lists, the
sound of a wild Barbaric music was heard from behind the tents of the
challengers, where the performers were concealed. It was of Eastern
origin, having been brought from the Holy Land; and the mixture of the
cymbals and bells seemed to bid welcome at once, and defiance, to the
knights as they advanced. With the eyes of an immense concourse of
spectators fixed upon them, the five knights advanced up the platform
upon which the tents of the challengers stood, and there separating
themselves, each touched slightly, and with the reverse of his lance,
the shield of the antagonist to whom he wished to oppose himself. The
lower orders of spectators in general--nay, many of the higher class,
and it is even said several of the ladies, were rather disappointed
at the champions choosing the arms of courtesy. For the same sort
of persons, who, in the present day, applaud most highly the deepest
tragedies, were then interested in a tournament exactly in proportion to
the danger incurred by the champions engaged.

Having intimated their more pacific purpose, the champions retreated
to the extremity of the lists, where they remained drawn up in a line;
while the challengers, sallying each from his pavilion, mounted their
horses, and, headed by Brian de Bois-Guilbert, descended from the
platform, and opposed themselves individually to the knights who had
touched their respective shields.

At the flourish of clarions and trumpets, they started out against
each other at full gallop; and such was the superior dexterity or
good fortune of the challengers, that those opposed to Bois-Guilbert,
Malvoisin, and Front-de-Boeuf, rolled on the ground. The antagonist of
Grantmesnil, instead of bearing his lance-point fair against the crest
or the shield of his enemy, swerved so much from the direct line as
to break the weapon athwart the person of his opponent--a circumstance
which was accounted more disgraceful than that of being actually
unhorsed; because the latter might happen from accident, whereas the
former evinced awkwardness and want of management of the weapon and of
the horse. The fifth knight alone maintained the honour of his party,
and parted fairly with the Knight of St John, both splintering their
lances without advantage on either side.

The shouts of the multitude, together with the acclamations of the
heralds, and the clangour of the trumpets, announced the triumph of the
victors and the defeat of the vanquished. The former retreated to
their pavilions, and the latter, gathering themselves up as they could,
withdrew from the lists in disgrace and dejection, to agree with their
victors concerning the redemption of their arms and their horses, which,
according to the laws of the tournament, they had forfeited. The fifth
of their number alone tarried in the lists long enough to be greeted
by the applauses of the spectators, amongst whom he retreated, to the
aggravation, doubtless, of his companions’ mortification.

A second and a third party of knights took the field; and although
they had various success, yet, upon the whole, the advantage decidedly
remained with the challengers, not one of whom lost his seat or
swerved from his charge--misfortunes which befell one or two of their
antagonists in each encounter. The spirits, therefore, of those opposed
to them, seemed to be considerably damped by their continued success.
Three knights only appeared on the fourth entry, who, avoiding the
shields of Bois-Guilbert and Front-de-Boeuf, contented themselves
with touching those of the three other knights, who had not altogether
manifested the same strength and dexterity. This politic selection
did not alter the fortune of the field, the challengers were still
successful: one of their antagonists was overthrown, and both the others
failed in the “attaint”, [18] that is, in striking the helmet and shield
of their antagonist firmly and strongly, with the lance held in a direct
line, so that the weapon might break unless the champion was overthrown.

After this fourth encounter, there was a considerable pause; nor did
it appear that any one was very desirous of renewing the contest.
The spectators murmured among themselves; for, among the challengers,
Malvoisin and Front-de-Boeuf were unpopular from their characters,
and the others, except Grantmesnil, were disliked as strangers and
foreigners.

But none shared the general feeling of dissatisfaction so keenly as
Cedric the Saxon, who saw, in each advantage gained by the Norman
challengers, a repeated triumph over the honour of England. His own
education had taught him no skill in the games of chivalry, although,
with the arms of his Saxon ancestors, he had manifested himself, on
many occasions, a brave and determined soldier. He looked anxiously
to Athelstane, who had learned the accomplishments of the age, as if
desiring that he should make some personal effort to recover the victory
which was passing into the hands of the Templar and his associates.
But, though both stout of heart, and strong of person, Athelstane had a
disposition too inert and unambitious to make the exertions which Cedric
seemed to expect from him.

“The day is against England, my lord,” said Cedric, in a marked tone;
“are you not tempted to take the lance?”

“I shall tilt to-morrow” answered Athelstane, “in the ‘melee’; it is not
worth while for me to arm myself to-day.”

Two things displeased Cedric in this speech. It contained the Norman
word “melee”, (to express the general conflict,) and it evinced
some indifference to the honour of the country; but it was spoken by
Athelstane, whom he held in such profound respect, that he would not
trust himself to canvass his motives or his foibles. Moreover, he had
no time to make any remark, for Wamba thrust in his word, observing, “It
was better, though scarce easier, to be the best man among a hundred,
than the best man of two.”

Athelstane took the observation as a serious compliment; but Cedric,
who better understood the Jester’s meaning, darted at him a severe and
menacing look; and lucky it was for Wamba, perhaps, that the time and
place prevented his receiving, notwithstanding his place and service,
more sensible marks of his master’s resentment.

The pause in the tournament was still uninterrupted, excepting by
the voices of the heralds exclaiming--“Love of ladies, splintering of
lances! stand forth gallant knights, fair eyes look upon your deeds!”

The music also of the challengers breathed from time to time wild bursts
expressive of triumph or defiance, while the clowns grudged a holiday
which seemed to pass away in inactivity; and old knights and nobles
lamented in whispers the decay of martial spirit, spoke of the triumphs
of their younger days, but agreed that the land did not now supply dames
of such transcendent beauty as had animated the jousts of former times.
Prince John began to talk to his attendants about making ready
the banquet, and the necessity of adjudging the prize to Brian de
Bois-Guilbert, who had, with a single spear, overthrown two knights, and
foiled a third.

At length, as the Saracenic music of the challengers concluded one of
those long and high flourishes with which they had broken the silence of
the lists, it was answered by a solitary trumpet, which breathed a note
of defiance from the northern extremity. All eyes were turned to see
the new champion which these sounds announced, and no sooner were the
barriers opened than he paced into the lists. As far as could be judged
of a man sheathed in armour, the new adventurer did not greatly exceed
the middle size, and seemed to be rather slender than strongly made.
His suit of armour was formed of steel, richly inlaid with gold, and the
device on his shield was a young oak-tree pulled up by the roots, with
the Spanish word Desdichado, signifying Disinherited. He was mounted on
a gallant black horse, and as he passed through the lists he gracefully
saluted the Prince and the ladies by lowering his lance. The dexterity
with which he managed his steed, and something of youthful grace which
he displayed in his manner, won him the favour of the multitude, which
some of the lower classes expressed by calling out, “Touch Ralph de
Vipont’s shield--touch the Hospitallers shield; he has the least sure
seat, he is your cheapest bargain.”

The champion, moving onward amid these well-meant hints, ascended the
platform by the sloping alley which led to it from the lists, and,
to the astonishment of all present, riding straight up to the central
pavilion, struck with the sharp end of his spear the shield of Brian
de Bois-Guilbert until it rung again. All stood astonished at his
presumption, but none more than the redoubted Knight whom he had thus
defied to mortal combat, and who, little expecting so rude a challenge,
was standing carelessly at the door of the pavilion.

“Have you confessed yourself, brother,” said the Templar, “and have you
heard mass this morning, that you peril your life so frankly?”

“I am fitter to meet death than thou art” answered the Disinherited
Knight; for by this name the stranger had recorded himself in the books
of the tourney.

“Then take your place in the lists,” said Bois-Guilbert, “and look your
last upon the sun; for this night thou shalt sleep in paradise.”

“Gramercy for thy courtesy,” replied the Disinherited Knight, “and to
requite it, I advise thee to take a fresh horse and a new lance, for by
my honour you will need both.”

Having expressed himself thus confidently, he reined his horse backward
down the slope which he had ascended, and compelled him in the same
manner to move backward through the lists, till he reached the
northern extremity, where he remained stationary, in expectation of his
antagonist. This feat of horsemanship again attracted the applause of
the multitude.

However incensed at his adversary for the precautions which he
recommended, Brian de Bois-Guilbert did not neglect his advice; for
his honour was too nearly concerned, to permit his neglecting any means
which might ensure victory over his presumptuous opponent. He changed
his horse for a proved and fresh one of great strength and spirit. He
chose a new and a tough spear, lest the wood of the former might have
been strained in the previous encounters he had sustained. Lastly,
he laid aside his shield, which had received some little damage, and
received another from his squires. His first had only borne the general
device of his rider, representing two knights riding upon one horse, an
emblem expressive of the original humility and poverty of the Templars,
qualities which they had since exchanged for the arrogance and wealth
that finally occasioned their suppression. Bois-Guilbert’s new shield
bore a raven in full flight, holding in its claws a skull, and bearing
the motto, “Gare le Corbeau”.

When the two champions stood opposed to each other at the two
extremities of the lists, the public expectation was strained to the
highest pitch. Few augured the possibility that the encounter could
terminate well for the Disinherited Knight, yet his courage and
gallantry secured the general good wishes of the spectators.

The trumpets had no sooner given the signal, than the champions vanished
from their posts with the speed of lightning, and closed in the centre
of the lists with the shock of a thunderbolt. The lances burst into
shivers up to the very grasp, and it seemed at the moment that both
knights had fallen, for the shock had made each horse recoil backwards
upon its haunches. The address of the riders recovered their steeds
by use of the bridle and spur; and having glared on each other for an
instant with eyes which seemed to flash fire through the bars of their
visors, each made a demi-volte, and, retiring to the extremity of the
lists, received a fresh lance from the attendants.

A loud shout from the spectators, waving of scarfs and handkerchiefs,
and general acclamations, attested the interest taken by the spectators
in this encounter; the most equal, as well as the best performed, which
had graced the day. But no sooner had the knights resumed their station,
than the clamour of applause was hushed into a silence, so deep and so
dead, that it seemed the multitude were afraid even to breathe.

A few minutes pause having been allowed, that the combatants and their
horses might recover breath, Prince John with his truncheon signed to
the trumpets to sound the onset. The champions a second time sprung from
their stations, and closed in the centre of the lists, with the same
speed, the same dexterity, the same violence, but not the same equal
fortune as before.

In this second encounter, the Templar aimed at the centre of his
antagonist’s shield, and struck it so fair and forcibly, that his spear
went to shivers, and the Disinherited Knight reeled in his saddle.
On the other hand, that champion had, in the beginning of his career,
directed the point of his lance towards Bois-Guilbert’s shield, but,
changing his aim almost in the moment of encounter, he addressed it
to the helmet, a mark more difficult to hit, but which, if attained,
rendered the shock more irresistible. Fair and true he hit the Norman on
the visor, where his lance’s point kept hold of the bars. Yet, even at
this disadvantage, the Templar sustained his high reputation; and had
not the girths of his saddle burst, he might not have been unhorsed. As
it chanced, however, saddle, horse, and man, rolled on the ground under
a cloud of dust.

To extricate himself from the stirrups and fallen steed, was to the
Templar scarce the work of a moment; and, stung with madness, both at
his disgrace and at the acclamations with which it was hailed by the
spectators, he drew his sword and waved it in defiance of his conqueror.
The Disinherited Knight sprung from his steed, and also unsheathed his
sword. The marshals of the field, however, spurred their horses between
them, and reminded them, that the laws of the tournament did not, on the
present occasion, permit this species of encounter.

“We shall meet again, I trust,” said the Templar, casting a resentful
glance at his antagonist; “and where there are none to separate us.”

“If we do not,” said the Disinherited Knight, “the fault shall not be
mine. On foot or horseback, with spear, with axe, or with sword, I am
alike ready to encounter thee.”

More and angrier words would have been exchanged, but the marshals,
crossing their lances betwixt them, compelled them to separate. The
Disinherited Knight returned to his first station, and Bois-Guilbert
to his tent, where he remained for the rest of the day in an agony of
despair.

Without alighting from his horse, the conqueror called for a bowl of
wine, and opening the beaver, or lower part of his helmet, announced
that he quaffed it, “To all true English hearts, and to the confusion of
foreign tyrants.” He then commanded his trumpet to sound a defiance
to the challengers, and desired a herald to announce to them, that he
should make no election, but was willing to encounter them in the order
in which they pleased to advance against him.

The gigantic Front-de-Boeuf, armed in sable armour, was the first who
took the field. He bore on a white shield a black bull’s head, half
defaced by the numerous encounters which he had undergone, and bearing
the arrogant motto, “Cave, Adsum”. Over this champion the Disinherited
Knight obtained a slight but decisive advantage. Both Knights broke
their lances fairly, but Front-de-Boeuf, who lost a stirrup in the
encounter, was adjudged to have the disadvantage.

In the stranger’s third encounter with Sir Philip Malvoisin, he was
equally successful; striking that baron so forcibly on the casque, that
the laces of the helmet broke, and Malvoisin, only saved from falling by
being unhelmeted, was declared vanquished like his companions.

In his fourth combat with De Grantmesnil, the Disinherited Knight showed
as much courtesy as he had hitherto evinced courage and dexterity. De
Grantmesnil’s horse, which was young and violent, reared and plunged
in the course of the career so as to disturb the rider’s aim, and the
stranger, declining to take the advantage which this accident afforded
him, raised his lance, and passing his antagonist without touching
him, wheeled his horse and rode back again to his own end of the lists,
offering his antagonist, by a herald, the chance of a second encounter.
This De Grantmesnil declined, avowing himself vanquished as much by the
courtesy as by the address of his opponent.

Ralph de Vipont summed up the list of the stranger’s triumphs, being
hurled to the ground with such force, that the blood gushed from his
nose and his mouth, and he was borne senseless from the lists.

The acclamations of thousands applauded the unanimous award of the
Prince and marshals, announcing that day’s honours to the Disinherited
Knight.




CHAPTER IX

     ----In the midst was seen
     A lady of a more majestic mien,
     By stature and by beauty mark’d their sovereign Queen.
     * * * * *
     And as in beauty she surpass’d the choir,
     So nobler than the rest was her attire;
     A crown of ruddy gold enclosed her brow,
     Plain without pomp, and rich without a show;
     A branch of Agnus Castus in her hand,
     She bore aloft her symbol of command.
     The Flower and the Leaf

William de Wyvil and Stephen de Martival, the marshals of the field,
were the first to offer their congratulations to the victor, praying
him, at the same time, to suffer his helmet to be unlaced, or, at least,
that he would raise his visor ere they conducted him to receive
the prize of the day’s tourney from the hands of Prince John. The
Disinherited Knight, with all knightly courtesy, declined their request,
alleging, that he could not at this time suffer his face to be seen, for
reasons which he had assigned to the heralds when he entered the lists.
The marshals were perfectly satisfied by this reply; for amidst the
frequent and capricious vows by which knights were accustomed to bind
themselves in the days of chivalry, there were none more common than
those by which they engaged to remain incognito for a certain space, or
until some particular adventure was achieved. The marshals, therefore,
pressed no farther into the mystery of the Disinherited Knight, but,
announcing to Prince John the conqueror’s desire to remain unknown, they
requested permission to bring him before his Grace, in order that he
might receive the reward of his valour.

John’s curiosity was excited by the mystery observed by the stranger;
and, being already displeased with the issue of the tournament, in which
the challengers whom he favoured had been successively defeated by one
knight, he answered haughtily to the marshals, “By the light of Our
Lady’s brow, this same knight hath been disinherited as well of his
courtesy as of his lands, since he desires to appear before us without
uncovering his face.--Wot ye, my lords,” he said, turning round to his
train, “who this gallant can be, that bears himself thus proudly?”

“I cannot guess,” answered De Bracy, “nor did I think there had been
within the four seas that girth Britain a champion that could bear down
these five knights in one day’s jousting. By my faith, I shall never
forget the force with which he shocked De Vipont. The poor Hospitaller
was hurled from his saddle like a stone from a sling.”

“Boast not of that,” said a Knight of St John, who was present;
“your Temple champion had no better luck. I saw your brave lance,
Bois-Guilbert, roll thrice over, grasping his hands full of sand at
every turn.”

De Bracy, being attached to the Templars, would have replied, but was
prevented by Prince John. “Silence, sirs!” he said; “what unprofitable
debate have we here?”

“The victor,” said De Wyvil, “still waits the pleasure of your
highness.”

“It is our pleasure,” answered John, “that he do so wait until we learn
whether there is not some one who can at least guess at his name and
quality. Should he remain there till night-fall, he has had work enough
to keep him warm.”

“Your Grace,” said Waldemar Fitzurse, “will do less than due honour to
the victor, if you compel him to wait till we tell your highness that
which we cannot know; at least I can form no guess--unless he be one of
the good lances who accompanied King Richard to Palestine, and who are
now straggling homeward from the Holy Land.”

“It may be the Earl of Salisbury,” said De Bracy; “he is about the same
pitch.”

“Sir Thomas de Multon, the Knight of Gilsland, rather,” said Fitzurse;
“Salisbury is bigger in the bones.” A whisper arose among the train,
but by whom first suggested could not be ascertained. “It might be the
King--it might be Richard Coeur-de-Lion himself!”

“Over God’s forbode!” said Prince John, involuntarily turning at the
same time as pale as death, and shrinking as if blighted by a flash of
lightning; “Waldemar!--De Bracy! brave knights and gentlemen, remember
your promises, and stand truly by me!”

“Here is no danger impending,” said Waldemar Fitzurse; “are you so
little acquainted with the gigantic limbs of your father’s son, as
to think they can be held within the circumference of yonder suit
of armour?--De Wyvil and Martival, you will best serve the Prince by
bringing forward the victor to the throne, and ending an error that has
conjured all the blood from his cheeks.--Look at him more closely,” he
continued, “your highness will see that he wants three inches of King
Richard’s height, and twice as much of his shoulder-breadth. The very
horse he backs, could not have carried the ponderous weight of King
Richard through a single course.”

While he was yet speaking, the marshals brought forward the Disinherited
Knight to the foot of a wooden flight of steps, which formed the ascent
from the lists to Prince John’s throne. Still discomposed with the idea
that his brother, so much injured, and to whom he was so much indebted,
had suddenly arrived in his native kingdom, even the distinctions
pointed out by Fitzurse did not altogether remove the Prince’s
apprehensions; and while, with a short and embarrassed eulogy upon his
valour, he caused to be delivered to him the war-horse assigned as the
prize, he trembled lest from the barred visor of the mailed form before
him, an answer might be returned, in the deep and awful accents of
Richard the Lion-hearted.

But the Disinherited Knight spoke not a word in reply to the compliment
of the Prince, which he only acknowledged with a profound obeisance.

The horse was led into the lists by two grooms richly dressed, the
animal itself being fully accoutred with the richest war-furniture;
which, however, scarcely added to the value of the noble creature in the
eyes of those who were judges. Laying one hand upon the pommel of the
saddle, the Disinherited Knight vaulted at once upon the back of the
steed without making use of the stirrup, and, brandishing aloft his
lance, rode twice around the lists, exhibiting the points and paces of
the horse with the skill of a perfect horseman.

The appearance of vanity, which might otherwise have been attributed to
this display, was removed by the propriety shown in exhibiting to the
best advantage the princely reward with which he had been just honoured,
and the Knight was again greeted by the acclamations of all present.

In the meanwhile, the bustling Prior of Jorvaulx had reminded Prince
John, in a whisper, that the victor must now display his good judgment,
instead of his valour, by selecting from among the beauties who graced
the galleries a lady, who should fill the throne of the Queen of Beauty
and of Love, and deliver the prize of the tourney upon the ensuing day.
The Prince accordingly made a sign with his truncheon, as the Knight
passed him in his second career around the lists. The Knight turned
towards the throne, and, sinking his lance, until the point was within
a foot of the ground, remained motionless, as if expecting John’s
commands; while all admired the sudden dexterity with which he instantly
reduced his fiery steed from a state of violent emotion and high
excitation to the stillness of an equestrian statue.

“Sir Disinherited Knight,” said Prince John, “since that is the only
title by which we can address you, it is now your duty, as well as
privilege, to name the fair lady, who, as Queen of Honour and of Love,
is to preside over next day’s festival. If, as a stranger in our land,
you should require the aid of other judgment to guide your own, we
can only say that Alicia, the daughter of our gallant knight Waldemar
Fitzurse, has at our court been long held the first in beauty as in
place. Nevertheless, it is your undoubted prerogative to confer on whom
you please this crown, by the delivery of which to the lady of
your choice, the election of to-morrow’s Queen will be formal and
complete.--Raise your lance.”

The Knight obeyed; and Prince John placed upon its point a coronet of
green satin, having around its edge a circlet of gold, the upper edge
of which was relieved by arrow-points and hearts placed interchangeably,
like the strawberry leaves and balls upon a ducal crown.

In the broad hint which he dropped respecting the daughter of Waldemar
Fitzurse, John had more than one motive, each the offspring of a mind,
which was a strange mixture of carelessness and presumption with low
artifice and cunning. He wished to banish from the minds of the chivalry
around him his own indecent and unacceptable jest respecting the Jewess
Rebecca; he was desirous of conciliating Alicia’s father Waldemar,
of whom he stood in awe, and who had more than once shown himself
dissatisfied during the course of the day’s proceedings. He had also a
wish to establish himself in the good graces of the lady; for John was
at least as licentious in his pleasures as profligate in his ambition.
But besides all these reasons, he was desirous to raise up against
the Disinherited Knight (towards whom he already entertained a strong
dislike) a powerful enemy in the person of Waldemar Fitzurse, who was
likely, he thought, highly to resent the injury done to his daughter, in
case, as was not unlikely, the victor should make another choice.

And so indeed it proved. For the Disinherited Knight passed the gallery
close to that of the Prince, in which the Lady Alicia was seated in the
full pride of triumphant beauty, and, pacing forwards as slowly as he
had hitherto rode swiftly around the lists, he seemed to exercise his
right of examining the numerous fair faces which adorned that splendid
circle.

It was worth while to see the different conduct of the beauties who
underwent this examination, during the time it was proceeding. Some
blushed, some assumed an air of pride and dignity, some looked straight
forward, and essayed to seem utterly unconscious of what was going on,
some drew back in alarm, which was perhaps affected, some endeavoured to
forbear smiling, and there were two or three who laughed outright. There
were also some who dropped their veils over their charms; but, as the
Wardour Manuscript says these were fair ones of ten years standing, it
may be supposed that, having had their full share of such vanities, they
were willing to withdraw their claim, in order to give a fair chance to
the rising beauties of the age.

At length the champion paused beneath the balcony in which the Lady
Rowena was placed, and the expectation of the spectators was excited to
the utmost.

It must be owned, that if an interest displayed in his success could
have bribed the Disinherited Knight, the part of the lists before which
he paused had merited his predilection. Cedric the Saxon, overjoyed at
the discomfiture of the Templar, and still more so at the miscarriage of
his two malevolent neighbours, Front-de-Boeuf and Malvoisin, had, with
his body half stretched over the balcony, accompanied the victor in each
course, not with his eyes only, but with his whole heart and soul. The
Lady Rowena had watched the progress of the day with equal attention,
though without openly betraying the same intense interest. Even the
unmoved Athelstane had shown symptoms of shaking off his apathy, when,
calling for a huge goblet of muscadine, he quaffed it to the health
of the Disinherited Knight. Another group, stationed under the gallery
occupied by the Saxons, had shown no less interest in the fate of the
day.

“Father Abraham!” said Isaac of York, when the first course was run
betwixt the Templar and the Disinherited Knight, “how fiercely that
Gentile rides! Ah, the good horse that was brought all the long way
from Barbary, he takes no more care of him than if he were a wild ass’s
colt--and the noble armour, that was worth so many zecchins to Joseph
Pareira, the armourer of Milan, besides seventy in the hundred of
profits, he cares for it as little as if he had found it in the
highways!”

“If he risks his own person and limbs, father,” said Rebecca, “in doing
such a dreadful battle, he can scarce be expected to spare his horse and
armour.”

“Child!” replied Isaac, somewhat heated, “thou knowest not what thou
speakest--His neck and limbs are his own, but his horse and armour
belong to--Holy Jacob! what was I about to say!--Nevertheless, it is
a good youth--See, Rebecca! see, he is again about to go up to battle
against the Philistine--Pray, child--pray for the safety of the good
youth,--and of the speedy horse, and the rich armour.--God of my
fathers!” he again exclaimed, “he hath conquered, and the uncircumcised
Philistine hath fallen before his lance,--even as Og the King of
Bashan, and Sihon, King of the Amorites, fell before the sword of our
fathers!--Surely he shall take their gold and their silver, and their
war-horses, and their armour of brass and of steel, for a prey and for a
spoil.”

The same anxiety did the worthy Jew display during every course that was
run, seldom failing to hazard a hasty calculation concerning the value
of the horse and armour which was forfeited to the champion upon each
new success. There had been therefore no small interest taken in the
success of the Disinherited Knight, by those who occupied the part of
the lists before which he now paused.

Whether from indecision, or some other motive of hesitation, the
champion of the day remained stationary for more than a minute, while
the eyes of the silent audience were riveted upon his motions; and then,
gradually and gracefully sinking the point of his lance, he deposited
the coronet which it supported at the feet of the fair Rowena. The
trumpets instantly sounded, while the heralds proclaimed the Lady Rowena
the Queen of Beauty and of Love for the ensuing day, menacing with
suitable penalties those who should be disobedient to her authority.
They then repeated their cry of Largesse, to which Cedric, in the height
of his joy, replied by an ample donative, and to which Athelstane,
though less promptly, added one equally large.

There was some murmuring among the damsels of Norman descent, who were
as much unused to see the preference given to a Saxon beauty, as the
Norman nobles were to sustain defeat in the games of chivalry which they
themselves had introduced. But these sounds of disaffection were drowned
by the popular shout of “Long live the Lady Rowena, the chosen and
lawful Queen of Love and of Beauty!” To which many in the lower area
added, “Long live the Saxon Princess! long live the race of the immortal
Alfred!”

However unacceptable these sounds might be to Prince John, and to
those around him, he saw himself nevertheless obliged to confirm the
nomination of the victor, and accordingly calling to horse, he left
his throne; and mounting his jennet, accompanied by his train, he again
entered the lists. The Prince paused a moment beneath the gallery of
the Lady Alicia, to whom he paid his compliments, observing, at the same
time, to those around him--“By my halidome, sirs! if the Knight’s feats
in arms have shown that he hath limbs and sinews, his choice hath no
less proved that his eyes are none of the clearest.”

It was on this occasion, as during his whole life, John’s misfortune,
not perfectly to understand the characters of those whom he wished to
conciliate. Waldemar Fitzurse was rather offended than pleased at the
Prince stating thus broadly an opinion, that his daughter had been
slighted.

“I know no right of chivalry,” he said, “more precious or inalienable
than that of each free knight to choose his lady-love by his own
judgment. My daughter courts distinction from no one; and in her own
character, and in her own sphere, will never fail to receive the full
proportion of that which is her due.”

Prince John replied not; but, spurring his horse, as if to give vent
to his vexation, he made the animal bound forward to the gallery where
Rowena was seated, with the crown still at her feet.

“Assume,” he said, “fair lady, the mark of your sovereignty, to which
none vows homage more sincerely than ourself, John of Anjou; and if
it please you to-day, with your noble sire and friends, to grace our
banquet in the Castle of Ashby, we shall learn to know the empress to
whose service we devote to-morrow.”

Rowena remained silent, and Cedric answered for her in his native Saxon.

“The Lady Rowena,” he said, “possesses not the language in which to
reply to your courtesy, or to sustain her part in your festival. I also,
and the noble Athelstane of Coningsburgh, speak only the language, and
practise only the manners, of our fathers. We therefore decline with
thanks your Highness’s courteous invitation to the banquet. To-morrow,
the Lady Rowena will take upon her the state to which she has been
called by the free election of the victor Knight, confirmed by the
acclamations of the people.”

So saying, he lifted the coronet, and placed it upon Rowena’s head, in
token of her acceptance of the temporary authority assigned to her.

“What says he?” said Prince John, affecting not to understand the
Saxon language, in which, however, he was well skilled. The purport of
Cedric’s speech was repeated to him in French. “It is well,” he said;
“to-morrow we will ourself conduct this mute sovereign to her seat of
dignity.--You, at least, Sir Knight,” he added, turning to the victor,
who had remained near the gallery, “will this day share our banquet?”

The Knight, speaking for the first time, in a low and hurried voice,
excused himself by pleading fatigue, and the necessity of preparing for
to-morrow’s encounter.

“It is well,” said Prince John, haughtily; “although unused to such
refusals, we will endeavour to digest our banquet as we may, though
ungraced by the most successful in arms, and his elected Queen of
Beauty.”

So saying, he prepared to leave the lists with his glittering train, and
his turning his steed for that purpose, was the signal for the breaking
up and dispersion of the spectators.

Yet, with the vindictive memory proper to offended pride, especially
when combined with conscious want of desert, John had hardly proceeded
three paces, ere again, turning around, he fixed an eye of stern
resentment upon the yeoman who had displeased him in the early part of
the day, and issued his commands to the men-at-arms who stood near--“On
your life, suffer not that fellow to escape.”

The yeoman stood the angry glance of the Prince with the same unvaried
steadiness which had marked his former deportment, saying, with a smile,
“I have no intention to leave Ashby until the day after to-morrow--I
must see how Staffordshire and Leicestershire can draw their bows--the
forests of Needwood and Charnwood must rear good archers.”

“I,” said Prince John to his attendants, but not in direct reply,--“I
will see how he can draw his own; and woe betide him unless his skill
should prove some apology for his insolence!”

“It is full time,” said De Bracy, “that the ‘outrecuidance’ [19] of
these peasants should be restrained by some striking example.”

Waldemar Fitzurse, who probably thought his patron was not taking the
readiest road to popularity, shrugged up his shoulders and was silent.
Prince John resumed his retreat from the lists, and the dispersion of
the multitude became general.

In various routes, according to the different quarters from which
they came, and in groups of various numbers, the spectators were seen
retiring over the plain. By far the most numerous part streamed towards
the town of Ashby, where many of the distinguished persons were lodged
in the castle, and where others found accommodation in the town itself.
Among these were most of the knights who had already appeared in the
tournament, or who proposed to fight there the ensuing day, and who, as
they rode slowly along, talking over the events of the day, were greeted
with loud shouts by the populace. The same acclamations were bestowed
upon Prince John, although he was indebted for them rather to the
splendour of his appearance and train, than to the popularity of his
character.

A more sincere and more general, as well as a better-merited
acclamation, attended the victor of the day, until, anxious to withdraw
himself from popular notice, he accepted the accommodation of one of
those pavilions pitched at the extremities of the lists, the use of
which was courteously tendered him by the marshals of the field. On his
retiring to his tent, many who had lingered in the lists, to look upon
and form conjectures concerning him, also dispersed.

The signs and sounds of a tumultuous concourse of men lately crowded
together in one place, and agitated by the same passing events, were now
exchanged for the distant hum of voices of different groups retreating
in all directions, and these speedily died away in silence. No other
sounds were heard save the voices of the menials who stripped the
galleries of their cushions and tapestry, in order to put them in safety
for the night, and wrangled among themselves for the half-used bottles
of wine and relics of the refreshment which had been served round to the
spectators.

Beyond the precincts of the lists more than one forge was erected; and
these now began to glimmer through the twilight, announcing the toil of
the armourers, which was to continue through the whole night, in order
to repair or alter the suits of armour to be used again on the morrow.

A strong guard of men-at-arms, renewed at intervals, from two hours to
two hours, surrounded the lists, and kept watch during the night.




CHAPTER X

     Thus, like the sad presaging raven, that tolls
     The sick man’s passport in her hollow beak,
     And in the shadow of the silent night
     Doth shake contagion from her sable wings;
     Vex’d and tormented, runs poor Barrabas,
     With fatal curses towards these Christians.
     --Jew of Malta

The Disinherited Knight had no sooner reached his pavilion, than squires
and pages in abundance tendered their services to disarm him, to bring
fresh attire, and to offer him the refreshment of the bath. Their zeal
on this occasion was perhaps sharpened by curiosity, since every one
desired to know who the knight was that had gained so many laurels, yet
had refused, even at the command of Prince John, to lift his visor or
to name his name. But their officious inquisitiveness was not gratified.
The Disinherited Knight refused all other assistance save that of his
own squire, or rather yeoman--a clownish-looking man, who, wrapt in a
cloak of dark-coloured felt, and having his head and face half-buried
in a Norman bonnet made of black fur, seemed to affect the incognito
as much as his master. All others being excluded from the tent, this
attendant relieved his master from the more burdensome parts of his
armour, and placed food and wine before him, which the exertions of the
day rendered very acceptable.

The Knight had scarcely finished a hasty meal, ere his menial announced
to him that five men, each leading a barbed steed, desired to speak with
him. The Disinherited Knight had exchanged his armour for the long robe
usually worn by those of his condition, which, being furnished with a
hood, concealed the features, when such was the pleasure of the
wearer, almost as completely as the visor of the helmet itself, but the
twilight, which was now fast darkening, would of itself have rendered
a disguise unnecessary, unless to persons to whom the face of an
individual chanced to be particularly well known.

The Disinherited Knight, therefore, stept boldly forth to the front of
his tent, and found in attendance the squires of the challengers, whom
he easily knew by their russet and black dresses, each of whom led
his master’s charger, loaded with the armour in which he had that day
fought.

“According to the laws of chivalry,” said the foremost of these men, “I,
Baldwin de Oyley, squire to the redoubted Knight Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
make offer to you, styling yourself, for the present, the Disinherited
Knight, of the horse and armour used by the said Brian de Bois-Guilbert
in this day’s Passage of Arms, leaving it with your nobleness to retain
or to ransom the same, according to your pleasure; for such is the law
of arms.”

The other squires repeated nearly the same formula, and then stood to
await the decision of the Disinherited Knight.

“To you four, sirs,” replied the Knight, addressing those who had last
spoken, “and to your honourable and valiant masters, I have one common
reply. Commend me to the noble knights, your masters, and say, I should
do ill to deprive them of steeds and arms which can never be used by
braver cavaliers.--I would I could here end my message to these
gallant knights; but being, as I term myself, in truth and earnest, the
Disinherited, I must be thus far bound to your masters, that they will,
of their courtesy, be pleased to ransom their steeds and armour, since
that which I wear I can hardly term mine own.”

“We stand commissioned, each of us,” answered the squire of Reginald
Front-de-Boeuf, “to offer a hundred zecchins in ransom of these horses
and suits of armour.”

“It is sufficient,” said the Disinherited Knight. “Half the sum
my present necessities compel me to accept; of the remaining half,
distribute one moiety among yourselves, sir squires, and divide the
other half betwixt the heralds and the pursuivants, and minstrels, and
attendants.”

The squires, with cap in hand, and low reverences, expressed their deep
sense of a courtesy and generosity not often practised, at least upon a
scale so extensive. The Disinherited Knight then addressed his discourse
to Baldwin, the squire of Brian de Bois-Guilbert. “From your master,”
 said he, “I will accept neither arms nor ransom. Say to him in my name,
that our strife is not ended--no, not till we have fought as well with
swords as with lances--as well on foot as on horseback. To this
mortal quarrel he has himself defied me, and I shall not forget the
challenge.--Meantime, let him be assured, that I hold him not as one of
his companions, with whom I can with pleasure exchange courtesies; but
rather as one with whom I stand upon terms of mortal defiance.”

“My master,” answered Baldwin, “knows how to requite scorn with scorn,
and blows with blows, as well as courtesy with courtesy. Since you
disdain to accept from him any share of the ransom at which you have
rated the arms of the other knights, I must leave his armour and his
horse here, being well assured that he will never deign to mount the one
nor wear the other.”

“You have spoken well, good squire,” said the Disinherited Knight,
“well and boldly, as it beseemeth him to speak who answers for an absent
master. Leave not, however, the horse and armour here. Restore them to
thy master; or, if he scorns to accept them, retain them, good friend,
for thine own use. So far as they are mine, I bestow them upon you
freely.”

Baldwin made a deep obeisance, and retired with his companions; and the
Disinherited Knight entered the pavilion.

“Thus far, Gurth,” said he, addressing his attendant, “the reputation of
English chivalry hath not suffered in my hands.”

“And I,” said Gurth, “for a Saxon swineherd, have not ill played the
personage of a Norman squire-at-arms.”

“Yea, but,” answered the Disinherited Knight, “thou hast ever kept me in
anxiety lest thy clownish bearing should discover thee.”

“Tush!” said Gurth, “I fear discovery from none, saving my playfellow,
Wamba the Jester, of whom I could never discover whether he were most
knave or fool. Yet I could scarce choose but laugh, when my old master
passed so near to me, dreaming all the while that Gurth was keeping his
porkers many a mile off, in the thickets and swamps of Rotherwood. If I
am discovered---”

“Enough,” said the Disinherited Knight, “thou knowest my promise.”

“Nay, for that matter,” said Gurth, “I will never fail my friend for
fear of my skin-cutting. I have a tough hide, that will bear knife or
scourge as well as any boar’s hide in my herd.”

“Trust me, I will requite the risk you run for my love, Gurth,” said the
Knight. “Meanwhile, I pray you to accept these ten pieces of gold.”

“I am richer,” said Gurth, putting them into his pouch, “than ever was
swineherd or bondsman.”

“Take this bag of gold to Ashby,” continued his master, “and find out
Isaac the Jew of York, and let him pay himself for the horse and arms
with which his credit supplied me.”

“Nay, by St Dunstan,” replied Gurth, “that I will not do.”

“How, knave,” replied his master, “wilt thou not obey my commands?”

“So they be honest, reasonable, and Christian commands,” replied Gurth;
“but this is none of these. To suffer the Jew to pay himself would be
dishonest, for it would be cheating my master; and unreasonable, for it
were the part of a fool; and unchristian, since it would be plundering a
believer to enrich an infidel.”

“See him contented, however, thou stubborn varlet,” said the
Disinherited Knight.

“I will do so,” said Gurth, taking the bag under his cloak, and leaving
the apartment; “and it will go hard,” he muttered, “but I content him
with one-half of his own asking.” So saying, he departed, and left the
Disinherited Knight to his own perplexed ruminations; which, upon more
accounts than it is now possible to communicate to the reader, were of a
nature peculiarly agitating and painful.

We must now change the scene to the village of Ashby, or rather to a
country house in its vicinity belonging to a wealthy Israelite, with
whom Isaac, his daughter, and retinue, had taken up their quarters; the
Jews, it is well known, being as liberal in exercising the duties of
hospitality and charity among their own people, as they were alleged to
be reluctant and churlish in extending them to those whom they
termed Gentiles, and whose treatment of them certainly merited little
hospitality at their hand.

In an apartment, small indeed, but richly furnished with decorations of
an Oriental taste, Rebecca was seated on a heap of embroidered cushions,
which, piled along a low platform that surrounded the chamber, served,
like the estrada of the Spaniards, instead of chairs and stools. She
was watching the motions of her father with a look of anxious and
filial affection, while he paced the apartment with a dejected mien
and disordered step; sometimes clasping his hands together--sometimes
casting his eyes to the roof of the apartment, as one who laboured under
great mental tribulation. “O, Jacob!” he exclaimed--“O, all ye twelve
Holy Fathers of our tribe! what a losing venture is this for one who
hath duly kept every jot and tittle of the law of Moses--Fifty zecchins
wrenched from me at one clutch, and by the talons of a tyrant!”

“But, father,” said Rebecca, “you seemed to give the gold to Prince John
willingly.”

“Willingly? the blotch of Egypt upon him!--Willingly, saidst thou?--Ay,
as willingly as when, in the Gulf of Lyons, I flung over my merchandise
to lighten the ship, while she laboured in the tempest--robed the
seething billows in my choice silks--perfumed their briny foam with
myrrh and aloes--enriched their caverns with gold and silver work! And
was not that an hour of unutterable misery, though my own hands made the
sacrifice?”

“But it was a sacrifice which Heaven exacted to save our lives,”
 answered Rebecca, “and the God of our fathers has since blessed your
store and your gettings.”

“Ay,” answered Isaac, “but if the tyrant lays hold on them as he did
to-day, and compels me to smile while he is robbing me?--O, daughter,
disinherited and wandering as we are, the worst evil which befalls our
race is, that when we are wronged and plundered, all the world laughs
around, and we are compelled to suppress our sense of injury, and to
smile tamely, when we would revenge bravely.”

“Think not thus of it, my father,” said Rebecca; “we also have
advantages. These Gentiles, cruel and oppressive as they are, are in
some sort dependent on the dispersed children of Zion, whom they despise
and persecute. Without the aid of our wealth, they could neither furnish
forth their hosts in war, nor their triumphs in peace, and the gold
which we lend them returns with increase to our coffers. We are like the
herb which flourisheth most when it is most trampled on. Even this day’s
pageant had not proceeded without the consent of the despised Jew, who
furnished the means.”

“Daughter,” said Isaac, “thou hast harped upon another string of sorrow.
The goodly steed and the rich armour, equal to the full profit of my
adventure with our Kirjath Jairam of Leicester--there is a dead loss
too--ay, a loss which swallows up the gains of a week; ay, of the space
between two Sabbaths--and yet it may end better than I now think, for
‘tis a good youth.”

“Assuredly,” said Rebecca, “you shall not repent you of requiting the
good deed received of the stranger knight.”

“I trust so, daughter,” said Isaac, “and I trust too in the rebuilding
of Zion; but as well do I hope with my own bodily eyes to see the walls
and battlements of the new Temple, as to see a Christian, yea, the very
best of Christians, repay a debt to a Jew, unless under the awe of the
judge and jailor.”

So saying, he resumed his discontented walk through the apartment; and
Rebecca, perceiving that her attempts at consolation only served to
awaken new subjects of complaint, wisely desisted from her unavailing
efforts--a prudential line of conduct, and we recommend to all who set
up for comforters and advisers, to follow it in the like circumstances.

The evening was now becoming dark, when a Jewish servant entered the
apartment, and placed upon the table two silver lamps, fed with perfumed
oil; the richest wines, and the most delicate refreshments, were at the
same time displayed by another Israelitish domestic on a small ebony
table, inlaid with silver; for, in the interior of their houses, the
Jews refused themselves no expensive indulgences. At the same time the
servant informed Isaac, that a Nazarene (so they termed Christians,
while conversing among themselves) desired to speak with him. He that
would live by traffic, must hold himself at the disposal of every one
claiming business with him. Isaac at once replaced on the table the
untasted glass of Greek wine which he had just raised to his lips, and
saying hastily to his daughter, “Rebecca, veil thyself,” commanded the
stranger to be admitted.

Just as Rebecca had dropped over her fine features a screen of silver
gauze which reached to her feet, the door opened, and Gurth entered,
wrapt in the ample folds of his Norman mantle. His appearance was rather
suspicious than prepossessing, especially as, instead of doffing his
bonnet, he pulled it still deeper over his rugged brow.

“Art thou Isaac the Jew of York?” said Gurth, in Saxon.

“I am,” replied Isaac, in the same language, (for his traffic had
rendered every tongue spoken in Britain familiar to him)--“and who art
thou?”

“That is not to the purpose,” answered Gurth.

“As much as my name is to thee,” replied Isaac; “for without knowing
thine, how can I hold intercourse with thee?”

“Easily,” answered Gurth; “I, being to pay money, must know that I
deliver it to the right person; thou, who are to receive it, will not, I
think, care very greatly by whose hands it is delivered.”

“O,” said the Jew, “you are come to pay moneys?--Holy Father Abraham!
that altereth our relation to each other. And from whom dost thou bring
it?”

“From the Disinherited Knight,” said Gurth, “victor in this day’s
tournament. It is the price of the armour supplied to him by Kirjath
Jairam of Leicester, on thy recommendation. The steed is restored to thy
stable. I desire to know the amount of the sum which I am to pay for the
armour.”

“I said he was a good youth!” exclaimed Isaac with joyful exultation. “A
cup of wine will do thee no harm,” he added, filling and handing to the
swineherd a richer drought than Gurth had ever before tasted. “And how
much money,” continued Isaac, “has thou brought with thee?”

“Holy Virgin!” said Gurth, setting down the cup, “what nectar these
unbelieving dogs drink, while true Christians are fain to quaff ale as
muddy and thick as the draff we give to hogs!--What money have I
brought with me?” continued the Saxon, when he had finished this uncivil
ejaculation, “even but a small sum; something in hand the whilst. What,
Isaac! thou must bear a conscience, though it be a Jewish one.”

“Nay, but,” said Isaac, “thy master has won goodly steeds and rich
armours with the strength of his lance, and of his right hand--but ‘tis
a good youth--the Jew will take these in present payment, and render him
back the surplus.”

“My master has disposed of them already,” said Gurth.

“Ah! that was wrong,” said the Jew, “that was the part of a fool. No
Christians here could buy so many horses and armour--no Jew except
myself would give him half the values. But thou hast a hundred zecchins
with thee in that bag,” said Isaac, prying under Gurth’s cloak, “it is a
heavy one.”

“I have heads for cross-bow bolts in it,” said Gurth, readily.

“Well, then”--said Isaac, panting and hesitating between habitual love
of gain and a new-born desire to be liberal in the present instance, “if
I should say that I would take eighty zecchins for the good steed and
the rich armour, which leaves me not a guilder’s profit, have you money
to pay me?”

“Barely,” said Gurth, though the sum demanded was more reasonable than
he expected, “and it will leave my master nigh penniless. Nevertheless,
if such be your least offer, I must be content.”

“Fill thyself another goblet of wine,” said the Jew. “Ah! eighty
zecchins is too little. It leaveth no profit for the usages of the
moneys; and, besides, the good horse may have suffered wrong in this
day’s encounter. O, it was a hard and a dangerous meeting! man and steed
rushing on each other like wild bulls of Bashan! The horse cannot but
have had wrong.”

“And I say,” replied Gurth, “he is sound, wind and limb; and you may
see him now, in your stable. And I say, over and above, that seventy
zecchins is enough for the armour, and I hope a Christian’s word is as
good as a Jew’s. If you will not take seventy, I will carry this bag”
 (and he shook it till the contents jingled) “back to my master.”

“Nay, nay!” said Isaac; “lay down the talents--the shekels--the eighty
zecchins, and thou shalt see I will consider thee liberally.”

Gurth at length complied; and telling out eighty zecchins upon the
table, the Jew delivered out to him an acquittance for the horse and
suit of armour. The Jew’s hand trembled for joy as he wrapped up the
first seventy pieces of gold. The last ten he told over with much
deliberation, pausing, and saying something as he took each piece from
the table, and dropt it into his purse. It seemed as if his avarice were
struggling with his better nature, and compelling him to pouch zecchin
after zecchin while his generosity urged him to restore some part at
least to his benefactor, or as a donation to his agent. His whole speech
ran nearly thus:

“Seventy-one--seventy-two; thy master is a good youth--seventy-three,
an excellent youth--seventy-four--that piece hath been clipt
within the ring--seventy-five--and that looketh light of
weight--seventy-six--when thy master wants money, let him come to Isaac
of York--seventy-seven--that is, with reasonable security.” Here he made
a considerable pause, and Gurth had good hope that the last three pieces
might escape the fate of their comrades; but the enumeration
proceeded.--“Seventy-eight--thou art a good fellow--seventy-nine--and
deservest something for thyself---”

Here the Jew paused again, and looked at the last zecchin, intending,
doubtless, to bestow it upon Gurth. He weighed it upon the tip of his
finger, and made it ring by dropping it upon the table. Had it rung too
flat, or had it felt a hair’s breadth too light, generosity had carried
the day; but, unhappily for Gurth, the chime was full and true, the
zecchin plump, newly coined, and a grain above weight. Isaac could not
find in his heart to part with it, so dropt it into his purse as if in
absence of mind, with the words, “Eighty completes the tale, and I trust
thy master will reward thee handsomely.--Surely,” he added, looking
earnestly at the bag, “thou hast more coins in that pouch?”

Gurth grinned, which was his nearest approach to a laugh, as he replied,
“About the same quantity which thou hast just told over so carefully.”
 He then folded the quittance, and put it under his cap, adding,--“Peril
of thy beard, Jew, see that this be full and ample!” He filled himself
unbidden, a third goblet of wine, and left the apartment without
ceremony.

“Rebecca,” said the Jew, “that Ishmaelite hath gone somewhat beyond me.
Nevertheless his master is a good youth--ay, and I am well pleased that
he hath gained shekels of gold and shekels of silver, even by the speed
of his horse and by the strength of his lance, which, like that of
Goliath the Philistine, might vie with a weaver’s beam.”

As he turned to receive Rebecca’s answer, he observed, that during his
chattering with Gurth, she had left the apartment unperceived.

In the meanwhile, Gurth had descended the stair, and, having reached the
dark antechamber or hall, was puzzling about to discover the entrance,
when a figure in white, shown by a small silver lamp which she held in
her hand, beckoned him into a side apartment. Gurth had some reluctance
to obey the summons. Rough and impetuous as a wild boar, where only
earthly force was to be apprehended, he had all the characteristic
terrors of a Saxon respecting fawns, forest-fiends, white women, and
the whole of the superstitions which his ancestors had brought with them
from the wilds of Germany. He remembered, moreover, that he was in the
house of a Jew, a people who, besides the other unamiable qualities
which popular report ascribed to them, were supposed to be profound
necromancers and cabalists. Nevertheless, after a moment’s pause, he
obeyed the beckoning summons of the apparition, and followed her into
the apartment which she indicated, where he found to his joyful surprise
that his fair guide was the beautiful Jewess whom he had seen at the
tournament, and a short time in her father’s apartment.

She asked him the particulars of his transaction with Isaac, which he
detailed accurately.

“My father did but jest with thee, good fellow,” said Rebecca; “he owes
thy master deeper kindness than these arms and steed could pay, were
their value tenfold. What sum didst thou pay my father even now?”

“Eighty zecchins,” said Gurth, surprised at the question.

“In this purse,” said Rebecca, “thou wilt find a hundred. Restore to
thy master that which is his due, and enrich thyself with the remainder.
Haste--begone--stay not to render thanks! and beware how you pass
through this crowded town, where thou mayst easily lose both thy burden
and thy life.--Reuben,” she added, clapping her hands together, “light
forth this stranger, and fail not to draw lock and bar behind him.”
 Reuben, a dark-brow’d and black-bearded Israelite, obeyed her summons,
with a torch in his hand; undid the outward door of the house, and
conducting Gurth across a paved court, let him out through a wicket in
the entrance-gate, which he closed behind him with such bolts and chains
as would well have become that of a prison.

“By St Dunstan,” said Gurth, as he stumbled up the dark avenue, “this
is no Jewess, but an angel from heaven! Ten zecchins from my brave young
master--twenty from this pearl of Zion--Oh, happy day!--Such another,
Gurth, will redeem thy bondage, and make thee a brother as free of thy
guild as the best. And then do I lay down my swineherd’s horn and staff,
and take the freeman’s sword and buckler, and follow my young master to
the death, without hiding either my face or my name.”




CHAPTER XI

     1st Outlaw: Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about you;
     If not, we’ll make you sit, and rifle you.
     Speed: Sir, we are undone! these are the villains
     That all the travellers do fear so much.
     Val: My friends,--
     1st Out: That’s not so, sir, we are your enemies.
     2d Out: Peace! we’ll hear him.
     3d Out: Ay, by my beard, will we;
     For he’s a proper man.
     --Two Gentlemen of Verona

The nocturnal adventures of Gurth were not yet concluded; indeed he
himself became partly of that mind, when, after passing one or two
straggling houses which stood in the outskirts of the village, he found
himself in a deep lane, running between two banks overgrown with hazel
and holly, while here and there a dwarf oak flung its arms altogether
across the path. The lane was moreover much rutted and broken up by the
carriages which had recently transported articles of various kinds to
the tournament; and it was dark, for the banks and bushes intercepted
the light of the harvest moon.

From the village were heard the distant sounds of revelry, mixed
occasionally with loud laughter, sometimes broken by screams, and
sometimes by wild strains of distant music. All these sounds, intimating
the disorderly state of the town, crowded with military nobles and
their dissolute attendants, gave Gurth some uneasiness. “The Jewess was
right,” he said to himself. “By heaven and St Dunstan, I would I were
safe at my journey’s end with all this treasure! Here are such numbers,
I will not say of arrant thieves, but of errant knights and errant
squires, errant monks and errant minstrels, errant jugglers and errant
jesters, that a man with a single merk would be in danger, much more a
poor swineherd with a whole bagful of zecchins. Would I were out of
the shade of these infernal bushes, that I might at least see any of St
Nicholas’s clerks before they spring on my shoulders.”

Gurth accordingly hastened his pace, in order to gain the open common
to which the lane led, but was not so fortunate as to accomplish his
object. Just as he had attained the upper end of the lane, where the
underwood was thickest, four men sprung upon him, even as his fears
anticipated, two from each side of the road, and seized him so fast,
that resistance, if at first practicable, would have been now too
late.--“Surrender your charge,” said one of them; “we are the deliverers
of the commonwealth, who ease every man of his burden.”

“You should not ease me of mine so lightly,” muttered Gurth, whose
surly honesty could not be tamed even by the pressure of immediate
violence,--“had I it but in my power to give three strokes in its
defence.”

“We shall see that presently,” said the robber; and, speaking to his
companions, he added, “bring along the knave. I see he would have his
head broken, as well as his purse cut, and so be let blood in two veins
at once.”

Gurth was hurried along agreeably to this mandate, and having been
dragged somewhat roughly over the bank, on the left-hand side of the
lane, found himself in a straggling thicket, which lay betwixt it and
the open common. He was compelled to follow his rough conductors into
the very depth of this cover, where they stopt unexpectedly in an
irregular open space, free in a great measure from trees, and on which,
therefore, the beams of the moon fell without much interruption from
boughs and leaves. Here his captors were joined by two other persons,
apparently belonging to the gang. They had short swords by their sides,
and quarter-staves in their hands, and Gurth could now observe that
all six wore visors, which rendered their occupation a matter of no
question, even had their former proceedings left it in doubt.

“What money hast thou, churl?” said one of the thieves.

“Thirty zecchins of my own property,” answered Gurth, doggedly.

“A forfeit--a forfeit,” shouted the robbers; “a Saxon hath thirty
zecchins, and returns sober from a village! An undeniable and
unredeemable forfeit of all he hath about him.”

“I hoarded it to purchase my freedom,” said Gurth.

“Thou art an ass,” replied one of the thieves “three quarts of double
ale had rendered thee as free as thy master, ay, and freer too, if he be
a Saxon like thyself.”

“A sad truth,” replied Gurth; “but if these same thirty zecchins will
buy my freedom from you, unloose my hands, and I will pay them to you.”

“Hold,” said one who seemed to exercise some authority over the others;
“this bag which thou bearest, as I can feel through thy cloak, contains
more coin than thou hast told us of.”

“It is the good knight my master’s,” answered Gurth, “of which,
assuredly, I would not have spoken a word, had you been satisfied with
working your will upon mine own property.”

“Thou art an honest fellow,” replied the robber, “I warrant thee; and we
worship not St Nicholas so devoutly but what thy thirty zecchins may yet
escape, if thou deal uprightly with us. Meantime render up thy trust
for a time.” So saying, he took from Gurth’s breast the large leathern
pouch, in which the purse given him by Rebecca was enclosed, as well as
the rest of the zecchins, and then continued his interrogation.--“Who is
thy master?”

“The Disinherited Knight,” said Gurth.

“Whose good lance,” replied the robber, “won the prize in to-day’s
tourney? What is his name and lineage?”

“It is his pleasure,” answered Gurth, “that they be concealed; and from
me, assuredly, you will learn nought of them.”

“What is thine own name and lineage?”

“To tell that,” said Gurth, “might reveal my master’s.”

“Thou art a saucy groom,” said the robber, “but of that anon. How comes
thy master by this gold? is it of his inheritance, or by what means hath
it accrued to him?”

“By his good lance,” answered Gurth.--“These bags contain the ransom of
four good horses, and four good suits of armour.”

“How much is there?” demanded the robber.

“Two hundred zecchins.”

“Only two hundred zecchins!” said the bandit; “your master hath dealt
liberally by the vanquished, and put them to a cheap ransom. Name those
who paid the gold.”

Gurth did so.

“The armour and horse of the Templar Brian de Bois-Guilbert, at what
ransom were they held?--Thou seest thou canst not deceive me.”

“My master,” replied Gurth, “will take nought from the Templar save
his life’s-blood. They are on terms of mortal defiance, and cannot hold
courteous intercourse together.”

“Indeed!”--repeated the robber, and paused after he had said the
word. “And what wert thou now doing at Ashby with such a charge in thy
custody?”

“I went thither to render to Isaac the Jew of York,” replied Gurth,
“the price of a suit of armour with which he fitted my master for this
tournament.”

“And how much didst thou pay to Isaac?--Methinks, to judge by weight,
there is still two hundred zecchins in this pouch.”

“I paid to Isaac,” said the Saxon, “eighty zecchins, and he restored me
a hundred in lieu thereof.”

“How! what!” exclaimed all the robbers at once; “darest thou trifle with
us, that thou tellest such improbable lies?”

“What I tell you,” said Gurth, “is as true as the moon is in heaven. You
will find the just sum in a silken purse within the leathern pouch, and
separate from the rest of the gold.”

“Bethink thee, man,” said the Captain, “thou speakest of a Jew--of an
Israelite,--as unapt to restore gold, as the dry sand of his deserts to
return the cup of water which the pilgrim spills upon them.”

“There is no more mercy in them,” said another of the banditti, “than in
an unbribed sheriffs officer.”

“It is, however, as I say,” said Gurth.

“Strike a light instantly,” said the Captain; “I will examine this said
purse; and if it be as this fellow says, the Jew’s bounty is little
less miraculous than the stream which relieved his fathers in the
wilderness.”

A light was procured accordingly, and the robber proceeded to examine
the purse. The others crowded around him, and even two who had hold of
Gurth relaxed their grasp while they stretched their necks to see the
issue of the search. Availing himself of their negligence, by a sudden
exertion of strength and activity, Gurth shook himself free of their
hold, and might have escaped, could he have resolved to leave his
master’s property behind him. But such was no part of his intention.
He wrenched a quarter-staff from one of the fellows, struck down the
Captain, who was altogether unaware of his purpose, and had well-nigh
repossessed himself of the pouch and treasure. The thieves, however,
were too nimble for him, and again secured both the bag and the trusty
Gurth.

“Knave!” said the Captain, getting up, “thou hast broken my head;
and with other men of our sort thou wouldst fare the worse for thy
insolence. But thou shalt know thy fate instantly. First let us speak of
thy master; the knight’s matters must go before the squire’s, according
to the due order of chivalry. Stand thou fast in the meantime--if
thou stir again, thou shalt have that will make thee quiet for thy
life--Comrades!” he then said, addressing his gang, “this purse is
embroidered with Hebrew characters, and I well believe the yeoman’s tale
is true. The errant knight, his master, must needs pass us toll-free. He
is too like ourselves for us to make booty of him, since dogs should not
worry dogs where wolves and foxes are to be found in abundance.”

“Like us?” answered one of the gang; “I should like to hear how that is
made good.”

“Why, thou fool,” answered the Captain, “is he not poor and disinherited
as we are?--Doth he not win his substance at the sword’s point as we
do?--Hath he not beaten Front-de-Boeuf and Malvoisin, even as we would
beat them if we could? Is he not the enemy to life and death of Brian
de Bois-Guilbert, whom we have so much reason to fear? And were all
this otherwise, wouldst thou have us show a worse conscience than an
unbeliever, a Hebrew Jew?”

“Nay, that were a shame,” muttered the other fellow; “and yet, when I
served in the band of stout old Gandelyn, we had no such scruples of
conscience. And this insolent peasant,--he too, I warrant me, is to be
dismissed scatheless?”

“Not if THOU canst scathe him,” replied the Captain.--“Here, fellow,”
 continued he, addressing Gurth, “canst thou use the staff, that thou
starts to it so readily?”

“I think,” said Gurth, “thou shouldst be best able to reply to that
question.”

“Nay, by my troth, thou gavest me a round knock,” replied the Captain;
“do as much for this fellow, and thou shalt pass scot-free; and if thou
dost not--why, by my faith, as thou art such a sturdy knave, I think
I must pay thy ransom myself.--Take thy staff, Miller,” he added, “and
keep thy head; and do you others let the fellow go, and give him a
staff--there is light enough to lay on load by.”

The two champions being alike armed with quarter-staves, stepped forward
into the centre of the open space, in order to have the full benefit of
the moonlight; the thieves in the meantime laughing, and crying to their
comrade, “Miller! beware thy toll-dish.” The Miller, on the other hand,
holding his quarter-staff by the middle, and making it flourish round
his head after the fashion which the French call “faire le moulinet”,
exclaimed boastfully, “Come on, churl, an thou darest: thou shalt feel
the strength of a miller’s thumb!”

“If thou be’st a miller,” answered Gurth, undauntedly, making his weapon
play around his head with equal dexterity, “thou art doubly a thief, and
I, as a true man, bid thee defiance.”

So saying, the two champions closed together, and for a few minutes they
displayed great equality in strength, courage, and skill, intercepting
and returning the blows of their adversary with the most rapid
dexterity, while, from the continued clatter of their weapons, a person
at a distance might have supposed that there were at least six persons
engaged on each side. Less obstinate, and even less dangerous combats,
have been described in good heroic verse; but that of Gurth and the
Miller must remain unsung, for want of a sacred poet to do justice to
its eventful progress. Yet, though quarter-staff play be out of date,
what we can in prose we will do for these bold champions.

Long they fought equally, until the Miller began to lose temper at
finding himself so stoutly opposed, and at hearing the laughter of his
companions, who, as usual in such cases, enjoyed his vexation. This was
not a state of mind favourable to the noble game of quarter-staff, in
which, as in ordinary cudgel-playing, the utmost coolness is requisite;
and it gave Gurth, whose temper was steady, though surly, the
opportunity of acquiring a decided advantage, in availing himself of
which he displayed great mastery.

The Miller pressed furiously forward, dealing blows with either end of
his weapon alternately, and striving to come to half-staff distance,
while Gurth defended himself against the attack, keeping his hands about
a yard asunder, and covering himself by shifting his weapon with great
celerity, so as to protect his head and body. Thus did he maintain
the defensive, making his eye, foot, and hand keep true time, until,
observing his antagonist to lose wind, he darted the staff at his face
with his left hand; and, as the Miller endeavoured to parry the thrust,
he slid his right hand down to his left, and with the full swing of the
weapon struck his opponent on the left side of the head, who instantly
measured his length upon the green sward.

“Well and yeomanly done!” shouted the robbers; “fair play and Old
England for ever! The Saxon hath saved both his purse and his hide, and
the Miller has met his match.”

“Thou mayst go thy ways, my friend,” said the Captain, addressing Gurth,
in special confirmation of the general voice, “and I will cause two of
my comrades to guide thee by the best way to thy master’s pavilion, and
to guard thee from night-walkers that might have less tender consciences
than ours; for there is many one of them upon the amble in such a night
as this. Take heed, however,” he added sternly; “remember thou hast
refused to tell thy name--ask not after ours, nor endeavour to discover
who or what we are; for, if thou makest such an attempt, thou wilt come
by worse fortune than has yet befallen thee.”

Gurth thanked the Captain for his courtesy, and promised to attend to
his recommendation. Two of the outlaws, taking up their quarter-staves,
and desiring Gurth to follow close in the rear, walked roundly forward
along a by-path, which traversed the thicket and the broken ground
adjacent to it. On the very verge of the thicket two men spoke to his
conductors, and receiving an answer in a whisper, withdrew into the
wood, and suffered them to pass unmolested. This circumstance induced
Gurth to believe both that the gang was strong in numbers, and that they
kept regular guards around their place of rendezvous.

When they arrived on the open heath, where Gurth might have had some
trouble in finding his road, the thieves guided him straight forward to
the top of a little eminence, whence he could see, spread beneath him
in the moonlight, the palisades of the lists, the glimmering pavilions
pitched at either end, with the pennons which adorned them fluttering
in the moonbeams, and from which could be heard the hum of the song with
which the sentinels were beguiling their night-watch.

Here the thieves stopt.

“We go with you no farther,” said they; “it were not safe that we should
do so.--Remember the warning you have received--keep secret what has
this night befallen you, and you will have no room to repent it--neglect
what is now told you, and the Tower of London shall not protect you
against our revenge.”

“Good night to you, kind sirs,” said Gurth; “I shall remember your
orders, and trust that there is no offence in wishing you a safer and an
honester trade.”

Thus they parted, the outlaws returning in the direction from whence
they had come, and Gurth proceeding to the tent of his master, to whom,
notwithstanding the injunction he had received, he communicated the
whole adventures of the evening.

The Disinherited Knight was filled with astonishment, no less at the
generosity of Rebecca, by which, however, he resolved he would not
profit, than that of the robbers, to whose profession such a quality
seemed totally foreign. His course of reflections upon these singular
circumstances was, however, interrupted by the necessity for taking
repose, which the fatigue of the preceding day, and the propriety
of refreshing himself for the morrow’s encounter, rendered alike
indispensable.

The knight, therefore, stretched himself for repose upon a rich couch
with which the tent was provided; and the faithful Gurth, extending
his hardy limbs upon a bear-skin which formed a sort of carpet to the
pavilion, laid himself across the opening of the tent, so that no one
could enter without awakening him.




CHAPTER XII

     The heralds left their pricking up and down,
     Now ringen trumpets loud and clarion.
     There is no more to say, but east and west,
     In go the speares sadly in the rest,
     In goth the sharp spur into the side,
     There see men who can just and who can ride;
     There shiver shaftes upon shieldes thick,
     He feeleth through the heart-spone the prick;
     Up springen speares, twenty feet in height,
     Out go the swordes to the silver bright;
     The helms they to-hewn and to-shred;
     Out burst the blood with stern streames red.
     Chaucer.

Morning arose in unclouded splendour, and ere the sun was much above the
horizon, the idlest or the most eager of the spectators appeared on the
common, moving to the lists as to a general centre, in order to secure a
favourable situation for viewing the continuation of the expected games.

The marshals and their attendants appeared next on the field, together
with the heralds, for the purpose of receiving the names of the knights
who intended to joust, with the side which each chose to espouse. This
was a necessary precaution, in order to secure equality betwixt the two
bodies who should be opposed to each other.

According to due formality, the Disinherited Knight was to be considered
as leader of the one body, while Brian de Bois-Guilbert, who had been
rated as having done second-best in the preceding day, was named first
champion of the other band. Those who had concurred in the challenge
adhered to his party of course, excepting only Ralph de Vipont, whom his
fall had rendered unfit so soon to put on his armour. There was no want
of distinguished and noble candidates to fill up the ranks on either
side.

In fact, although the general tournament, in which all knights fought
at once, was more dangerous than single encounters, they were,
nevertheless, more frequented and practised by the chivalry of the age.
Many knights, who had not sufficient confidence in their own skill to
defy a single adversary of high reputation, were, nevertheless, desirous
of displaying their valour in the general combat, where they might
meet others with whom they were more upon an equality. On the present
occasion, about fifty knights were inscribed as desirous of combating
upon each side, when the marshals declared that no more could be
admitted, to the disappointment of several who were too late in
preferring their claim to be included.

About the hour of ten o’clock, the whole plain was crowded with
horsemen, horsewomen, and foot-passengers, hastening to the tournament;
and shortly after, a grand flourish of trumpets announced Prince John
and his retinue, attended by many of those knights who meant to take
share in the game, as well as others who had no such intention.

About the same time arrived Cedric the Saxon, with the Lady Rowena,
unattended, however, by Athelstane. This Saxon lord had arrayed his
tall and strong person in armour, in order to take his place among the
combatants; and, considerably to the surprise of Cedric, had chosen to
enlist himself on the part of the Knight Templar. The Saxon, indeed, had
remonstrated strongly with his friend upon the injudicious choice he had
made of his party; but he had only received that sort of answer usually
given by those who are more obstinate in following their own course,
than strong in justifying it.

His best, if not his only reason, for adhering to the party of Brian de
Bois-Guilbert, Athelstane had the prudence to keep to himself. Though
his apathy of disposition prevented his taking any means to recommend
himself to the Lady Rowena, he was, nevertheless, by no means insensible
to her charms, and considered his union with her as a matter already
fixed beyond doubt, by the assent of Cedric and her other friends. It
had therefore been with smothered displeasure that the proud though
indolent Lord of Coningsburgh beheld the victor of the preceding day
select Rowena as the object of that honour which it became his privilege
to confer. In order to punish him for a preference which seemed to
interfere with his own suit, Athelstane, confident of his strength,
and to whom his flatterers, at least, ascribed great skill in arms, had
determined not only to deprive the Disinherited Knight of his powerful
succour, but, if an opportunity should occur, to make him feel the
weight of his battle-axe.

De Bracy, and other knights attached to Prince John, in obedience to
a hint from him, had joined the party of the challengers, John being
desirous to secure, if possible, the victory to that side. On the
other hand, many other knights, both English and Norman, natives and
strangers, took part against the challengers, the more readily that
the opposite band was to be led by so distinguished a champion as the
Disinherited Knight had approved himself.

As soon as Prince John observed that the destined Queen of the day had
arrived upon the field, assuming that air of courtesy which sat well
upon him when he was pleased to exhibit it, he rode forward to meet
her, doffed his bonnet, and, alighting from his horse, assisted the Lady
Rowena from her saddle, while his followers uncovered at the same time,
and one of the most distinguished dismounted to hold her palfrey.

“It is thus,” said Prince John, “that we set the dutiful example of
loyalty to the Queen of Love and Beauty, and are ourselves her guide to
the throne which she must this day occupy.--Ladies,” he said, “attend
your Queen, as you wish in your turn to be distinguished by like
honours.”

So saying, the Prince marshalled Rowena to the seat of honour opposite
his own, while the fairest and most distinguished ladies present crowded
after her to obtain places as near as possible to their temporary
sovereign.

No sooner was Rowena seated, than a burst of music, half-drowned by
the shouts of the multitude, greeted her new dignity. Meantime, the sun
shone fierce and bright upon the polished arms of the knights of either
side, who crowded the opposite extremities of the lists, and held eager
conference together concerning the best mode of arranging their line of
battle, and supporting the conflict.

The heralds then proclaimed silence until the laws of the tourney should
be rehearsed. These were calculated in some degree to abate the dangers
of the day; a precaution the more necessary, as the conflict was to be
maintained with sharp swords and pointed lances.

The champions were therefore prohibited to thrust with the sword, and
were confined to striking. A knight, it was announced, might use a mace
or battle-axe at pleasure, but the dagger was a prohibited weapon. A
knight unhorsed might renew the fight on foot with any other on the
opposite side in the same predicament; but mounted horsemen were in that
case forbidden to assail him. When any knight could force his antagonist
to the extremity of the lists, so as to touch the palisade with his
person or arms, such opponent was obliged to yield himself vanquished,
and his armour and horse were placed at the disposal of the conqueror.
A knight thus overcome was not permitted to take farther share in the
combat. If any combatant was struck down, and unable to recover his
feet, his squire or page might enter the lists, and drag his master out
of the press; but in that case the knight was adjudged vanquished, and
his arms and horse declared forfeited. The combat was to cease as
soon as Prince John should throw down his leading staff, or truncheon;
another precaution usually taken to prevent the unnecessary effusion
of blood by the too long endurance of a sport so desperate. Any knight
breaking the rules of the tournament, or otherwise transgressing the
rules of honourable chivalry, was liable to be stript of his arms, and,
having his shield reversed to be placed in that posture astride upon the
bars of the palisade, and exposed to public derision, in punishment of
his unknightly conduct. Having announced these precautions, the heralds
concluded with an exhortation to each good knight to do his duty, and to
merit favour from the Queen of Beauty and of Love.

This proclamation having been made, the heralds withdrew to their
stations. The knights, entering at either end of the lists in long
procession, arranged themselves in a double file, precisely opposite to
each other, the leader of each party being in the centre of the foremost
rank, a post which he did not occupy until each had carefully marshalled
the ranks of his party, and stationed every one in his place.

It was a goodly, and at the same time an anxious, sight, to behold so
many gallant champions, mounted bravely, and armed richly, stand ready
prepared for an encounter so formidable, seated on their war-saddles
like so many pillars of iron, and awaiting the signal of encounter with
the same ardour as their generous steeds, which, by neighing and pawing
the ground, gave signal of their impatience.

As yet the knights held their long lances upright, their bright points
glancing to the sun, and the streamers with which they were decorated
fluttering over the plumage of the helmets. Thus they remained while the
marshals of the field surveyed their ranks with the utmost exactness,
lest either party had more or fewer than the appointed number. The tale
was found exactly complete. The marshals then withdrew from the lists,
and William de Wyvil, with a voice of thunder, pronounced the signal
words--“Laissez aller!” The trumpets sounded as he spoke--the spears of
the champions were at once lowered and placed in the rests--the spurs
were dashed into the flanks of the horses, and the two foremost ranks
of either party rushed upon each other in full gallop, and met in the
middle of the lists with a shock, the sound of which was heard at a
mile’s distance. The rear rank of each party advanced at a slower pace
to sustain the defeated, and follow up the success of the victors of
their party.

The consequences of the encounter were not instantly seen, for the dust
raised by the trampling of so many steeds darkened the air, and it was
a minute ere the anxious spectator could see the fate of the encounter.
When the fight became visible, half the knights on each side were
dismounted, some by the dexterity of their adversary’s lance,--some by
the superior weight and strength of opponents, which had borne down
both horse and man,--some lay stretched on earth as if never more to
rise,--some had already gained their feet, and were closing hand to hand
with those of their antagonists who were in the same predicament,--and
several on both sides, who had received wounds by which they were
disabled, were stopping their blood by their scarfs, and endeavouring to
extricate themselves from the tumult. The mounted knights, whose lances
had been almost all broken by the fury of the encounter, were now
closely engaged with their swords, shouting their war-cries, and
exchanging buffets, as if honour and life depended on the issue of the
combat.

The tumult was presently increased by the advance of the second rank
on either side, which, acting as a reserve, now rushed on to aid their
companions. The followers of Brian de Bois-Guilbert shouted--“Ha!
Beau-seant! Beau-seant! [20]

“--For the Temple--For the Temple!” The opposite party shouted in
answer--“Desdichado! Desdichado!”--which watch-word they took from the
motto upon their leader’s shield.

The champions thus encountering each other with the utmost fury, and
with alternate success, the tide of battle seemed to flow now toward the
southern, now toward the northern extremity of the lists, as the one
or the other party prevailed. Meantime the clang of the blows, and
the shouts of the combatants, mixed fearfully with the sound of the
trumpets, and drowned the groans of those who fell, and lay rolling
defenceless beneath the feet of the horses. The splendid armour of the
combatants was now defaced with dust and blood, and gave way at every
stroke of the sword and battle-axe. The gay plumage, shorn from the
crests, drifted upon the breeze like snow-flakes. All that was beautiful
and graceful in the martial array had disappeared, and what was now
visible was only calculated to awake terror or compassion.

Yet such is the force of habit, that not only the vulgar spectators,
who are naturally attracted by sights of horror, but even the ladies of
distinction who crowded the galleries, saw the conflict with a thrilling
interest certainly, but without a wish to withdraw their eyes from a
sight so terrible. Here and there, indeed, a fair cheek might turn pale,
or a faint scream might be heard, as a lover, a brother, or a husband,
was struck from his horse. But, in general, the ladies around encouraged
the combatants, not only by clapping their hands and waving their veils
and kerchiefs, but even by exclaiming, “Brave lance! Good sword!” when
any successful thrust or blow took place under their observation.

Such being the interest taken by the fair sex in this bloody game,
that of the men is the more easily understood. It showed itself in
loud acclamations upon every change of fortune, while all eyes were so
riveted on the lists, that the spectators seemed as if they themselves
had dealt and received the blows which were there so freely bestowed.
And between every pause was heard the voice of the heralds, exclaiming,
“Fight on, brave knights! Man dies, but glory lives!--Fight on--death
is better than defeat!--Fight on, brave knights!--for bright eyes behold
your deeds!”

Amid the varied fortunes of the combat, the eyes of all endeavoured to
discover the leaders of each band, who, mingling in the thick of the
fight, encouraged their companions both by voice and example. Both
displayed great feats of gallantry, nor did either Bois-Guilbert or the
Disinherited Knight find in the ranks opposed to them a champion who
could be termed their unquestioned match. They repeatedly endeavoured to
single out each other, spurred by mutual animosity, and aware that the
fall of either leader might be considered as decisive of victory. Such,
however, was the crowd and confusion, that, during the earlier part
of the conflict, their efforts to meet were unavailing, and they were
repeatedly separated by the eagerness of their followers, each of whom
was anxious to win honour, by measuring his strength against the leader
of the opposite party.

But when the field became thin by the numbers on either side who had
yielded themselves vanquished, had been compelled to the extremity
of the lists, or been otherwise rendered incapable of continuing the
strife, the Templar and the Disinherited Knight at length encountered
hand to hand, with all the fury that mortal animosity, joined to rivalry
of honour, could inspire. Such was the address of each in parrying
and striking, that the spectators broke forth into a unanimous and
involuntary shout, expressive of their delight and admiration.

But at this moment the party of the Disinherited Knight had the worst;
the gigantic arm of Front-de-Boeuf on the one flank, and the ponderous
strength of Athelstane on the other, bearing down and dispersing
those immediately exposed to them. Finding themselves freed from their
immediate antagonists, it seems to have occurred to both these knights
at the same instant, that they would render the most decisive advantage
to their party, by aiding the Templar in his contest with his rival.
Turning their horses, therefore, at the same moment, the Norman spurred
against the Disinherited Knight on the one side, and the Saxon on the
other. It was utterly impossible that the object of this unequal and
unexpected assault could have sustained it, had he not been warned by a
general cry from the spectators, who could not but take interest in one
exposed to such disadvantage.

“Beware! beware! Sir Disinherited!” was shouted so universally, that
the knight became aware of his danger; and, striking a full blow at the
Templar, he reined back his steed in the same moment, so as to escape
the charge of Athelstane and Front-de-Boeuf. These knights, therefore,
their aim being thus eluded, rushed from opposite sides betwixt the
object of their attack and the Templar, almost running their horses
against each other ere they could stop their career. Recovering their
horses however, and wheeling them round, the whole three pursued their
united purpose of bearing to the earth the Disinherited Knight.

Nothing could have saved him, except the remarkable strength and
activity of the noble horse which he had won on the preceding day.

This stood him in the more stead, as the horse of Bois-Guilbert was
wounded, and those of Front-de-Boeuf and Athelstane were both tired with
the weight of their gigantic masters, clad in complete armour, and with
the preceding exertions of the day. The masterly horsemanship of the
Disinherited Knight, and the activity of the noble animal which he
mounted, enabled him for a few minutes to keep at sword’s point his
three antagonists, turning and wheeling with the agility of a hawk upon
the wing, keeping his enemies as far separate as he could, and rushing
now against the one, now against the other, dealing sweeping blows with
his sword, without waiting to receive those which were aimed at him in
return.

But although the lists rang with the applauses of his dexterity, it
was evident that he must at last be overpowered; and the nobles around
Prince John implored him with one voice to throw down his warder, and to
save so brave a knight from the disgrace of being overcome by odds.

“Not I, by the light of Heaven!” answered Prince John; “this
same springald, who conceals his name, and despises our proffered
hospitality, hath already gained one prize, and may now afford to
let others have their turn.” As he spoke thus, an unexpected incident
changed the fortune of the day.

There was among the ranks of the Disinherited Knight a champion in
black armour, mounted on a black horse, large of size, tall, and to all
appearance powerful and strong, like the rider by whom he was mounted.
This knight, who bore on his shield no device of any kind, had hitherto
evinced very little interest in the event of the fight, beating off with
seeming ease those combatants who attacked him, but neither pursuing
his advantages, nor himself assailing any one. In short, he had hitherto
acted the part rather of a spectator than of a party in the tournament,
a circumstance which procured him among the spectators the name of “Le
Noir Faineant”, or the Black Sluggard.

At once this knight seemed to throw aside his apathy, when he discovered
the leader of his party so hard bestead; for, setting spurs to
his horse, which was quite fresh, he came to his assistance like a
thunderbolt, exclaiming, in a voice like a trumpet-call, “Desdichado,
to the rescue!” It was high time; for, while the Disinherited Knight was
pressing upon the Templar, Front-de-Boeuf had got nigh to him with his
uplifted sword; but ere the blow could descend, the Sable Knight dealt
a stroke on his head, which, glancing from the polished helmet, lighted
with violence scarcely abated on the “chamfron” of the steed, and
Front-de-Boeuf rolled on the ground, both horse and man equally stunned
by the fury of the blow. “Le Noir Faineant” then turned his horse upon
Athelstane of Coningsburgh; and his own sword having been broken in his
encounter with Front-de-Boeuf, he wrenched from the hand of the bulky
Saxon the battle-axe which he wielded, and, like one familiar with
the use of the weapon, bestowed him such a blow upon the crest, that
Athelstane also lay senseless on the field. Having achieved this double
feat, for which he was the more highly applauded that it was totally
unexpected from him, the knight seemed to resume the sluggishness of
his character, returning calmly to the northern extremity of the lists,
leaving his leader to cope as he best could with Brian de Bois-Guilbert.
This was no longer matter of so much difficulty as formerly. The
Templars horse had bled much, and gave way under the shock of the
Disinherited Knight’s charge. Brian de Bois-Guilbert rolled on the
field, encumbered with the stirrup, from which he was unable to draw his
foot. His antagonist sprung from horseback, waved his fatal sword over
the head of his adversary, and commanded him to yield himself; when
Prince John, more moved by the Templars dangerous situation than he had
been by that of his rival, saved him the mortification of confessing
himself vanquished, by casting down his warder, and putting an end to
the conflict.

It was, indeed, only the relics and embers of the fight which continued
to burn; for of the few knights who still continued in the lists, the
greater part had, by tacit consent, forborne the conflict for some time,
leaving it to be determined by the strife of the leaders.

The squires, who had found it a matter of danger and difficulty to
attend their masters during the engagement, now thronged into the lists
to pay their dutiful attendance to the wounded, who were removed with
the utmost care and attention to the neighbouring pavilions, or to the
quarters prepared for them in the adjoining village.

Thus ended the memorable field of Ashby-de-la-Zouche, one of the most
gallantly contested tournaments of that age; for although only four
knights, including one who was smothered by the heat of his armour, had
died upon the field, yet upwards of thirty were desperately wounded,
four or five of whom never recovered. Several more were disabled for
life; and those who escaped best carried the marks of the conflict to
the grave with them. Hence it is always mentioned in the old records, as
the Gentle and Joyous Passage of Arms of Ashby.

It being now the duty of Prince John to name the knight who had done
best, he determined that the honour of the day remained with the knight
whom the popular voice had termed “Le Noir Faineant.” It was pointed out
to the Prince, in impeachment of this decree, that the victory had been
in fact won by the Disinherited Knight, who, in the course of the
day, had overcome six champions with his own hand, and who had finally
unhorsed and struck down the leader of the opposite party. But Prince
John adhered to his own opinion, on the ground that the Disinherited
Knight and his party had lost the day, but for the powerful assistance
of the Knight of the Black Armour, to whom, therefore, he persisted in
awarding the prize.

To the surprise of all present, however, the knight thus preferred was
nowhere to be found. He had left the lists immediately when the conflict
ceased, and had been observed by some spectators to move down one of
the forest glades with the same slow pace and listless and indifferent
manner which had procured him the epithet of the Black Sluggard. After
he had been summoned twice by sound of trumpet, and proclamation of
the heralds, it became necessary to name another to receive the honours
which had been assigned to him. Prince John had now no further excuse
for resisting the claim of the Disinherited Knight, whom, therefore, he
named the champion of the day.

Through a field slippery with blood, and encumbered with broken armour
and the bodies of slain and wounded horses, the marshals of the lists
again conducted the victor to the foot of Prince John’s throne.

“Disinherited Knight,” said Prince John, “since by that title only
you will consent to be known to us, we a second time award to you the
honours of this tournament, and announce to you your right to claim and
receive from the hands of the Queen of Love and Beauty, the Chaplet of
Honour which your valour has justly deserved.” The Knight bowed low and
gracefully, but returned no answer.

While the trumpets sounded, while the heralds strained their voices in
proclaiming honour to the brave and glory to the victor--while ladies
waved their silken kerchiefs and embroidered veils, and while all ranks
joined in a clamorous shout of exultation, the marshals conducted the
Disinherited Knight across the lists to the foot of that throne of
honour which was occupied by the Lady Rowena.

On the lower step of this throne the champion was made to kneel down.
Indeed his whole action since the fight had ended, seemed rather to have
been upon the impulse of those around him than from his own free will;
and it was observed that he tottered as they guided him the second time
across the lists. Rowena, descending from her station with a graceful
and dignified step, was about to place the chaplet which she held in her
hand upon the helmet of the champion, when the marshals exclaimed with
one voice, “It must not be thus--his head must be bare.” The knight
muttered faintly a few words, which were lost in the hollow of his
helmet, but their purport seemed to be a desire that his casque might
not be removed.

Whether from love of form, or from curiosity, the marshals paid no
attention to his expressions of reluctance, but unhelmed him by cutting
the laces of his casque, and undoing the fastening of his gorget. When
the helmet was removed, the well-formed, yet sun-burnt features of a
young man of twenty-five were seen, amidst a profusion of short fair
hair. His countenance was as pale as death, and marked in one or two
places with streaks of blood.

Rowena had no sooner beheld him than she uttered a faint shriek; but at
once summoning up the energy of her disposition, and compelling herself,
as it were, to proceed, while her frame yet trembled with the violence
of sudden emotion, she placed upon the drooping head of the victor
the splendid chaplet which was the destined reward of the day, and
pronounced, in a clear and distinct tone, these words: “I bestow on thee
this chaplet, Sir Knight, as the meed of valour assigned to this day’s
victor:” Here she paused a moment, and then firmly added, “And upon
brows more worthy could a wreath of chivalry never be placed!”

The knight stooped his head, and kissed the hand of the lovely Sovereign
by whom his valour had been rewarded; and then, sinking yet farther
forward, lay prostrate at her feet.

There was a general consternation. Cedric, who had been struck mute by
the sudden appearance of his banished son, now rushed forward, as if to
separate him from Rowena. But this had been already accomplished by the
marshals of the field, who, guessing the cause of Ivanhoe’s swoon, had
hastened to undo his armour, and found that the head of a lance had
penetrated his breastplate, and inflicted a wound in his side.




CHAPTER XIII

     “Heroes, approach!” Atrides thus aloud,
     “Stand forth distinguish’d from the circling crowd,
     Ye who by skill or manly force may claim,
     Your rivals to surpass and merit fame.
     This cow, worth twenty oxen, is decreed,
     For him who farthest sends the winged reed.”
      --Iliad

The name of Ivanhoe was no sooner pronounced than it flew from mouth
to mouth, with all the celerity with which eagerness could convey and
curiosity receive it. It was not long ere it reached the circle of the
Prince, whose brow darkened as he heard the news. Looking around him,
however, with an air of scorn, “My Lords,” said he, “and especially you,
Sir Prior, what think ye of the doctrine the learned tell us, concerning
innate attractions and antipathies? Methinks that I felt the presence
of my brother’s minion, even when I least guessed whom yonder suit of
armour enclosed.”

“Front-de-Boeuf must prepare to restore his fief of Ivanhoe,” said De
Bracy, who, having discharged his part honourably in the tournament, had
laid his shield and helmet aside, and again mingled with the Prince’s
retinue.

“Ay,” answered Waldemar Fitzurse, “this gallant is likely to reclaim
the castle and manor which Richard assigned to him, and which your
Highness’s generosity has since given to Front-de-Boeuf.”

“Front-de-Boeuf,” replied John, “is a man more willing to swallow three
manors such as Ivanhoe, than to disgorge one of them. For the rest,
sirs, I hope none here will deny my right to confer the fiefs of the
crown upon the faithful followers who are around me, and ready to
perform the usual military service, in the room of those who have
wandered to foreign Countries, and can neither render homage nor service
when called upon.”

The audience were too much interested in the question not to pronounce
the Prince’s assumed right altogether indubitable. “A generous
Prince!--a most noble Lord, who thus takes upon himself the task of
rewarding his faithful followers!”

Such were the words which burst from the train, expectants all of
them of similar grants at the expense of King Richard’s followers and
favourites, if indeed they had not as yet received such. Prior Aymer
also assented to the general proposition, observing, however, “That the
blessed Jerusalem could not indeed be termed a foreign country. She
was ‘communis mater’--the mother of all Christians. But he saw not,”
 he declared, “how the Knight of Ivanhoe could plead any advantage from
this, since he” (the Prior) “was assured that the crusaders, under
Richard, had never proceeded much farther than Askalon, which, as all
the world knew, was a town of the Philistines, and entitled to none of
the privileges of the Holy City.”

Waldemar, whose curiosity had led him towards the place where Ivanhoe
had fallen to the ground, now returned. “The gallant,” said he,
“is likely to give your Highness little disturbance, and to leave
Front-de-Boeuf in the quiet possession of his gains--he is severely
wounded.”

“Whatever becomes of him,” said Prince John, “he is victor of the day;
and were he tenfold our enemy, or the devoted friend of our brother,
which is perhaps the same, his wounds must be looked to--our own
physician shall attend him.”

A stern smile curled the Prince’s lip as he spoke. Waldemar Fitzurse
hastened to reply, that Ivanhoe was already removed from the lists, and
in the custody of his friends.

“I was somewhat afflicted,” he said, “to see the grief of the Queen of
Love and Beauty, whose sovereignty of a day this event has changed into
mourning. I am not a man to be moved by a woman’s lament for her lover,
but this same Lady Rowena suppressed her sorrow with such dignity of
manner, that it could only be discovered by her folded hands, and her
tearless eye, which trembled as it remained fixed on the lifeless form
before her.”

“Who is this Lady Rowena,” said Prince John, “of whom we have heard so
much?”

“A Saxon heiress of large possessions,” replied the Prior Aymer; “a rose
of loveliness, and a jewel of wealth; the fairest among a thousand, a
bundle of myrrh, and a cluster of camphire.”

“We shall cheer her sorrows,” said Prince John, “and amend her blood, by
wedding her to a Norman. She seems a minor, and must therefore be at our
royal disposal in marriage.--How sayst thou, De Bracy? What thinkst thou
of gaining fair lands and livings, by wedding a Saxon, after the fashion
of the followers of the Conqueror?”

“If the lands are to my liking, my lord,” answered De Bracy, “it will be
hard to displease me with a bride; and deeply will I hold myself bound
to your highness for a good deed, which will fulfil all promises made in
favour of your servant and vassal.”

“We will not forget it,” said Prince John; “and that we may instantly go
to work, command our seneschal presently to order the attendance of the
Lady Rowena and her company--that is, the rude churl her guardian, and
the Saxon ox whom the Black Knight struck down in the tournament, upon
this evening’s banquet.--De Bigot,” he added to his seneschal, “thou
wilt word this our second summons so courteously, as to gratify the
pride of these Saxons, and make it impossible for them again to refuse;
although, by the bones of Becket, courtesy to them is casting pearls
before swine.”

Prince John had proceeded thus far, and was about to give the signal for
retiring from the lists, when a small billet was put into his hand.

“From whence?” said Prince John, looking at the person by whom it was
delivered.

“From foreign parts, my lord, but from whence I know not” replied his
attendant. “A Frenchman brought it hither, who said, he had ridden night
and day to put it into the hands of your highness.”

The Prince looked narrowly at the superscription, and then at the
seal, placed so as to secure the flex-silk with which the billet was
surrounded, and which bore the impression of three fleurs-de-lis.
John then opened the billet with apparent agitation, which visibly and
greatly increased when he had perused the contents, which were expressed
in these words:

“Take heed to yourself for the Devil is unchained!”

The Prince turned as pale as death, looked first on the earth, and
then up to heaven, like a man who has received news that sentence of
execution has been passed upon him. Recovering from the first effects of
his surprise, he took Waldemar Fitzurse and De Bracy aside, and put
the billet into their hands successively. “It means,” he added, in a
faltering voice, “that my brother Richard has obtained his freedom.”

“This may be a false alarm, or a forged letter,” said De Bracy.

“It is France’s own hand and seal,” replied Prince John.

“It is time, then,” said Fitzurse, “to draw our party to a head, either
at York, or some other centrical place. A few days later, and it will be
indeed too late. Your highness must break short this present mummery.”

“The yeomen and commons,” said De Bracy, “must not be dismissed
discontented, for lack of their share in the sports.”

“The day,” said Waldemar, “is not yet very far spent--let the archers
shoot a few rounds at the target, and the prize be adjudged. This will
be an abundant fulfilment of the Prince’s promises, so far as this herd
of Saxon serfs is concerned.”

“I thank thee, Waldemar,” said the Prince; “thou remindest me, too, that
I have a debt to pay to that insolent peasant who yesterday insulted our
person. Our banquet also shall go forward to-night as we proposed. Were
this my last hour of power, it should be an hour sacred to revenge and
to pleasure--let new cares come with to-morrow’s new day.”

The sound of the trumpets soon recalled those spectators who had already
begun to leave the field; and proclamation was made that Prince John,
suddenly called by high and peremptory public duties, held himself
obliged to discontinue the entertainments of to-morrow’s festival:
Nevertheless, that, unwilling so many good yeoman should depart without
a trial of skill, he was pleased to appoint them, before leaving the
ground, presently to execute the competition of archery intended for
the morrow. To the best archer a prize was to be awarded, being a
bugle-horn, mounted with silver, and a silken baldric richly ornamented
with a medallion of St Hubert, the patron of silvan sport.

More than thirty yeomen at first presented themselves as competitors,
several of whom were rangers and under-keepers in the royal forests of
Needwood and Charnwood. When, however, the archers understood with whom
they were to be matched, upwards of twenty withdrew themselves from the
contest, unwilling to encounter the dishonour of almost certain defeat.
For in those days the skill of each celebrated marksman was as well
known for many miles round him, as the qualities of a horse trained at
Newmarket are familiar to those who frequent that well-known meeting.

The diminished list of competitors for silvan fame still amounted to
eight. Prince John stepped from his royal seat to view more nearly the
persons of these chosen yeomen, several of whom wore the royal livery.
Having satisfied his curiosity by this investigation, he looked for the
object of his resentment, whom he observed standing on the same spot,
and with the same composed countenance which he had exhibited upon the
preceding day.

“Fellow,” said Prince John, “I guessed by thy insolent babble that thou
wert no true lover of the longbow, and I see thou darest not adventure
thy skill among such merry-men as stand yonder.”

“Under favour, sir,” replied the yeoman, “I have another reason for
refraining to shoot, besides the fearing discomfiture and disgrace.”

“And what is thy other reason?” said Prince John, who, for some cause
which perhaps he could not himself have explained, felt a painful
curiosity respecting this individual.

“Because,” replied the woodsman, “I know not if these yeomen and I are
used to shoot at the same marks; and because, moreover, I know not how
your Grace might relish the winning of a third prize by one who has
unwittingly fallen under your displeasure.”

Prince John coloured as he put the question, “What is thy name, yeoman?”

“Locksley,” answered the yeoman.

“Then, Locksley,” said Prince John, “thou shalt shoot in thy turn, when
these yeomen have displayed their skill. If thou carriest the prize,
I will add to it twenty nobles; but if thou losest it, thou shalt
be stript of thy Lincoln green, and scourged out of the lists with
bowstrings, for a wordy and insolent braggart.”

“And how if I refuse to shoot on such a wager?” said the yeoman.--“Your
Grace’s power, supported, as it is, by so many men-at-arms, may indeed
easily strip and scourge me, but cannot compel me to bend or to draw my
bow.”

“If thou refusest my fair proffer,” said the Prince, “the Provost of the
lists shall cut thy bowstring, break thy bow and arrows, and expel thee
from the presence as a faint-hearted craven.”

“This is no fair chance you put on me, proud Prince,” said the yeoman,
“to compel me to peril myself against the best archers of Leicester And
Staffordshire, under the penalty of infamy if they should overshoot me.
Nevertheless, I will obey your pleasure.”

“Look to him close, men-at-arms,” said Prince John, “his heart is
sinking; I am jealous lest he attempt to escape the trial.--And do you,
good fellows, shoot boldly round; a buck and a butt of wine are ready
for your refreshment in yonder tent, when the prize is won.”

A target was placed at the upper end of the southern avenue which led
to the lists. The contending archers took their station in turn, at the
bottom of the southern access, the distance between that station and the
mark allowing full distance for what was called a shot at rovers. The
archers, having previously determined by lot their order of precedence,
were to shoot each three shafts in succession. The sports were regulated
by an officer of inferior rank, termed the Provost of the Games; for the
high rank of the marshals of the lists would have been held degraded,
had they condescended to superintend the sports of the yeomanry.

One by one the archers, stepping forward, delivered their shafts
yeomanlike and bravely. Of twenty-four arrows, shot in succession,
ten were fixed in the target, and the others ranged so near it, that,
considering the distance of the mark, it was accounted good archery. Of
the ten shafts which hit the target, two within the inner ring were shot
by Hubert, a forester in the service of Malvoisin, who was accordingly
pronounced victorious.

“Now, Locksley,” said Prince John to the bold yeoman, with a bitter
smile, “wilt thou try conclusions with Hubert, or wilt thou yield up
bow, baldric, and quiver, to the Provost of the sports?”

“Sith it be no better,” said Locksley, “I am content to try my fortune;
on condition that when I have shot two shafts at yonder mark of
Hubert’s, he shall be bound to shoot one at that which I shall propose.”

“That is but fair,” answered Prince John, “and it shall not be refused
thee.--If thou dost beat this braggart, Hubert, I will fill the bugle
with silver-pennies for thee.”

“A man can do but his best,” answered Hubert; “but my grandsire drew a
good long bow at Hastings, and I trust not to dishonour his memory.”

The former target was now removed, and a fresh one of the same size
placed in its room. Hubert, who, as victor in the first trial of skill,
had the right to shoot first, took his aim with great deliberation,
long measuring the distance with his eye, while he held in his hand his
bended bow, with the arrow placed on the string. At length he made a
step forward, and raising the bow at the full stretch of his left arm,
till the centre or grasping-place was nigh level with his face, he
drew his bowstring to his ear. The arrow whistled through the air, and
lighted within the inner ring of the target, but not exactly in the
centre.

“You have not allowed for the wind, Hubert,” said his antagonist,
bending his bow, “or that had been a better shot.”

So saying, and without showing the least anxiety to pause upon his
aim, Locksley stept to the appointed station, and shot his arrow as
carelessly in appearance as if he had not even looked at the mark. He
was speaking almost at the instant that the shaft left the bowstring,
yet it alighted in the target two inches nearer to the white spot which
marked the centre than that of Hubert.

“By the light of heaven!” said Prince John to Hubert, “an thou suffer
that runagate knave to overcome thee, thou art worthy of the gallows!”

Hubert had but one set speech for all occasions. “An your highness
were to hang me,” he said, “a man can but do his best. Nevertheless, my
grandsire drew a good bow--”

“The foul fiend on thy grandsire and all his generation!” interrupted
John, “shoot, knave, and shoot thy best, or it shall be the worse for
thee!”

Thus exhorted, Hubert resumed his place, and not neglecting the
caution which he had received from his adversary, he made the necessary
allowance for a very light air of wind, which had just arisen, and
shot so successfully that his arrow alighted in the very centre of the
target.

“A Hubert! a Hubert!” shouted the populace, more interested in a known
person than in a stranger. “In the clout!--in the clout!--a Hubert for
ever!”

“Thou canst not mend that shot, Locksley,” said the Prince, with an
insulting smile.

“I will notch his shaft for him, however,” replied Locksley.

And letting fly his arrow with a little more precaution than before, it
lighted right upon that of his competitor, which it split to shivers.
The people who stood around were so astonished at his wonderful
dexterity, that they could not even give vent to their surprise in their
usual clamour. “This must be the devil, and no man of flesh and blood,”
 whispered the yeomen to each other; “such archery was never seen since a
bow was first bent in Britain.”

“And now,” said Locksley, “I will crave your Grace’s permission to plant
such a mark as is used in the North Country; and welcome every brave
yeoman who shall try a shot at it to win a smile from the bonny lass he
loves best.”

He then turned to leave the lists. “Let your guards attend me,” he said,
“if you please--I go but to cut a rod from the next willow-bush.”

Prince John made a signal that some attendants should follow him in
case of his escape: but the cry of “Shame! shame!” which burst from the
multitude, induced him to alter his ungenerous purpose.

Locksley returned almost instantly with a willow wand about six feet in
length, perfectly straight, and rather thicker than a man’s thumb. He
began to peel this with great composure, observing at the same time,
that to ask a good woodsman to shoot at a target so broad as had
hitherto been used, was to put shame upon his skill. “For his own part,”
 he said, “and in the land where he was bred, men would as soon take for
their mark King Arthur’s round-table, which held sixty knights around
it. A child of seven years old,” he said, “might hit yonder target with
a headless shaft; but,” added he, walking deliberately to the other end
of the lists, and sticking the willow wand upright in the ground, “he
that hits that rod at five-score yards, I call him an archer fit to bear
both bow and quiver before a king, an it were the stout King Richard
himself.”

“My grandsire,” said Hubert, “drew a good bow at the battle of Hastings,
and never shot at such a mark in his life--and neither will I. If this
yeoman can cleave that rod, I give him the bucklers--or rather, I yield
to the devil that is in his jerkin, and not to any human skill; a man
can but do his best, and I will not shoot where I am sure to miss. I
might as well shoot at the edge of our parson’s whittle, or at a wheat
straw, or at a sunbeam, as at a twinkling white streak which I can
hardly see.”

“Cowardly dog!” said Prince John.--“Sirrah Locksley, do thou shoot; but,
if thou hittest such a mark, I will say thou art the first man ever
did so. However it be, thou shalt not crow over us with a mere show of
superior skill.”

“I will do my best, as Hubert says,” answered Locksley; “no man can do
more.”

So saying, he again bent his bow, but on the present occasion looked
with attention to his weapon, and changed the string, which he thought
was no longer truly round, having been a little frayed by the two former
shots. He then took his aim with some deliberation, and the multitude
awaited the event in breathless silence. The archer vindicated their
opinion of his skill: his arrow split the willow rod against which it
was aimed. A jubilee of acclamations followed; and even Prince John, in
admiration of Locksley’s skill, lost for an instant his dislike to his
person. “These twenty nobles,” he said, “which, with the bugle, thou
hast fairly won, are thine own; we will make them fifty, if thou wilt
take livery and service with us as a yeoman of our body guard, and be
near to our person. For never did so strong a hand bend a bow, or so
true an eye direct a shaft.”

“Pardon me, noble Prince,” said Locksley; “but I have vowed, that if
ever I take service, it should be with your royal brother King Richard.
These twenty nobles I leave to Hubert, who has this day drawn as brave
a bow as his grandsire did at Hastings. Had his modesty not refused the
trial, he would have hit the wand as well I.”

Hubert shook his head as he received with reluctance the bounty of the
stranger, and Locksley, anxious to escape further observation, mixed
with the crowd, and was seen no more.

The victorious archer would not perhaps have escaped John’s attention
so easily, had not that Prince had other subjects of anxious and more
important meditation pressing upon his mind at that instant. He called
upon his chamberlain as he gave the signal for retiring from the lists,
and commanded him instantly to gallop to Ashby, and seek out Isaac the
Jew. “Tell the dog,” he said, “to send me, before sun-down, two thousand
crowns. He knows the security; but thou mayst show him this ring for a
token. The rest of the money must be paid at York within six days. If
he neglects, I will have the unbelieving villain’s head. Look that thou
pass him not on the way; for the circumcised slave was displaying his
stolen finery amongst us.”

So saying, the Prince resumed his horse, and returned to Ashby, the
whole crowd breaking up and dispersing upon his retreat.




CHAPTER XIV

     In rough magnificence array’d,
     When ancient Chivalry display’d
     The pomp of her heroic games,
     And crested chiefs and tissued dames
     Assembled, at the clarion’s call,
     In some proud castle’s high arch’d hall.
     --Warton

Prince John held his high festival in the Castle of Ashby. This was
not the same building of which the stately ruins still interest the
traveller, and which was erected at a later period by the Lord Hastings,
High Chamberlain of England, one of the first victims of the tyranny
of Richard the Third, and yet better known as one of Shakspeare’s
characters than by his historical fame. The castle and town of Ashby, at
this time, belonged to Roger de Quincy, Earl of Winchester, who, during
the period of our history, was absent in the Holy Land. Prince John, in
the meanwhile, occupied his castle, and disposed of his domains without
scruple; and seeking at present to dazzle men’s eyes by his hospitality
and magnificence, had given orders for great preparations, in order to
render the banquet as splendid as possible.

The purveyors of the Prince, who exercised on this and other occasions
the full authority of royalty, had swept the country of all that could
be collected which was esteemed fit for their master’s table. Guests
also were invited in great numbers; and in the necessity in which he
then found himself of courting popularity, Prince John had extended his
invitation to a few distinguished Saxon and Danish families, as well as
to the Norman nobility and gentry of the neighbourhood. However
despised and degraded on ordinary occasions, the great numbers of
the Anglo-Saxons must necessarily render them formidable in the civil
commotions which seemed approaching, and it was an obvious point of
policy to secure popularity with their leaders.

It was accordingly the Prince’s intention, which he for some time
maintained, to treat these unwonted guests with a courtesy to which they
had been little accustomed. But although no man with less scruple
made his ordinary habits and feelings bend to his interest, it was
the misfortune of this Prince, that his levity and petulance were
perpetually breaking out, and undoing all that had been gained by his
previous dissimulation.

Of this fickle temper he gave a memorable example in Ireland, when sent
thither by his father, Henry the Second, with the purpose of buying
golden opinions of the inhabitants of that new and important acquisition
to the English crown. Upon this occasion the Irish chieftains contended
which should first offer to the young Prince their loyal homage and
the kiss of peace. But, instead of receiving their salutations with
courtesy, John and his petulant attendants could not resist the
temptation of pulling the long beards of the Irish chieftains; a
conduct which, as might have been expected, was highly resented by these
insulted dignitaries, and produced fatal consequences to the English
domination in Ireland. It is necessary to keep these inconsistencies
of John’s character in view, that the reader may understand his conduct
during the present evening.

In execution of the resolution which he had formed during his cooler
moments, Prince John received Cedric and Athelstane with distinguished
courtesy, and expressed his disappointment, without resentment, when the
indisposition of Rowena was alleged by the former as a reason for her
not attending upon his gracious summons. Cedric and Athelstane were both
dressed in the ancient Saxon garb, which, although not unhandsome in
itself, and in the present instance composed of costly materials, was
so remote in shape and appearance from that of the other guests, that
Prince John took great credit to himself with Waldemar Fitzurse for
refraining from laughter at a sight which the fashion of the day
rendered ridiculous. Yet, in the eye of sober judgment, the short close
tunic and long mantle of the Saxons was a more graceful, as well as a
more convenient dress, than the garb of the Normans, whose under garment
was a long doublet, so loose as to resemble a shirt or waggoner’s frock,
covered by a cloak of scanty dimensions, neither fit to defend the
wearer from cold or from rain, and the only purpose of which appeared
to be to display as much fur, embroidery, and jewellery work, as the
ingenuity of the tailor could contrive to lay upon it. The Emperor
Charlemagne, in whose reign they were first introduced, seems to have
been very sensible of the inconveniences arising from the fashion of
this garment. “In Heaven’s name,” said he, “to what purpose serve these
abridged cloaks? If we are in bed they are no cover, on horseback they
are no protection from the wind and rain, and when seated, they do not
guard our legs from the damp or the frost.”

Nevertheless, spite of this imperial objurgation, the short cloaks
continued in fashion down to the time of which we treat, and
particularly among the princes of the House of Anjou. They were
therefore in universal use among Prince John’s courtiers; and the
long mantle, which formed the upper garment of the Saxons, was held in
proportional derision.

The guests were seated at a table which groaned under the quantity of
good cheer. The numerous cooks who attended on the Prince’s progress,
having exerted all their art in varying the forms in which the ordinary
provisions were served up, had succeeded almost as well as the modern
professors of the culinary art in rendering them perfectly unlike their
natural appearance. Besides these dishes of domestic origin, there were
various delicacies brought from foreign parts, and a quantity of rich
pastry, as well as of the simnel-bread and wastle cakes, which were only
used at the tables of the highest nobility. The banquet was crowned with
the richest wines, both foreign and domestic.

But, though luxurious, the Norman nobles were not generally speaking
an intemperate race. While indulging themselves in the pleasures of
the table, they aimed at delicacy, but avoided excess, and were apt to
attribute gluttony and drunkenness to the vanquished Saxons, as vices
peculiar to their inferior station. Prince John, indeed, and those who
courted his pleasure by imitating his foibles, were apt to indulge to
excess in the pleasures of the trencher and the goblet; and indeed it is
well known that his death was occasioned by a surfeit upon peaches and
new ale. His conduct, however, was an exception to the general manners
of his countrymen.

With sly gravity, interrupted only by private signs to each other, the
Norman knights and nobles beheld the ruder demeanour of Athelstane
and Cedric at a banquet, to the form and fashion of which they were
unaccustomed. And while their manners were thus the subject of sarcastic
observation, the untaught Saxons unwittingly transgressed several of the
arbitrary rules established for the regulation of society. Now, it is
well known, that a man may with more impunity be guilty of an actual
breach either of real good breeding or of good morals, than appear
ignorant of the most minute point of fashionable etiquette. Thus Cedric,
who dried his hands with a towel, instead of suffering the moisture to
exhale by waving them gracefully in the air, incurred more ridicule than
his companion Athelstane, when he swallowed to his own single share
the whole of a large pasty composed of the most exquisite foreign
delicacies, and termed at that time a “Karum-Pie”. When, however, it
was discovered, by a serious cross-examination, that the Thane of
Coningsburgh (or Franklin, as the Normans termed him) had no idea
what he had been devouring, and that he had taken the contents of the
Karum-pie for larks and pigeons, whereas they were in fact beccaficoes
and nightingales, his ignorance brought him in for an ample share of the
ridicule which would have been more justly bestowed on his gluttony.

The long feast had at length its end; and, while the goblet circulated
freely, men talked of the feats of the preceding tournament,--of
the unknown victor in the archery games, of the Black Knight, whose
self-denial had induced him to withdraw from the honours he had
won,--and of the gallant Ivanhoe, who had so dearly bought the honours
of the day. The topics were treated with military frankness, and the
jest and laugh went round the hall. The brow of Prince John alone was
overclouded during these discussions; some overpowering care seemed
agitating his mind, and it was only when he received occasional hints
from his attendants, that he seemed to take interest in what was passing
around him. On such occasions he would start up, quaff a cup of wine
as if to raise his spirits, and then mingle in the conversation by some
observation made abruptly or at random.

“We drink this beaker,” said he, “to the health of Wilfred of Ivanhoe,
champion of this Passage of Arms, and grieve that his wound renders him
absent from our board--Let all fill to the pledge, and especially Cedric
of Rotherwood, the worthy father of a son so promising.”

“No, my lord,” replied Cedric, standing up, and placing on the table his
untasted cup, “I yield not the name of son to the disobedient youth, who
at once despises my commands, and relinquishes the manners and customs
of his fathers.”

“‘Tis impossible,” cried Prince John, with well-feigned astonishment,
“that so gallant a knight should be an unworthy or disobedient son!”

“Yet, my lord,” answered Cedric, “so it is with this Wilfred. He left my
homely dwelling to mingle with the gay nobility of your brother’s court,
where he learned to do those tricks of horsemanship which you prize so
highly. He left it contrary to my wish and command; and in the days
of Alfred that would have been termed disobedience--ay, and a crime
severely punishable.”

“Alas!” replied Prince John, with a deep sigh of affected sympathy,
“since your son was a follower of my unhappy brother, it need not
be enquired where or from whom he learned the lesson of filial
disobedience.”

Thus spake Prince John, wilfully forgetting, that of all the sons of
Henry the Second, though no one was free from the charge, he himself had
been most distinguished for rebellion and ingratitude to his father.

“I think,” said he, after a moment’s pause, “that my brother proposed to
confer upon his favourite the rich manor of Ivanhoe.”

“He did endow him with it,” answered Cedric; “nor is it my least quarrel
with my son, that he stooped to hold, as a feudal vassal, the very
domains which his fathers possessed in free and independent right.”

“We shall then have your willing sanction, good Cedric,” said Prince
John, “to confer this fief upon a person whose dignity will not
be diminished by holding land of the British crown.--Sir Reginald
Front-de-Boeuf,” he said, turning towards that Baron, “I trust you will
so keep the goodly Barony of Ivanhoe, that Sir Wilfred shall not incur
his father’s farther displeasure by again entering upon that fief.”

“By St Anthony!” answered the black-brow’d giant, “I will consent that
your highness shall hold me a Saxon, if either Cedric or Wilfred, or the
best that ever bore English blood, shall wrench from me the gift with
which your highness has graced me.”

“Whoever shall call thee Saxon, Sir Baron,” replied Cedric, offended
at a mode of expression by which the Normans frequently expressed their
habitual contempt of the English, “will do thee an honour as great as it
is undeserved.”

Front-de-Boeuf would have replied, but Prince John’s petulance and
levity got the start.

“Assuredly,” said be, “my lords, the noble Cedric speaks truth; and
his race may claim precedence over us as much in the length of their
pedigrees as in the longitude of their cloaks.”

“They go before us indeed in the field--as deer before dogs,” said
Malvoisin.

“And with good right may they go before us--forget not,” said the Prior
Aymer, “the superior decency and decorum of their manners.”

“Their singular abstemiousness and temperance,” said De Bracy,
forgetting the plan which promised him a Saxon bride.

“Together with the courage and conduct,” said Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
“by which they distinguished themselves at Hastings and elsewhere.”

While, with smooth and smiling cheek, the courtiers, each in turn,
followed their Prince’s example, and aimed a shaft of ridicule at
Cedric, the face of the Saxon became inflamed with passion, and
he glanced his eyes fiercely from one to another, as if the quick
succession of so many injuries had prevented his replying to them in
turn; or, like a baited bull, who, surrounded by his tormentors, is at
a loss to choose from among them the immediate object of his revenge.
At length he spoke, in a voice half choked with passion; and, addressing
himself to Prince John as the head and front of the offence which he had
received, “Whatever,” he said, “have been the follies and vices of our
race, a Saxon would have been held ‘nidering’,” [21] (the most emphatic
term for abject worthlessness,) “who should in his own hall, and while
his own wine-cup passed, have treated, or suffered to be treated, an
unoffending guest as your highness has this day beheld me used; and
whatever was the misfortune of our fathers on the field of Hastings,
those may at least be silent,” here he looked at Front-de-Boeuf and the
Templar, “who have within these few hours once and again lost saddle and
stirrup before the lance of a Saxon.”

“By my faith, a biting jest!” said Prince John. “How like you it,
sirs?--Our Saxon subjects rise in spirit and courage; become shrewd
in wit, and bold in bearing, in these unsettled times--What say ye,
my lords?--By this good light, I hold it best to take our galleys, and
return to Normandy in time.”

“For fear of the Saxons?” said De Bracy, laughing; “we should need no
weapon but our hunting spears to bring these boars to bay.”

“A truce with your raillery, Sir Knights,” said Fitzurse;--“and it
were well,” he added, addressing the Prince, “that your highness should
assure the worthy Cedric there is no insult intended him by jests, which
must sound but harshly in the ear of a stranger.”

“Insult?” answered Prince John, resuming his courtesy of demeanour; “I
trust it will not be thought that I could mean, or permit any, to be
offered in my presence. Here! I fill my cup to Cedric himself, since he
refuses to pledge his son’s health.”

The cup went round amid the well-dissembled applause of the courtiers,
which, however, failed to make the impression on the mind of the Saxon
that had been designed. He was not naturally acute of perception,
but those too much undervalued his understanding who deemed that this
flattering compliment would obliterate the sense of the prior insult. He
was silent, however, when the royal pledge again passed round, “To Sir
Athelstane of Coningsburgh.”

The knight made his obeisance, and showed his sense of the honour by
draining a huge goblet in answer to it.

“And now, sirs,” said Prince John, who began to be warmed with the wine
which he had drank, “having done justice to our Saxon guests, we
will pray of them some requital to our courtesy.--Worthy Thane,” he
continued, addressing Cedric, “may we pray you to name to us some Norman
whose mention may least sully your mouth, and to wash down with a goblet
of wine all bitterness which the sound may leave behind it?”

Fitzurse arose while Prince John spoke, and gliding behind the seat of
the Saxon, whispered to him not to omit the opportunity of putting an
end to unkindness betwixt the two races, by naming Prince John. The
Saxon replied not to this politic insinuation, but, rising up, and
filling his cup to the brim, he addressed Prince John in these words:
“Your highness has required that I should name a Norman deserving to
be remembered at our banquet. This, perchance, is a hard task, since
it calls on the slave to sing the praises of the master--upon the
vanquished, while pressed by all the evils of conquest, to sing the
praises of the conqueror. Yet I will name a Norman--the first in arms
and in place--the best and the noblest of his race. And the lips that
shall refuse to pledge me to his well-earned fame, I term false and
dishonoured, and will so maintain them with my life.--I quaff this
goblet to the health of Richard the Lion-hearted!”

Prince John, who had expected that his own name would have closed
the Saxon’s speech, started when that of his injured brother was so
unexpectedly introduced. He raised mechanically the wine-cup to his
lips, then instantly set it down, to view the demeanour of the company
at this unexpected proposal, which many of them felt it as unsafe
to oppose as to comply with. Some of them, ancient and experienced
courtiers, closely imitated the example of the Prince himself, raising
the goblet to their lips, and again replacing it before them. There
were many who, with a more generous feeling, exclaimed, “Long live King
Richard! and may he be speedily restored to us!” And some few, among
whom were Front-de-Boeuf and the Templar, in sullen disdain suffered
their goblets to stand untasted before them. But no man ventured
directly to gainsay a pledge filled to the health of the reigning
monarch.

Having enjoyed his triumph for about a minute, Cedric said to his
companion, “Up, noble Athelstane! we have remained here long enough,
since we have requited the hospitable courtesy of Prince John’s banquet.
Those who wish to know further of our rude Saxon manners must henceforth
seek us in the homes of our fathers, since we have seen enough of royal
banquets, and enough of Norman courtesy.”

So saying, he arose and left the banqueting room, followed by
Athelstane, and by several other guests, who, partaking of the Saxon
lineage, held themselves insulted by the sarcasms of Prince John and his
courtiers.

“By the bones of St Thomas,” said Prince John, as they retreated, “the
Saxon churls have borne off the best of the day, and have retreated with
triumph!”

“‘Conclamatum est, poculatum est’,” said Prior Aymer; “we have drunk and
we have shouted,--it were time we left our wine flagons.”

“The monk hath some fair penitent to shrive to-night, that he is in such
a hurry to depart,” said De Bracy.

“Not so, Sir Knight,” replied the Abbot; “but I must move several miles
forward this evening upon my homeward journey.”

“They are breaking up,” said the Prince in a whisper to Fitzurse; “their
fears anticipate the event, and this coward Prior is the first to shrink
from me.”

“Fear not, my lord,” said Waldemar; “I will show him such reasons as
shall induce him to join us when we hold our meeting at York.--Sir
Prior,” he said, “I must speak with you in private, before you mount
your palfrey.”

The other guests were now fast dispersing, with the exception of those
immediately attached to Prince John’s faction, and his retinue.

“This, then, is the result of your advice,” said the Prince, turning
an angry countenance upon Fitzurse; “that I should be bearded at my
own board by a drunken Saxon churl, and that, on the mere sound of my
brother’s name, men should fall off from me as if I had the leprosy?”

“Have patience, sir,” replied his counsellor; “I might retort your
accusation, and blame the inconsiderate levity which foiled my
design, and misled your own better judgment. But this is no time for
recrimination. De Bracy and I will instantly go among these shuffling
cowards, and convince them they have gone too far to recede.”

“It will be in vain,” said Prince John, pacing the apartment with
disordered steps, and expressing himself with an agitation to which the
wine he had drank partly contributed--“It will be in vain--they have
seen the handwriting on the wall--they have marked the paw of the
lion in the sand--they have heard his approaching roar shake the
wood--nothing will reanimate their courage.”

“Would to God,” said Fitzurse to De Bracy, “that aught could reanimate
his own! His brother’s very name is an ague to him. Unhappy are the
counsellors of a Prince, who wants fortitude and perseverance alike in
good and in evil!”




CHAPTER XV

     And yet he thinks,--ha, ha, ha, ha,--he thinks
     I am the tool and servant of his will.
     Well, let it be; through all the maze of trouble
     His plots and base oppression must create,
     I’ll shape myself a way to higher things,
     And who will say ‘tis wrong?
     --Basil, a Tragedy

No spider ever took more pains to repair the shattered meshes of his
web, than did Waldemar Fitzurse to reunite and combine the scattered
members of Prince John’s cabal. Few of these were attached to him from
inclination, and none from personal regard. It was therefore necessary,
that Fitzurse should open to them new prospects of advantage, and remind
them of those which they at present enjoyed. To the young and wild
nobles, he held out the prospect of unpunished license and uncontrolled
revelry; to the ambitious, that of power, and to the covetous, that of
increased wealth and extended domains. The leaders of the mercenaries
received a donation in gold; an argument the most persuasive to their
minds, and without which all others would have proved in vain. Promises
were still more liberally distributed than money by this active agent;
and, in fine, nothing was left undone that could determine the wavering,
or animate the disheartened. The return of King Richard he spoke of
as an event altogether beyond the reach of probability; yet, when
he observed, from the doubtful looks and uncertain answers which he
received, that this was the apprehension by which the minds of his
accomplices were most haunted, he boldly treated that event, should
it really take place, as one which ought not to alter their political
calculations.

“If Richard returns,” said Fitzurse, “he returns to enrich his needy and
impoverished crusaders at the expense of those who did not follow him
to the Holy Land. He returns to call to a fearful reckoning, those who,
during his absence, have done aught that can be construed offence or
encroachment upon either the laws of the land or the privileges of
the crown. He returns to avenge upon the Orders of the Temple and the
Hospital, the preference which they showed to Philip of France during
the wars in the Holy Land. He returns, in fine, to punish as a rebel
every adherent of his brother Prince John. Are ye afraid of his power?”
 continued the artful confident of that Prince, “we acknowledge him a
strong and valiant knight; but these are not the days of King Arthur,
when a champion could encounter an army. If Richard indeed comes back,
it must be alone,--unfollowed--unfriended. The bones of his gallant army
have whitened the sands of Palestine. The few of his followers who have
returned have straggled hither like this Wilfred of Ivanhoe, beggared
and broken men.--And what talk ye of Richard’s right of birth?” he
proceeded, in answer to those who objected scruples on that head. “Is
Richard’s title of primogeniture more decidedly certain than that of
Duke Robert of Normandy, the Conqueror’s eldest son? And yet William
the Red, and Henry, his second and third brothers, were successively
preferred to him by the voice of the nation, Robert had every merit
which can be pleaded for Richard; he was a bold knight, a good leader,
generous to his friends and to the church, and, to crown the whole, a
crusader and a conqueror of the Holy Sepulchre; and yet he died a blind
and miserable prisoner in the Castle of Cardiff, because he opposed
himself to the will of the people, who chose that he should not rule
over them. It is our right,” he said, “to choose from the blood royal
the prince who is best qualified to hold the supreme power--that is,”
 said he, correcting himself, “him whose election will best promote the
interests of the nobility. In personal qualifications,” he added, “it
was possible that Prince John might be inferior to his brother Richard;
but when it was considered that the latter returned with the sword of
vengeance in his hand, while the former held out rewards, immunities,
privileges, wealth, and honours, it could not be doubted which was the
king whom in wisdom the nobility were called on to support.”

These, and many more arguments, some adapted to the peculiar
circumstances of those whom he addressed, had the expected weight with
the nobles of Prince John’s faction. Most of them consented to attend
the proposed meeting at York, for the purpose of making general
arrangements for placing the crown upon the head of Prince John.

It was late at night, when, worn out and exhausted with his various
exertions, however gratified with the result, Fitzurse, returning to
the Castle of Ashby, met with De Bracy, who had exchanged his banqueting
garments for a short green kirtle, with hose of the same cloth and
colour, a leathern cap or head-piece, a short sword, a horn slung over
his shoulder, a long bow in his hand, and a bundle of arrows stuck in
his belt. Had Fitzurse met this figure in an outer apartment, he would
have passed him without notice, as one of the yeomen of the guard; but
finding him in the inner hall, he looked at him with more attention, and
recognised the Norman knight in the dress of an English yeoman.

“What mummery is this, De Bracy?” said Fitzurse, somewhat angrily; “is
this a time for Christmas gambols and quaint maskings, when the fate of
our master, Prince John, is on the very verge of decision? Why hast thou
not been, like me, among these heartless cravens, whom the very name
of King Richard terrifies, as it is said to do the children of the
Saracens?”

“I have been attending to mine own business,” answered De Bracy calmly,
“as you, Fitzurse, have been minding yours.”

“I minding mine own business!” echoed Waldemar; “I have been engaged in
that of Prince John, our joint patron.”

“As if thou hadst any other reason for that, Waldemar,” said De Bracy,
“than the promotion of thine own individual interest? Come, Fitzurse,
we know each other--ambition is thy pursuit, pleasure is mine, and they
become our different ages. Of Prince John thou thinkest as I do; that
he is too weak to be a determined monarch, too tyrannical to be an easy
monarch, too insolent and presumptuous to be a popular monarch, and too
fickle and timid to be long a monarch of any kind. But he is a monarch
by whom Fitzurse and De Bracy hope to rise and thrive; and therefore you
aid him with your policy, and I with the lances of my Free Companions.”

“A hopeful auxiliary,” said Fitzurse impatiently; “playing the fool in
the very moment of utter necessity.--What on earth dost thou purpose by
this absurd disguise at a moment so urgent?”

“To get me a wife,” answered De Bracy coolly, “after the manner of the
tribe of Benjamin.”

“The tribe of Benjamin?” said Fitzurse; “I comprehend thee not.”

“Wert thou not in presence yester-even,” said De Bracy, “when we heard
the Prior Aymer tell us a tale in reply to the romance which was sung by
the Minstrel?--He told how, long since in Palestine, a deadly feud arose
between the tribe of Benjamin and the rest of the Israelitish nation;
and how they cut to pieces well-nigh all the chivalry of that tribe; and
how they swore by our blessed Lady, that they would not permit those
who remained to marry in their lineage; and how they became grieved for
their vow, and sent to consult his holiness the Pope how they might be
absolved from it; and how, by the advice of the Holy Father, the youth
of the tribe of Benjamin carried off from a superb tournament all the
ladies who were there present, and thus won them wives without the
consent either of their brides or their brides’ families.”

“I have heard the story,” said Fitzurse, “though either the Prior or
thou has made some singular alterations in date and circumstances.”

“I tell thee,” said De Bracy, “that I mean to purvey me a wife after the
fashion of the tribe of Benjamin; which is as much as to say, that in
this same equipment I will fall upon that herd of Saxon bullocks, who
have this night left the castle, and carry off from them the lovely
Rowena.”

“Art thou mad, De Bracy?” said Fitzurse. “Bethink thee that, though the
men be Saxons, they are rich and powerful, and regarded with the more
respect by their countrymen, that wealth and honour are but the lot of
few of Saxon descent.”

“And should belong to none,” said De Bracy; “the work of the Conquest
should be completed.”

“This is no time for it at least,” said Fitzurse “the approaching crisis
renders the favour of the multitude indispensable, and Prince John
cannot refuse justice to any one who injures their favourites.”

“Let him grant it, if he dare,” said De Bracy; “he will soon see the
difference betwixt the support of such a lusty lot of spears as mine,
and that of a heartless mob of Saxon churls. Yet I mean no immediate
discovery of myself. Seem I not in this garb as bold a forester as ever
blew horn? The blame of the violence shall rest with the outlaws of the
Yorkshire forests. I have sure spies on the Saxon’s motions--To-night
they sleep in the convent of Saint Wittol, or Withold, or whatever they
call that churl of a Saxon Saint at Burton-on-Trent. Next day’s march
brings them within our reach, and, falcon-ways, we swoop on them
at once. Presently after I will appear in mine own shape, play the
courteous knight, rescue the unfortunate and afflicted fair one from the
hands of the rude ravishers, conduct her to Front-de-Boeuf’s Castle, or
to Normandy, if it should be necessary, and produce her not again to her
kindred until she be the bride and dame of Maurice de Bracy.”

“A marvellously sage plan,” said Fitzurse, “and, as I think, not
entirely of thine own device.--Come, be frank, De Bracy, who aided
thee in the invention? and who is to assist in the execution? for, as I
think, thine own band lies as far off as York.”

“Marry, if thou must needs know,” said De Bracy, “it was the Templar
Brian de Bois-Guilbert that shaped out the enterprise, which the
adventure of the men of Benjamin suggested to me. He is to aid me in
the onslaught, and he and his followers will personate the outlaws, from
whom my valorous arm is, after changing my garb, to rescue the lady.”

“By my halidome,” said Fitzurse, “the plan was worthy of your united
wisdom! and thy prudence, De Bracy, is most especially manifested in the
project of leaving the lady in the hands of thy worthy confederate. Thou
mayst, I think, succeed in taking her from her Saxon friends, but how
thou wilt rescue her afterwards from the clutches of Bois-Guilbert seems
considerably more doubtful--He is a falcon well accustomed to pounce on
a partridge, and to hold his prey fast.”

“He is a Templar,” said De Bracy, “and cannot therefore rival me in
my plan of wedding this heiress;--and to attempt aught dishonourable
against the intended bride of De Bracy--By Heaven! were he a whole
Chapter of his Order in his single person, he dared not do me such an
injury!”

“Then since nought that I can say,” said Fitzurse, “will put this
folly from thy imagination, (for well I know the obstinacy of thy
disposition,) at least waste as little time as possible--let not thy
folly be lasting as well as untimely.”

“I tell thee,” answered De Bracy, “that it will be the work of a few
hours, and I shall be at York--at the head of my daring and valorous
fellows, as ready to support any bold design as thy policy can be to
form one.--But I hear my comrades assembling, and the steeds stamping
and neighing in the outer court.--Farewell.--I go, like a true knight,
to win the smiles of beauty.”

“Like a true knight?” repeated Fitzurse, looking after him; “like a
fool, I should say, or like a child, who will leave the most serious and
needful occupation, to chase the down of the thistle that drives
past him.--But it is with such tools that I must work;--and for whose
advantage?--For that of a Prince as unwise as he is profligate, and as
likely to be an ungrateful master as he has already proved a rebellious
son and an unnatural brother.--But he--he, too, is but one of the tools
with which I labour; and, proud as he is, should he presume to separate
his interest from mine, this is a secret which he shall soon learn.”

The meditations of the statesman were here interrupted by the voice
of the Prince from an interior apartment, calling out, “Noble Waldemar
Fitzurse!” and, with bonnet doffed, the future Chancellor (for to such
high preferment did the wily Norman aspire) hastened to receive the
orders of the future sovereign.




CHAPTER XVI

     Far in a wild, unknown to public view,
     From youth to age a reverend hermit grew;
     The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
     His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well
     Remote from man, with God he pass’d his days,
     Prayer all his business--all his pleasure praise.
     --Parnell

The reader cannot have forgotten that the event of the tournament was
decided by the exertions of an unknown knight, whom, on account of the
passive and indifferent conduct which he had manifested on the former
part of the day, the spectators had entitled, “Le Noir Faineant”. This
knight had left the field abruptly when the victory was achieved; and
when he was called upon to receive the reward of his valour, he was
nowhere to be found. In the meantime, while summoned by heralds and
by trumpets, the knight was holding his course northward, avoiding all
frequented paths, and taking the shortest road through the woodlands.
He paused for the night at a small hostelry lying out of the ordinary
route, where, however, he obtained from a wandering minstrel news of the
event of the tourney.

On the next morning the knight departed early, with the intention
of making a long journey; the condition of his horse, which he had
carefully spared during the preceding morning, being such as enabled him
to travel far without the necessity of much repose. Yet his purpose was
baffled by the devious paths through which he rode, so that when evening
closed upon him, he only found himself on the frontiers of the
West Riding of Yorkshire. By this time both horse and man required
refreshment, and it became necessary, moreover, to look out for
some place in which they might spend the night, which was now fast
approaching.

The place where the traveller found himself seemed unpropitious for
obtaining either shelter or refreshment, and he was likely to be reduced
to the usual expedient of knights-errant, who, on such occasions, turned
their horses to graze, and laid themselves down to meditate on their
lady-mistress, with an oak-tree for a canopy. But the Black Knight
either had no mistress to meditate upon, or, being as indifferent
in love as he seemed to be in war, was not sufficiently occupied by
passionate reflections upon her beauty and cruelty, to be able to
parry the effects of fatigue and hunger, and suffer love to act as
a substitute for the solid comforts of a bed and supper. He felt
dissatisfied, therefore, when, looking around, he found himself deeply
involved in woods, through which indeed there were many open glades,
and some paths, but such as seemed only formed by the numerous herds of
cattle which grazed in the forest, or by the animals of chase, and the
hunters who made prey of them.

The sun, by which the knight had chiefly directed his course, had now
sunk behind the Derbyshire hills on his left, and every effort which he
might make to pursue his journey was as likely to lead him out of his
road as to advance him on his route. After having in vain endeavoured
to select the most beaten path, in hopes it might lead to the cottage of
some herdsman, or the silvan lodge of a forester, and having repeatedly
found himself totally unable to determine on a choice, the knight
resolved to trust to the sagacity of his horse; experience having,
on former occasions, made him acquainted with the wonderful talent
possessed by these animals for extricating themselves and their riders
on such emergencies.

The good steed, grievously fatigued with so long a day’s journey under
a rider cased in mail, had no sooner found, by the slackened reins,
that he was abandoned to his own guidance, than he seemed to assume new
strength and spirit; and whereas, formerly he had scarce replied to the
spur, otherwise than by a groan, he now, as if proud of the confidence
reposed in him, pricked up his ears, and assumed, of his own accord, a
more lively motion. The path which the animal adopted rather turned off
from the course pursued by the knight during the day; but as the horse
seemed confident in his choice, the rider abandoned himself to his
discretion.

He was justified by the event; for the footpath soon after appeared
a little wider and more worn, and the tinkle of a small bell gave the
knight to understand that he was in the vicinity of some chapel or
hermitage.

Accordingly, he soon reached an open plat of turf, on the opposite side
of which, a rock, rising abruptly from a gently sloping plain, offered
its grey and weatherbeaten front to the traveller. Ivy mantled its sides
in some places, and in others oaks and holly bushes, whose roots found
nourishment in the cliffs of the crag, waved over the precipices below,
like the plumage of the warrior over his steel helmet, giving grace to
that whose chief expression was terror. At the bottom of the rock,
and leaning, as it were, against it, was constructed a rude hut, built
chiefly of the trunks of trees felled in the neighbouring forest, and
secured against the weather by having its crevices stuffed with moss
mingled with clay. The stem of a young fir-tree lopped of its branches,
with a piece of wood tied across near the top, was planted upright by
the door, as a rude emblem of the holy cross. At a little distance on
the right hand, a fountain of the purest water trickled out of the
rock, and was received in a hollow stone, which labour had formed into a
rustic basin. Escaping from thence, the stream murmured down the descent
by a channel which its course had long worn, and so wandered through the
little plain to lose itself in the neighbouring wood.

Beside this fountain were the ruins of a very small chapel, of which
the roof had partly fallen in. The building, when entire, had never been
above sixteen feet long by twelve feet in breadth, and the roof, low
in proportion, rested upon four concentric arches which sprung from
the four corners of the building, each supported upon a short and heavy
pillar. The ribs of two of these arches remained, though the roof
had fallen down betwixt them; over the others it remained entire. The
entrance to this ancient place of devotion was under a very low round
arch, ornamented by several courses of that zig-zag moulding, resembling
shark’s teeth, which appears so often in the more ancient Saxon
architecture. A belfry rose above the porch on four small pillars,
within which hung the green and weatherbeaten bell, the feeble sounds of
which had been some time before heard by the Black Knight.

The whole peaceful and quiet scene lay glimmering in twilight before
the eyes of the traveller, giving him good assurance of lodging for the
night; since it was a special duty of those hermits who dwelt in
the woods, to exercise hospitality towards benighted or bewildered
passengers.

Accordingly, the knight took no time to consider minutely the
particulars which we have detailed, but thanking Saint Julian (the
patron of travellers) who had sent him good harbourage, he leaped from
his horse and assailed the door of the hermitage with the butt of his
lance, in order to arouse attention and gain admittance.

It was some time before he obtained any answer, and the reply, when
made, was unpropitious.

“Pass on, whosoever thou art,” was the answer given by a deep hoarse
voice from within the hut, “and disturb not the servant of God and St
Dunstan in his evening devotions.”

“Worthy father,” answered the knight, “here is a poor wanderer
bewildered in these woods, who gives thee the opportunity of exercising
thy charity and hospitality.”

“Good brother,” replied the inhabitant of the hermitage, “it has pleased
Our Lady and St Dunstan to destine me for the object of those virtues,
instead of the exercise thereof. I have no provisions here which even a
dog would share with me, and a horse of any tenderness of nurture would
despise my couch--pass therefore on thy way, and God speed thee.”

“But how,” replied the knight, “is it possible for me to find my way
through such a wood as this, when darkness is coming on? I pray you,
reverend father as you are a Christian, to undo your door, and at least
point out to me my road.”

“And I pray you, good Christian brother,” replied the anchorite, “to
disturb me no more. You have already interrupted one ‘pater’, two
‘aves’, and a ‘credo’, which I, miserable sinner that I am, should,
according to my vow, have said before moonrise.”

“The road--the road!” vociferated the knight, “give me directions for
the road, if I am to expect no more from thee.”

“The road,” replied the hermit, “is easy to hit. The path from the wood
leads to a morass, and from thence to a ford, which, as the rains have
abated, may now be passable. When thou hast crossed the ford, thou
wilt take care of thy footing up the left bank, as it is somewhat
precipitous; and the path, which hangs over the river, has lately, as I
learn, (for I seldom leave the duties of my chapel,) given way in sundry
places. Thou wilt then keep straight forward---”

“A broken path--a precipice--a ford, and a morass!” said the knight
interrupting him,--“Sir Hermit, if you were the holiest that ever wore
beard or told bead, you shall scarce prevail on me to hold this road
to-night. I tell thee, that thou, who livest by the charity of the
country--ill deserved, as I doubt it is--hast no right to refuse shelter
to the wayfarer when in distress. Either open the door quickly, or, by
the rood, I will beat it down and make entry for myself.”

“Friend wayfarer,” replied the hermit, “be not importunate; if thou
puttest me to use the carnal weapon in mine own defence, it will be e’en
the worse for you.”

At this moment a distant noise of barking and growling, which the
traveller had for some time heard, became extremely loud and furious,
and made the knight suppose that the hermit, alarmed by his threat of
making forcible entry, had called the dogs who made this clamour to
aid him in his defence, out of some inner recess in which they had been
kennelled. Incensed at this preparation on the hermit’s part for making
good his inhospitable purpose, the knight struck the door so furiously
with his foot, that posts as well as staples shook with violence.

The anchorite, not caring again to expose his door to a similar shock,
now called out aloud, “Patience, patience--spare thy strength, good
traveller, and I will presently undo the door, though, it may be, my
doing so will be little to thy pleasure.”

The door accordingly was opened; and the hermit, a large, strong-built
man, in his sackcloth gown and hood, girt with a rope of rushes, stood
before the knight. He had in one hand a lighted torch, or link, and in
the other a baton of crab-tree, so thick and heavy, that it might well
be termed a club. Two large shaggy dogs, half greyhound half mastiff,
stood ready to rush upon the traveller as soon as the door should be
opened. But when the torch glanced upon the lofty crest and golden spurs
of the knight, who stood without, the hermit, altering probably his
original intentions, repressed the rage of his auxiliaries, and,
changing his tone to a sort of churlish courtesy, invited the knight
to enter his hut, making excuse for his unwillingness to open his lodge
after sunset, by alleging the multitude of robbers and outlaws who were
abroad, and who gave no honour to Our Lady or St Dunstan, nor to those
holy men who spent life in their service.

“The poverty of your cell, good father,” said the knight, looking around
him, and seeing nothing but a bed of leaves, a crucifix rudely carved
in oak, a missal, with a rough-hewn table and two stools, and one or two
clumsy articles of furniture--“the poverty of your cell should seem a
sufficient defence against any risk of thieves, not to mention the aid
of two trusty dogs, large and strong enough, I think, to pull down a
stag, and of course, to match with most men.”

“The good keeper of the forest,” said the hermit, “hath allowed me
the use of these animals, to protect my solitude until the times shall
mend.”

Having said this, he fixed his torch in a twisted branch of iron which
served for a candlestick; and, placing the oaken trivet before the
embers of the fire, which he refreshed with some dry wood, he placed a
stool upon one side of the table, and beckoned to the knight to do the
same upon the other.

They sat down, and gazed with great gravity at each other, each thinking
in his heart that he had seldom seen a stronger or more athletic figure
than was placed opposite to him.

“Reverend hermit,” said the knight, after looking long and fixedly at
his host, “were it not to interrupt your devout meditations, I would
pray to know three things of your holiness; first, where I am to put my
horse?--secondly, what I can have for supper?--thirdly, where I am to
take up my couch for the night?”

“I will reply to you,” said the hermit, “with my finger, it being
against my rule to speak by words where signs can answer the purpose.”
 So saying, he pointed successively to two corners of the hut. “Your
stable,” said he, “is there--your bed there; and,” reaching down a
platter with two handfuls of parched pease upon it from the neighbouring
shelf, and placing it upon the table, he added, “your supper is here.”

The knight shrugged his shoulders, and leaving the hut, brought in his
horse, (which in the interim he had fastened to a tree,) unsaddled him
with much attention, and spread upon the steed’s weary back his own
mantle.

The hermit was apparently somewhat moved to compassion by the anxiety as
well as address which the stranger displayed in tending his horse; for,
muttering something about provender left for the keeper’s palfrey, he
dragged out of a recess a bundle of forage, which he spread before the
knight’s charger, and immediately afterwards shook down a quantity of
dried fern in the corner which he had assigned for the rider’s couch.
The knight returned him thanks for his courtesy; and, this duty done,
both resumed their seats by the table, whereon stood the trencher of
pease placed between them. The hermit, after a long grace, which had
once been Latin, but of which original language few traces remained,
excepting here and there the long rolling termination of some word or
phrase, set example to his guest, by modestly putting into a very large
mouth, furnished with teeth which might have ranked with those of a
boar both in sharpness and whiteness, some three or four dried pease, a
miserable grist as it seemed for so large and able a mill.

The knight, in order to follow so laudable an example, laid aside his
helmet, his corslet, and the greater part of his armour, and showed to
the hermit a head thick-curled with yellow hair, high features, blue
eyes, remarkably bright and sparkling, a mouth well formed, having an
upper lip clothed with mustachoes darker than his hair, and bearing
altogether the look of a bold, daring, and enterprising man, with which
his strong form well corresponded.

The hermit, as if wishing to answer to the confidence of his guest,
threw back his cowl, and showed a round bullet head belonging to a man
in the prime of life. His close-shaven crown, surrounded by a circle
of stiff curled black hair, had something the appearance of a parish
pinfold begirt by its high hedge. The features expressed nothing of
monastic austerity, or of ascetic privations; on the contrary, it was
a bold bluff countenance, with broad black eyebrows, a well-turned
forehead, and cheeks as round and vermilion as those of a trumpeter,
from which descended a long and curly black beard. Such a visage,
joined to the brawny form of the holy man, spoke rather of sirloins and
haunches, than of pease and pulse. This incongruity did not escape the
guest. After he had with great difficulty accomplished the mastication
of a mouthful of the dried pease, he found it absolutely necessary
to request his pious entertainer to furnish him with some liquor; who
replied to his request by placing before him a large can of the purest
water from the fountain.

“It is from the well of St Dunstan,” said he, “in which, betwixt sun and
sun, he baptized five hundred heathen Danes and Britons--blessed be his
name!” And applying his black beard to the pitcher, he took a draught
much more moderate in quantity than his encomium seemed to warrant.

“It seems to me, reverend father,” said the knight, “that the small
morsels which you eat, together with this holy, but somewhat thin
beverage, have thriven with you marvellously. You appear a man more
fit to win the ram at a wrestling match, or the ring at a bout at
quarter-staff, or the bucklers at a sword-play, than to linger out your
time in this desolate wilderness, saying masses, and living upon parched
pease and cold water.”

“Sir Knight,” answered the hermit, “your thoughts, like those of the
ignorant laity, are according to the flesh. It has pleased Our Lady and
my patron saint to bless the pittance to which I restrain myself, even
as the pulse and water was blessed to the children Shadrach, Meshech,
and Abednego, who drank the same rather than defile themselves with the
wine and meats which were appointed them by the King of the Saracens.”

“Holy father,” said the knight, “upon whose countenance it hath pleased
Heaven to work such a miracle, permit a sinful layman to crave thy
name?”

“Thou mayst call me,” answered the hermit, “the Clerk of Copmanhurst,
for so I am termed in these parts--They add, it is true, the
epithet holy, but I stand not upon that, as being unworthy of such
addition.--And now, valiant knight, may I pray ye for the name of my
honourable guest?”

“Truly,” said the knight, “Holy Clerk of Copmanhurst, men call me in
these parts the Black Knight,--many, sir, add to it the epithet of
Sluggard, whereby I am no way ambitious to be distinguished.”

The hermit could scarcely forbear from smiling at his guest’s reply.

“I see,” said he, “Sir Sluggish Knight, that thou art a man of prudence
and of counsel; and moreover, I see that my poor monastic fare likes
thee not, accustomed, perhaps, as thou hast been, to the license of
courts and of camps, and the luxuries of cities; and now I bethink me,
Sir Sluggard, that when the charitable keeper of this forest-walk left
those dogs for my protection, and also those bundles of forage, he left
me also some food, which, being unfit for my use, the very recollection
of it had escaped me amid my more weighty meditations.”

“I dare be sworn he did so,” said the knight; “I was convinced that
there was better food in the cell, Holy Clerk, since you first doffed
your cowl.--Your keeper is ever a jovial fellow; and none who beheld thy
grinders contending with these pease, and thy throat flooded with this
ungenial element, could see thee doomed to such horse-provender and
horse-beverage,” (pointing to the provisions upon the table,) “and
refrain from mending thy cheer. Let us see the keeper’s bounty,
therefore, without delay.”

The hermit cast a wistful look upon the knight, in which there was
a sort of comic expression of hesitation, as if uncertain how far he
should act prudently in trusting his guest. There was, however, as much
of bold frankness in the knight’s countenance as was possible to be
expressed by features. His smile, too, had something in it irresistibly
comic, and gave an assurance of faith and loyalty, with which his host
could not refrain from sympathizing.

After exchanging a mute glance or two, the hermit went to the further
side of the hut, and opened a hutch, which was concealed with great care
and some ingenuity. Out of the recesses of a dark closet, into which
this aperture gave admittance, he brought a large pasty, baked in a
pewter platter of unusual dimensions. This mighty dish he placed before
his guest, who, using his poniard to cut it open, lost no time in making
himself acquainted with its contents.

“How long is it since the good keeper has been here?” said the knight
to his host, after having swallowed several hasty morsels of this
reinforcement to the hermit’s good cheer.

“About two months,” answered the father hastily.

“By the true Lord,” answered the knight, “every thing in your hermitage
is miraculous, Holy Clerk! for I would have been sworn that the fat buck
which furnished this venison had been running on foot within the week.”

The hermit was somewhat discountenanced by this observation; and,
moreover, he made but a poor figure while gazing on the diminution of
the pasty, on which his guest was making desperate inroads; a warfare
in which his previous profession of abstinence left him no pretext for
joining.

“I have been in Palestine, Sir Clerk,” said the knight, stopping short
of a sudden, “and I bethink me it is a custom there that every host who
entertains a guest shall assure him of the wholesomeness of his food, by
partaking of it along with him. Far be it from me to suspect so holy a
man of aught inhospitable; nevertheless I will be highly bound to you
would you comply with this Eastern custom.”

“To ease your unnecessary scruples, Sir Knight, I will for once depart
from my rule,” replied the hermit. And as there were no forks in those
days, his clutches were instantly in the bowels of the pasty.

The ice of ceremony being once broken, it seemed matter of rivalry
between the guest and the entertainer which should display the best
appetite; and although the former had probably fasted longest, yet the
hermit fairly surpassed him.

“Holy Clerk,” said the knight, when his hunger was appeased, “I would
gage my good horse yonder against a zecchin, that that same honest
keeper to whom we are obliged for the venison has left thee a stoup of
wine, or a runlet of canary, or some such trifle, by way of ally to this
noble pasty. This would be a circumstance, doubtless, totally unworthy
to dwell in the memory of so rigid an anchorite; yet, I think, were you
to search yonder crypt once more, you would find that I am right in my
conjecture.”

The hermit only replied by a grin; and returning to the hutch, he
produced a leathern bottle, which might contain about four quarts. He
also brought forth two large drinking cups, made out of the horn of
the urus, and hooped with silver. Having made this goodly provision
for washing down the supper, he seemed to think no farther ceremonious
scruple necessary on his part; but filling both cups, and saying, in the
Saxon fashion, “‘Waes hael’, Sir Sluggish Knight!” he emptied his own at
a draught.

“‘Drink hael’, Holy Clerk of Copmanhurst!” answered the warrior, and did
his host reason in a similar brimmer.

“Holy Clerk,” said the stranger, after the first cup was thus swallowed,
“I cannot but marvel that a man possessed of such thews and sinews as
thine, and who therewithal shows the talent of so goodly a trencher-man,
should think of abiding by himself in this wilderness. In my judgment,
you are fitter to keep a castle or a fort, eating of the fat and
drinking of the strong, than to live here upon pulse and water, or even
upon the charity of the keeper. At least, were I as thou, I should find
myself both disport and plenty out of the king’s deer. There is many a
goodly herd in these forests, and a buck will never be missed that goes
to the use of Saint Dunstan’s chaplain.”

“Sir Sluggish Knight,” replied the Clerk, “these are dangerous words,
and I pray you to forbear them. I am true hermit to the king and law,
and were I to spoil my liege’s game, I should be sure of the prison,
and, an my gown saved me not, were in some peril of hanging.”

“Nevertheless, were I as thou,” said the knight, “I would take my walk
by moonlight, when foresters and keepers were warm in bed, and ever
and anon,--as I pattered my prayers,--I would let fly a shaft among the
herds of dun deer that feed in the glades--Resolve me, Holy Clerk, hast
thou never practised such a pastime?”

“Friend Sluggard,” answered the hermit, “thou hast seen all that can
concern thee of my housekeeping, and something more than he deserves who
takes up his quarters by violence. Credit me, it is better to enjoy
the good which God sends thee, than to be impertinently curious how it
comes. Fill thy cup, and welcome; and do not, I pray thee, by further
impertinent enquiries, put me to show that thou couldst hardly have made
good thy lodging had I been earnest to oppose thee.”

“By my faith,” said the knight, “thou makest me more curious than ever!
Thou art the most mysterious hermit I ever met; and I will know more of
thee ere we part. As for thy threats, know, holy man, thou speakest to
one whose trade it is to find out danger wherever it is to be met with.”

“Sir Sluggish Knight, I drink to thee,” said the hermit; “respecting thy
valour much, but deeming wondrous slightly of thy discretion. If thou
wilt take equal arms with me, I will give thee, in all friendship and
brotherly love, such sufficing penance and complete absolution, that
thou shalt not for the next twelve months sin the sin of excess of
curiosity.”

The knight pledged him, and desired him to name his weapons.

“There is none,” replied the hermit, “from the scissors of Delilah, and
the tenpenny nail of Jael, to the scimitar of Goliath, at which I am not
a match for thee--But, if I am to make the election, what sayst thou,
good friend, to these trinkets?”

Thus speaking, he opened another hutch, and took out from it a couple
of broadswords and bucklers, such as were used by the yeomanry of the
period. The knight, who watched his motions, observed that this second
place of concealment was furnished with two or three good long-bows, a
cross-bow, a bundle of bolts for the latter, and half-a-dozen sheaves of
arrows for the former. A harp, and other matters of a very uncanonical
appearance, were also visible when this dark recess was opened.

“I promise thee, brother Clerk,” said he, “I will ask thee no more
offensive questions. The contents of that cupboard are an answer to all
my enquiries; and I see a weapon there” (here he stooped and took out
the harp) “on which I would more gladly prove my skill with thee, than
at the sword and buckler.”

“I hope, Sir Knight,” said the hermit, “thou hast given no good reason
for thy surname of the Sluggard. I do promise thee I suspect thee
grievously. Nevertheless, thou art my guest, and I will not put thy
manhood to the proof without thine own free will. Sit thee down, then,
and fill thy cup; let us drink, sing, and be merry. If thou knowest ever
a good lay, thou shalt be welcome to a nook of pasty at Copmanhurst so
long as I serve the chapel of St Dunstan, which, please God, shall be
till I change my grey covering for one of green turf. But come, fill a
flagon, for it will crave some time to tune the harp; and nought pitches
the voice and sharpens the ear like a cup of wine. For my part, I
love to feel the grape at my very finger-ends before they make the
harp-strings tinkle.” [22]




CHAPTER XVII

     At eve, within yon studious nook,
     I ope my brass-embossed book,
     Portray’d with many a holy deed
     Of martyrs crown’d with heavenly meed;
     Then, as my taper waxes dim,
     Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn.
     * * * * *
     Who but would cast his pomp away,
     To take my staff and amice grey,
     And to the world’s tumultuous stage,
     Prefer the peaceful Hermitage?
     --Warton

Notwithstanding the prescription of the genial hermit, with which his
guest willingly complied, he found it no easy matter to bring the harp
to harmony.

“Methinks, holy father,” said he, “the instrument wants one string, and
the rest have been somewhat misused.”

“Ay, mark’st thou that?” replied the hermit; “that shows thee a master
of the craft. Wine and wassail,” he added, gravely casting up his
eyes--“all the fault of wine and wassail!--I told Allan-a-Dale, the
northern minstrel, that he would damage the harp if he touched it after
the seventh cup, but he would not be controlled--Friend, I drink to thy
successful performance.”

So saying, he took off his cup with much gravity, at the same time
shaking his head at the intemperance of the Scottish harper.

The knight in the meantime, had brought the strings into some order,
and after a short prelude, asked his host whether he would choose a
“sirvente” in the language of “oc”, or a “lai” in the language of “oui”,
or a “virelai”, or a ballad in the vulgar English. [23]

“A ballad, a ballad,” said the hermit, “against all the ‘ocs’ and ‘ouis’
of France. Downright English am I, Sir Knight, and downright English
was my patron St Dunstan, and scorned ‘oc’ and ‘oui’, as he would have
scorned the parings of the devil’s hoof--downright English alone shall
be sung in this cell.”

“I will assay, then,” said the knight, “a ballad composed by a Saxon
glee-man, whom I knew in Holy Land.”

It speedily appeared, that if the knight was not a complete master of
the minstrel art, his taste for it had at least been cultivated under
the best instructors. Art had taught him to soften the faults of a voice
which had little compass, and was naturally rough rather than mellow,
and, in short, had done all that culture can do in supplying natural
deficiencies. His performance, therefore, might have been termed very
respectable by abler judges than the hermit, especially as the knight
threw into the notes now a degree of spirit, and now of plaintive
enthusiasm, which gave force and energy to the verses which he sung.


     THE CRUSADER’S RETURN.

     1.

     High deeds achieved of knightly fame,
     From Palestine the champion came;
     The cross upon his shoulders borne,
     Battle and blast had dimm’d and torn.
     Each dint upon his batter’d shield
     Was token of a foughten field;
     And thus, beneath his lady’s bower,
     He sung as fell the twilight hour:--

     2.

     “Joy to the fair!--thy knight behold,
     Return’d from yonder land of gold;
     No wealth he brings, nor wealth can need,
     Save his good arms and battle-steed
     His spurs, to dash against a foe,
     His lance and sword to lay him low;
     Such all the trophies of his toil,
     Such--and the hope of Tekla’s smile!

     3.

     “Joy to the fair! whose constant knight
     Her favour fired to feats of might;
     Unnoted shall she not remain,
     Where meet the bright and noble train;
     Minstrel shall sing and herald tell--
     ‘Mark yonder maid of beauty well,
     ‘Tis she for whose bright eyes were won
     The listed field at Askalon!

     4.

     “‘Note well her smile!--it edged the blade
     Which fifty wives to widows made,
     When, vain his strength and Mahound’s spell,
     Iconium’s turban’d Soldan fell.
     Seest thou her locks, whose sunny glow
     Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow?
     Twines not of them one golden thread,
     But for its sake a Paynim bled.’

     5.

     “Joy to the fair!--my name unknown,
     Each deed, and all its praise thine own
     Then, oh! unbar this churlish gate,
     The night dew falls, the hour is late.
     Inured to Syria’s glowing breath,
     I feel the north breeze chill as death;
     Let grateful love quell maiden shame,
     And grant him bliss who brings thee fame.”

During this performance, the hermit demeaned himself much like a
first-rate critic of the present day at a new opera. He reclined back
upon his seat, with his eyes half shut; now, folding his hands and
twisting his thumbs, he seemed absorbed in attention, and anon,
balancing his expanded palms, he gently flourished them in time to the
music. At one or two favourite cadences, he threw in a little assistance
of his own, where the knight’s voice seemed unable to carry the air
so high as his worshipful taste approved. When the song was ended, the
anchorite emphatically declared it a good one, and well sung.

“And yet,” said he, “I think my Saxon countrymen had herded long enough
with the Normans, to fall into the tone of their melancholy ditties.
What took the honest knight from home? or what could he expect but to
find his mistress agreeably engaged with a rival on his return, and his
serenade, as they call it, as little regarded as the caterwauling of a
cat in the gutter? Nevertheless, Sir Knight, I drink this cup to thee,
to the success of all true lovers--I fear you are none,” he added, on
observing that the knight (whose brain began to be heated with these
repeated draughts) qualified his flagon from the water pitcher.

“Why,” said the knight, “did you not tell me that this water was from
the well of your blessed patron, St Dunstan?”

“Ay, truly,” said the hermit, “and many a hundred of pagans did he
baptize there, but I never heard that he drank any of it. Every thing
should be put to its proper use in this world. St Dunstan knew, as well
as any one, the prerogatives of a jovial friar.”

And so saying, he reached the harp, and entertained his guest with
the following characteristic song, to a sort of derry-down chorus,
appropriate to an old English ditty. [24]


     THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR.

     1.

     I’ll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain,
     To search Europe through, from Byzantium to Spain;
     But ne’er shall you find, should you search till you tire,
     So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar.

     2.

     Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career,
     And is brought home at even-song prick’d through with a spear;
     I confess him in haste--for his lady desires
     No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar’s.

     3.

     Your monarch?--Pshaw! many a prince has been known
     To barter his robes for our cowl and our gown,
     But which of us e’er felt the idle desire
     To exchange for a crown the grey hood of a Friar!

     4.

     The Friar has walk’d out, and where’er he has gone,
     The land and its fatness is mark’d for his own;
     He can roam where he lists, he can stop when he tires,
     For every man’s house is the Barefooted Friar’s.

     5.

     He’s expected at noon, and no wight till he comes
     May profane the great chair, or the porridge of plums
     For the best of the cheer, and the seat by the fire,
     Is the undenied right of the Barefooted Friar.

     6.

     He’s expected at night, and the pasty’s made hot,
     They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black pot,
     And the goodwife would wish the goodman in the mire,
     Ere he lack’d a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar.

     7.

     Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the cope,
     The dread of the devil and trust of the Pope;
     For to gather life’s roses, unscathed by the briar,
     Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.


“By my troth,” said the knight, “thou hast sung well and lustily, and in
high praise of thine order. And, talking of the devil, Holy Clerk,
are you not afraid that he may pay you a visit during some of your
uncanonical pastimes?”

“I uncanonical!” answered the hermit; “I scorn the charge--I scorn it
with my heels!--I serve the duty of my chapel duly and truly--Two masses
daily, morning and evening, primes, noons, and vespers, ‘aves, credos,
paters’---”

“Excepting moonlight nights, when the venison is in season,” said his
guest.

“‘Exceptis excipiendis’” replied the hermit, “as our old abbot taught me
to say, when impertinent laymen should ask me if I kept every punctilio
of mine order.”

“True, holy father,” said the knight; “but the devil is apt to keep
an eye on such exceptions; he goes about, thou knowest, like a roaring
lion.”

“Let him roar here if he dares,” said the friar; “a touch of my cord
will make him roar as loud as the tongs of St Dunstan himself did. I
never feared man, and I as little fear the devil and his imps. Saint
Dunstan, Saint Dubric, Saint Winibald, Saint Winifred, Saint Swibert,
Saint Willick, not forgetting Saint Thomas a Kent, and my own poor
merits to speed, I defy every devil of them, come cut and long
tail.--But to let you into a secret, I never speak upon such subjects,
my friend, until after morning vespers.”

He changed the conversation; fast and furious grew the mirth of the
parties, and many a song was exchanged betwixt them, when their revels
were interrupted by a loud knocking at the door of the hermitage.

The occasion of this interruption we can only explain by resuming the
adventures of another set of our characters; for, like old Ariosto, we
do not pique ourselves upon continuing uniformly to keep company with
any one personage of our drama.




CHAPTER XVIII

     Away! our journey lies through dell and dingle,
     Where the blithe fawn trips by its timid mother,
     Where the broad oak, with intercepting boughs,
     Chequers the sunbeam in the green-sward alley--
     Up and away!--for lovely paths are these
     To tread, when the glad Sun is on his throne
     Less pleasant, and less safe, when Cynthia’s lamp
     With doubtful glimmer lights the dreary forest.
     --Ettrick Forest

When Cedric the Saxon saw his son drop down senseless in the lists at
Ashby, his first impulse was to order him into the custody and care of
his own attendants, but the words choked in his throat. He could not
bring himself to acknowledge, in presence of such an assembly, the son
whom he had renounced and disinherited. He ordered, however, Oswald to
keep an eye upon him; and directed that officer, with two of his serfs,
to convey Ivanhoe to Ashby as soon as the crowd had dispersed. Oswald,
however, was anticipated in this good office. The crowd dispersed,
indeed, but the knight was nowhere to be seen.

It was in vain that Cedric’s cupbearer looked around for his young
master--he saw the bloody spot on which he had lately sunk down, but
himself he saw no longer; it seemed as if the fairies had conveyed him
from the spot. Perhaps Oswald (for the Saxons were very superstitious)
might have adopted some such hypothesis, to account for Ivanhoe’s
disappearance, had he not suddenly cast his eye upon a person attired
like a squire, in whom he recognised the features of his fellow-servant
Gurth. Anxious concerning his master’s fate, and in despair at his
sudden disappearance, the translated swineherd was searching for him
everywhere, and had neglected, in doing so, the concealment on which
his own safety depended. Oswald deemed it his duty to secure Gurth, as a
fugitive of whose fate his master was to judge.

Renewing his enquiries concerning the fate of Ivanhoe, the only
information which the cupbearer could collect from the bystanders
was, that the knight had been raised with care by certain well-attired
grooms, and placed in a litter belonging to a lady among the spectators,
which had immediately transported him out of the press. Oswald, on
receiving this intelligence, resolved to return to his master for
farther instructions, carrying along with him Gurth, whom he considered
in some sort as a deserter from the service of Cedric.

The Saxon had been under very intense and agonizing apprehensions
concerning his son; for Nature had asserted her rights, in spite of the
patriotic stoicism which laboured to disown her. But no sooner was he
informed that Ivanhoe was in careful, and probably in friendly hands,
than the paternal anxiety which had been excited by the dubiety of his
fate, gave way anew to the feeling of injured pride and resentment, at
what he termed Wilfred’s filial disobedience.

“Let him wander his way,” said he--“let those leech his wounds for whose
sake he encountered them. He is fitter to do the juggling tricks of
the Norman chivalry than to maintain the fame and honour of his English
ancestry with the glaive and brown-bill, the good old weapons of his
country.”

“If to maintain the honour of ancestry,” said Rowena, who was present,
“it is sufficient to be wise in council and brave in execution--to be
boldest among the bold, and gentlest among the gentle, I know no voice,
save his father’s---”

“Be silent, Lady Rowena!--on this subject only I hear you not. Prepare
yourself for the Prince’s festival: we have been summoned thither with
unwonted circumstance of honour and of courtesy, such as the haughty
Normans have rarely used to our race since the fatal day of Hastings.
Thither will I go, were it only to show these proud Normans how little
the fate of a son, who could defeat their bravest, can affect a Saxon.”

“Thither,” said Rowena, “do I NOT go; and I pray you to beware, lest
what you mean for courage and constancy, shall be accounted hardness of
heart.”

“Remain at home, then, ungrateful lady,” answered Cedric; “thine is the
hard heart, which can sacrifice the weal of an oppressed people to an
idle and unauthorized attachment. I seek the noble Athelstane, and with
him attend the banquet of John of Anjou.”

He went accordingly to the banquet, of which we have already mentioned
the principal events. Immediately upon retiring from the castle, the
Saxon thanes, with their attendants, took horse; and it was during the
bustle which attended their doing so, that Cedric, for the first time,
cast his eyes upon the deserter Gurth. The noble Saxon had returned from
the banquet, as we have seen, in no very placid humour, and wanted but a
pretext for wreaking his anger upon some one.

“The gyves!” he said, “the gyves!--Oswald--Hundibert!--Dogs and
villains!--why leave ye the knave unfettered?”

Without daring to remonstrate, the companions of Gurth bound him with
a halter, as the readiest cord which occurred. He submitted to the
operation without remonstrance, except that, darting a reproachful
look at his master, he said, “This comes of loving your flesh and blood
better than mine own.”

“To horse, and forward!” said Cedric.

“It is indeed full time,” said the noble Athelstane; “for, if we
ride not the faster, the worthy Abbot Waltheoff’s preparations for a
rere-supper [25] will be altogether spoiled.”

The travellers, however, used such speed as to reach the convent of St
Withold’s before the apprehended evil took place. The Abbot, himself of
ancient Saxon descent, received the noble Saxons with the profuse and
exuberant hospitality of their nation, wherein they indulged to a late,
or rather an early hour; nor did they take leave of their reverend host
the next morning until they had shared with him a sumptuous refection.

As the cavalcade left the court of the monastery, an incident happened
somewhat alarming to the Saxons, who, of all people of Europe, were most
addicted to a superstitious observance of omens, and to whose opinions
can be traced most of those notions upon such subjects, still to be
found among our popular antiquities. For the Normans being a mixed race,
and better informed according to the information of the times, had lost
most of the superstitious prejudices which their ancestors had brought
from Scandinavia, and piqued themselves upon thinking freely on such
topics.

In the present instance, the apprehension of impending evil was inspired
by no less respectable a prophet than a large lean black dog, which,
sitting upright, howled most piteously as the foremost riders left the
gate, and presently afterwards, barking wildly, and jumping to and fro,
seemed bent upon attaching itself to the party.

“I like not that music, father Cedric,” said Athelstane; for by this
title of respect he was accustomed to address him.

“Nor I either, uncle,” said Wamba; “I greatly fear we shall have to pay
the piper.”

“In my mind,” said Athelstane, upon whose memory the Abbot’s good
ale (for Burton was already famous for that genial liquor) had made a
favourable impression,--“in my mind we had better turn back, and abide
with the Abbot until the afternoon. It is unlucky to travel where your
path is crossed by a monk, a hare, or a howling dog, until you have
eaten your next meal.”

“Away!” said Cedric, impatiently; “the day is already too short for
our journey. For the dog, I know it to be the cur of the runaway slave
Gurth, a useless fugitive like its master.”

So saying, and rising at the same time in his stirrups, impatient at the
interruption of his journey, he launched his javelin at poor Fangs--for
Fangs it was, who, having traced his master thus far upon his stolen
expedition, had here lost him, and was now, in his uncouth way,
rejoicing at his reappearance. The javelin inflicted a wound upon the
animal’s shoulder, and narrowly missed pinning him to the earth; and
Fangs fled howling from the presence of the enraged thane. Gurth’s heart
swelled within him; for he felt this meditated slaughter of his faithful
adherent in a degree much deeper than the harsh treatment he had himself
received. Having in vain attempted to raise his hand to his eyes,
he said to Wamba, who, seeing his master’s ill humour had prudently
retreated to the rear, “I pray thee, do me the kindness to wipe my eyes
with the skirt of thy mantle; the dust offends me, and these bonds will
not let me help myself one way or another.”

Wamba did him the service he required, and they rode side by side for
some time, during which Gurth maintained a moody silence. At length he
could repress his feelings no longer.

“Friend Wamba,” said he, “of all those who are fools enough to serve
Cedric, thou alone hast dexterity enough to make thy folly acceptable to
him. Go to him, therefore, and tell him that neither for love nor fear
will Gurth serve him longer. He may strike the head from me--he may
scourge me--he may load me with irons--but henceforth he shall never
compel me either to love or to obey him. Go to him, then, and tell him
that Gurth the son of Beowulph renounces his service.”

“Assuredly,” said Wamba, “fool as I am, I shall not do your fool’s
errand. Cedric hath another javelin stuck into his girdle, and thou
knowest he does not always miss his mark.”

“I care not,” replied Gurth, “how soon he makes a mark of me. Yesterday
he left Wilfred, my young master, in his blood. To-day he has striven to
kill before my face the only other living creature that ever showed me
kindness. By St Edmund, St Dunstan, St Withold, St Edward the Confessor,
and every other Saxon saint in the calendar,” (for Cedric never swore
by any that was not of Saxon lineage, and all his household had the same
limited devotion,) “I will never forgive him!”

“To my thinking now,” said the Jester, who was frequently wont to act
as peace-maker in the family, “our master did not propose to hurt Fangs,
but only to affright him. For, if you observed, he rose in his stirrups,
as thereby meaning to overcast the mark; and so he would have done,
but Fangs happening to bound up at the very moment, received a scratch,
which I will be bound to heal with a penny’s breadth of tar.”

“If I thought so,” said Gurth--“if I could but think so--but no--I saw
the javelin was well aimed--I heard it whizz through the air with all
the wrathful malevolence of him who cast it, and it quivered after it
had pitched in the ground, as if with regret for having missed its mark.
By the hog dear to St Anthony, I renounce him!”

And the indignant swineherd resumed his sullen silence, which no efforts
of the Jester could again induce him to break.

Meanwhile Cedric and Athelstane, the leaders of the troop, conversed
together on the state of the land, on the dissensions of the royal
family, on the feuds and quarrels among the Norman nobles, and on the
chance which there was that the oppressed Saxons might be able to
free themselves from the yoke of the Normans, or at least to elevate
themselves into national consequence and independence, during the civil
convulsions which were likely to ensue. On this subject Cedric was all
animation. The restoration of the independence of his race was the idol
of his heart, to which he had willingly sacrificed domestic happiness
and the interests of his own son. But, in order to achieve this great
revolution in favour of the native English, it was necessary that they
should be united among themselves, and act under an acknowledged head.
The necessity of choosing their chief from the Saxon blood-royal was not
only evident in itself, but had been made a solemn condition by those
whom Cedric had intrusted with his secret plans and hopes. Athelstane
had this quality at least; and though he had few mental accomplishments
or talents to recommend him as a leader, he had still a goodly person,
was no coward, had been accustomed to martial exercises, and seemed
willing to defer to the advice of counsellors more wise than himself.
Above all, he was known to be liberal and hospitable, and believed to be
good-natured. But whatever pretensions Athelstane had to be considered
as head of the Saxon confederacy, many of that nation were disposed
to prefer to the title of the Lady Rowena, who drew her descent from
Alfred, and whose father having been a chief renowned for wisdom,
courage, and generosity, his memory was highly honoured by his oppressed
countrymen.

It would have been no difficult thing for Cedric, had he been so
disposed, to have placed himself at the head of a third party, as
formidable at least as any of the others. To counterbalance their royal
descent, he had courage, activity, energy, and, above all, that devoted
attachment to the cause which had procured him the epithet of The Saxon,
and his birth was inferior to none, excepting only that of Athelstane
and his ward. These qualities, however, were unalloyed by the slightest
shade of selfishness; and, instead of dividing yet farther his weakened
nation by forming a faction of his own, it was a leading part of
Cedric’s plan to extinguish that which already existed, by promoting a
marriage betwixt Rowena and Athelstane. An obstacle occurred to this his
favourite project, in the mutual attachment of his ward and his son and
hence the original cause of the banishment of Wilfred from the house of
his father.

This stern measure Cedric had adopted, in hopes that, during Wilfred’s
absence, Rowena might relinquish her preference, but in this hope he was
disappointed; a disappointment which might be attributed in part to the
mode in which his ward had been educated. Cedric, to whom the name of
Alfred was as that of a deity, had treated the sole remaining scion of
that great monarch with a degree of observance, such as, perhaps, was
in those days scarce paid to an acknowledged princess. Rowena’s will had
been in almost all cases a law to his household; and Cedric himself, as
if determined that her sovereignty should be fully acknowledged within
that little circle at least, seemed to take a pride in acting as the
first of her subjects. Thus trained in the exercise not only of free
will, but despotic authority, Rowena was, by her previous education,
disposed both to resist and to resent any attempt to control her
affections, or dispose of her hand contrary to her inclinations, and to
assert her independence in a case in which even those females who have
been trained up to obedience and subjection, are not infrequently apt to
dispute the authority of guardians and parents. The opinions which she
felt strongly, she avowed boldly; and Cedric, who could not free himself
from his habitual deference to her opinions, felt totally at a loss how
to enforce his authority of guardian.

It was in vain that he attempted to dazzle her with the prospect of a
visionary throne. Rowena, who possessed strong sense, neither considered
his plan as practicable, nor as desirable, so far as she was concerned,
could it have been achieved. Without attempting to conceal her avowed
preference of Wilfred of Ivanhoe, she declared that, were that favoured
knight out of question, she would rather take refuge in a convent, than
share a throne with Athelstane, whom, having always despised, she now
began, on account of the trouble she received on his account, thoroughly
to detest.

Nevertheless, Cedric, whose opinions of women’s constancy was far from
strong, persisted in using every means in his power to bring about the
proposed match, in which he conceived he was rendering an important
service to the Saxon cause. The sudden and romantic appearance of his
son in the lists at Ashby, he had justly regarded as almost a death’s
blow to his hopes. His paternal affection, it is true, had for an
instant gained the victory over pride and patriotism; but both had
returned in full force, and under their joint operation, he was now bent
upon making a determined effort for the union of Athelstane and Rowena,
together with expediting those other measures which seemed necessary to
forward the restoration of Saxon independence.

On this last subject, he was now labouring with Athelstane, not without
having reason, every now and then, to lament, like Hotspur, that he
should have moved such a dish of skimmed milk to so honourable an
action. Athelstane, it is true, was vain enough, and loved to have
his ears tickled with tales of his high descent, and of his right
by inheritance to homage and sovereignty. But his petty vanity was
sufficiently gratified by receiving this homage at the hands of his
immediate attendants, and of the Saxons who approached him. If he had
the courage to encounter danger, he at least hated the trouble of going
to seek it; and while he agreed in the general principles laid down by
Cedric concerning the claim of the Saxons to independence, and was still
more easily convinced of his own title to reign over them when that
independence should be attained, yet when the means of asserting these
rights came to be discussed, he was still “Athelstane the Unready,”
 slow, irresolute, procrastinating, and unenterprising. The warm and
impassioned exhortations of Cedric had as little effect upon his
impassive temper, as red-hot balls alighting in the water, which produce
a little sound and smoke, and are instantly extinguished.

If, leaving this task, which might be compared to spurring a tired jade,
or to hammering upon cold iron, Cedric fell back to his ward Rowena, he
received little more satisfaction from conferring with her. For, as his
presence interrupted the discourse between the lady and her favourite
attendant upon the gallantry and fate of Wilfred, Elgitha failed not to
revenge both her mistress and herself, by recurring to the overthrow of
Athelstane in the lists, the most disagreeable subject which could greet
the ears of Cedric. To this sturdy Saxon, therefore, the day’s journey
was fraught with all manner of displeasure and discomfort; so that
he more than once internally cursed the tournament, and him who had
proclaimed it, together with his own folly in ever thinking of going
thither.

At noon, upon the motion of Athelstane, the travellers paused in a
woodland shade by a fountain, to repose their horses and partake of some
provisions, with which the hospitable Abbot had loaded a sumpter mule.
Their repast was a pretty long one; and these several interruptions
rendered it impossible for them to hope to reach Rotherwood without
travelling all night, a conviction which induced them to proceed on
their way at a more hasty pace than they had hitherto used.




CHAPTER XIX

     A train of armed men, some noble dame
     Escorting, (so their scatter’d words discover’d,
     As unperceived I hung upon their rear,)
     Are close at hand, and mean to pass the night
     Within the castle.
     --Orra, a Tragedy

The travellers had now reached the verge of the wooded country, and were
about to plunge into its recesses, held dangerous at that time from the
number of outlaws whom oppression and poverty had driven to despair,
and who occupied the forests in such large bands as could easily bid
defiance to the feeble police of the period. From these rovers, however,
notwithstanding the lateness of the hour Cedric and Athelstane accounted
themselves secure, as they had in attendance ten servants, besides Wamba
and Gurth, whose aid could not be counted upon, the one being a jester
and the other a captive. It may be added, that in travelling thus late
through the forest, Cedric and Athelstane relied on their descent and
character, as well as their courage. The outlaws, whom the severity of
the forest laws had reduced to this roving and desperate mode of life,
were chiefly peasants and yeomen of Saxon descent, and were generally
supposed to respect the persons and property of their countrymen.

As the travellers journeyed on their way, they were alarmed by repeated
cries for assistance; and when they rode up to the place from whence
they came, they were surprised to find a horse-litter placed upon the
ground, beside which sat a young woman, richly dressed in the Jewish
fashion, while an old man, whose yellow cap proclaimed him to belong
to the same nation, walked up and down with gestures expressive of the
deepest despair, and wrung his hands, as if affected by some strange
disaster.

To the enquiries of Athelstane and Cedric, the old Jew could for some
time only answer by invoking the protection of all the patriarchs of the
Old Testament successively against the sons of Ishmael, who were coming
to smite them, hip and thigh, with the edge of the sword. When he began
to come to himself out of this agony of terror, Isaac of York (for it
was our old friend) was at length able to explain, that he had hired
a body-guard of six men at Ashby, together with mules for carrying the
litter of a sick friend. This party had undertaken to escort him as
far as Doncaster. They had come thus far in safety; but having received
information from a wood-cutter that there was a strong band of outlaws
lying in wait in the woods before them, Isaac’s mercenaries had not only
taken flight, but had carried off with them the horses which bore the
litter and left the Jew and his daughter without the means either of
defence or of retreat, to be plundered, and probably murdered, by the
banditti, who they expected every moment would bring down upon them.
“Would it but please your valours,” added Isaac, in a tone of deep
humiliation, “to permit the poor Jews to travel under your safeguard,
I swear by the tables of our law, that never has favour been conferred
upon a child of Israel since the days of our captivity, which shall be
more gratefully acknowledged.”

“Dog of a Jew!” said Athelstane, whose memory was of that petty
kind which stores up trifles of all kinds, but particularly trifling
offences, “dost not remember how thou didst beard us in the gallery at
the tilt-yard? Fight or flee, or compound with the outlaws as thou dost
list, ask neither aid nor company from us; and if they rob only such
as thee, who rob all the world, I, for mine own share, shall hold them
right honest folk.”

Cedric did not assent to the severe proposal of his companion. “We shall
do better,” said he, “to leave them two of our attendants and two horses
to convey them back to the next village. It will diminish our strength
but little; and with your good sword, noble Athelstane, and the aid of
those who remain, it will be light work for us to face twenty of those
runagates.”

Rowena, somewhat alarmed by the mention of outlaws in force, and so
near them, strongly seconded the proposal of her guardian. But Rebecca
suddenly quitting her dejected posture, and making her way through the
attendants to the palfrey of the Saxon lady, knelt down, and, after the
Oriental fashion in addressing superiors, kissed the hem of Rowena’s
garment. Then rising, and throwing back her veil, she implored her
in the great name of the God whom they both worshipped, and by that
revelation of the Law upon Mount Sinai, in which they both believed,
that she would have compassion upon them, and suffer them to go forward
under their safeguard. “It is not for myself that I pray this favour,”
 said Rebecca; “nor is it even for that poor old man. I know that to
wrong and to spoil our nation is a light fault, if not a merit, with the
Christians; and what is it to us whether it be done in the city, in the
desert, or in the field? But it is in the name of one dear to many,
and dear even to you, that I beseech you to let this sick person be
transported with care and tenderness under your protection. For, if evil
chance him, the last moment of your life would be embittered with regret
for denying that which I ask of you.”

The noble and solemn air with which Rebecca made this appeal, gave it
double weight with the fair Saxon.

“The man is old and feeble,” she said to her guardian, “the maiden young
and beautiful, their friend sick and in peril of his life--Jews though
they be, we cannot as Christians leave them in this extremity. Let them
unload two of the sumpter-mules, and put the baggage behind two of the
serfs. The mules may transport the litter, and we have led horses for
the old man and his daughter.”

Cedric readily assented to what she proposed, and Athelstane only added
the condition, “that they should travel in the rear of the whole party,
where Wamba,” he said, “might attend them with his shield of boar’s
brawn.”

“I have left my shield in the tilt-yard,” answered the Jester, “as has
been the fate of many a better knight than myself.”

Athelstane coloured deeply, for such had been his own fate on the
last day of the tournament; while Rowena, who was pleased in the same
proportion, as if to make amends for the brutal jest of her unfeeling
suitor, requested Rebecca to ride by her side.

“It were not fit I should do so,” answered Rebecca, with proud humility,
“where my society might be held a disgrace to my protectress.”

By this time the change of baggage was hastily achieved; for the single
word “outlaws” rendered every one sufficiently alert, and the approach
of twilight made the sound yet more impressive. Amid the bustle, Gurth
was taken from horseback, in the course of which removal he prevailed
upon the Jester to slack the cord with which his arms were bound. It was
so negligently refastened, perhaps intentionally, on the part of Wamba,
that Gurth found no difficulty in freeing his arms altogether from
bondage, and then, gliding into the thicket, he made his escape from the
party.

The bustle had been considerable, and it was some time before Gurth was
missed; for, as he was to be placed for the rest of the journey behind
a servant, every one supposed that some other of his companions had him
under his custody, and when it began to be whispered among them
that Gurth had actually disappeared, they were under such immediate
expectation of an attack from the outlaws, that it was not held
convenient to pay much attention to the circumstance.

The path upon which the party travelled was now so narrow, as not to
admit, with any sort of convenience, above two riders abreast, and began
to descend into a dingle, traversed by a brook whose banks were broken,
swampy, and overgrown with dwarf willows. Cedric and Athelstane, who
were at the head of their retinue, saw the risk of being attacked at
this pass; but neither of them having had much practice in war, no
better mode of preventing the danger occurred to them than that they
should hasten through the defile as fast as possible. Advancing,
therefore, without much order, they had just crossed the brook with a
part of their followers, when they were assailed in front, flank,
and rear at once, with an impetuosity to which, in their confused and
ill-prepared condition, it was impossible to offer effectual resistance.
The shout of “A white dragon!--a white dragon!--Saint George for merry
England!” war-cries adopted by the assailants, as belonging to their
assumed character of Saxon outlaws, was heard on every side, and on
every side enemies appeared with a rapidity of advance and attack which
seemed to multiply their numbers.

Both the Saxon chiefs were made prisoners at the same moment, and each
under circumstances expressive of his character. Cedric, the instant
that an enemy appeared, launched at him his remaining javelin, which,
taking better effect than that which he had hurled at Fangs, nailed the
man against an oak-tree that happened to be close behind him. Thus far
successful, Cedric spurred his horse against a second, drawing his sword
at the same time, and striking with such inconsiderate fury, that
his weapon encountered a thick branch which hung over him, and he
was disarmed by the violence of his own blow. He was instantly made
prisoner, and pulled from his horse by two or three of the banditti who
crowded around him. Athelstane shared his captivity, his bridle having
been seized, and he himself forcibly dismounted, long before he could
draw his weapon, or assume any posture of effectual defence.

The attendants, embarrassed with baggage, surprised and terrified at the
fate of their masters, fell an easy prey to the assailants; while
the Lady Rowena, in the centre of the cavalcade, and the Jew and his
daughter in the rear, experienced the same misfortune.

Of all the train none escaped except Wamba, who showed upon the
occasion much more courage than those who pretended to greater sense. He
possessed himself of a sword belonging to one of the domestics, who was
just drawing it with a tardy and irresolute hand, laid it about him like
a lion, drove back several who approached him, and made a brave though
ineffectual attempt to succour his master. Finding himself overpowered,
the Jester at length threw himself from his horse, plunged into the
thicket, and, favoured by the general confusion, escaped from the scene
of action. Yet the valiant Jester, as soon as he found himself safe,
hesitated more than once whether he should not turn back and share the
captivity of a master to whom he was sincerely attached.

“I have heard men talk of the blessings of freedom,” he said to himself,
“but I wish any wise man would teach me what use to make of it now that
I have it.”

As he pronounced these words aloud, a voice very near him called out in
a low and cautious tone, “Wamba!” and, at the same time, a dog, which he
recognised to be Fangs, jumped up and fawned upon him. “Gurth!” answered
Wamba, with the same caution, and the swineherd immediately stood before
him.

“What is the matter?” said he eagerly; “what mean these cries, and that
clashing of swords?”

“Only a trick of the times,” said Wamba; “they are all prisoners.”

“Who are prisoners?” exclaimed Gurth, impatiently.

“My lord, and my lady, and Athelstane, and Hundibert, and Oswald.”

“In the name of God!” said Gurth, “how came they prisoners?--and to
whom?”

“Our master was too ready to fight,” said the Jester; “and Athelstane
was not ready enough, and no other person was ready at all. And they are
prisoners to green cassocks, and black visors. And they lie all tumbled
about on the green, like the crab-apples that you shake down to your
swine. And I would laugh at it,” said the honest Jester, “if I could for
weeping.” And he shed tears of unfeigned sorrow.

Gurth’s countenance kindled--“Wamba,” he said, “thou hast a weapon,
and thy heart was ever stronger than thy brain,--we are only two--but a
sudden attack from men of resolution will do much--follow me!”

“Whither?--and for what purpose?” said the Jester.

“To rescue Cedric.”

“But you have renounced his service but now,” said Wamba.

“That,” said Gurth, “was but while he was fortunate--follow me!”

As the Jester was about to obey, a third person suddenly made his
appearance, and commanded them both to halt. From his dress and arms,
Wamba would have conjectured him to be one of those outlaws who had just
assailed his master; but, besides that he wore no mask, the glittering
baldric across his shoulder, with the rich bugle-horn which it
supported, as well as the calm and commanding expression of his voice
and manner, made him, notwithstanding the twilight, recognise Locksley
the yeoman, who had been victorious, under such disadvantageous
circumstances, in the contest for the prize of archery.

“What is the meaning of all this,” said he, “or who is it that rifle,
and ransom, and make prisoners, in these forests?”

“You may look at their cassocks close by,” said Wamba, “and see whether
they be thy children’s coats or no--for they are as like thine own, as
one green pea-cod is to another.”

“I will learn that presently,” answered Locksley; “and I charge ye, on
peril of your lives, not to stir from the place where ye stand, until
I have returned. Obey me, and it shall be the better for you and your
masters.--Yet stay, I must render myself as like these men as possible.”

So saying he unbuckled his baldric with the bugle, took a feather from
his cap, and gave them to Wamba; then drew a vizard from his pouch,
and, repeating his charges to them to stand fast, went to execute his
purposes of reconnoitring.

“Shall we stand fast, Gurth?” said Wamba; “or shall we e’en give him
leg-bail? In my foolish mind, he had all the equipage of a thief too
much in readiness, to be himself a true man.”

“Let him be the devil,” said Gurth, “an he will. We can be no worse of
waiting his return. If he belong to that party, he must already have
given them the alarm, and it will avail nothing either to fight or fly.
Besides, I have late experience, that errant thieves are not the worst
men in the world to have to deal with.”

The yeoman returned in the course of a few minutes.

“Friend Gurth,” he said, “I have mingled among yon men, and have learnt
to whom they belong, and whither they are bound. There is, I think,
no chance that they will proceed to any actual violence against their
prisoners. For three men to attempt them at this moment, were little
else than madness; for they are good men of war, and have, as such,
placed sentinels to give the alarm when any one approaches. But I
trust soon to gather such a force, as may act in defiance of all their
precautions; you are both servants, and, as I think, faithful servants,
of Cedric the Saxon, the friend of the rights of Englishmen. He shall
not want English hands to help him in this extremity. Come then with me,
until I gather more aid.”

So saying, he walked through the wood at a great pace, followed by the
jester and the swineherd. It was not consistent with Wamba’s humour to
travel long in silence.

“I think,” said he, looking at the baldric and bugle which he still
carried, “that I saw the arrow shot which won this gay prize, and that
not so long since as Christmas.”

“And I,” said Gurth, “could take it on my halidome, that I have heard
the voice of the good yeoman who won it, by night as well as by day, and
that the moon is not three days older since I did so.”

“Mine honest friends,” replied the yeoman, “who, or what I am, is little
to the present purpose; should I free your master, you will have reason
to think me the best friend you have ever had in your lives. And whether
I am known by one name or another--or whether I can draw a bow as well
or better than a cow-keeper, or whether it is my pleasure to walk in
sunshine or by moonlight, are matters, which, as they do not concern
you, so neither need ye busy yourselves respecting them.”

“Our heads are in the lion’s mouth,” said Wamba, in a whisper to Gurth,
“get them out how we can.”

“Hush--be silent,” said Gurth. “Offend him not by thy folly, and I trust
sincerely that all will go well.”




CHAPTER XX

     When autumn nights were long and drear,
     And forest walks were dark and dim,
     How sweetly on the pilgrim’s ear
     Was wont to steal the hermit’s hymn

     Devotion borrows Music’s tone,
     And Music took Devotion’s wing;
     And, like the bird that hails the sun,
     They soar to heaven, and soaring sing.
     The Hermit of St Clement’s Well

It was after three hours’ good walking that the servants of Cedric, with
their mysterious guide, arrived at a small opening in the forest, in
the centre of which grew an oak-tree of enormous magnitude, throwing
its twisted branches in every direction. Beneath this tree four or five
yeomen lay stretched on the ground, while another, as sentinel, walked
to and fro in the moonlight shade.

Upon hearing the sound of feet approaching, the watch instantly gave the
alarm, and the sleepers as suddenly started up and bent their bows. Six
arrows placed on the string were pointed towards the quarter from which
the travellers approached, when their guide, being recognised, was
welcomed with every token of respect and attachment, and all signs and
fears of a rough reception at once subsided.

“Where is the Miller?” was his first question.

“On the road towards Rotherham.”

“With how many?” demanded the leader, for such he seemed to be.

“With six men, and good hope of booty, if it please St Nicholas.”

“Devoutly spoken,” said Locksley; “and where is Allan-a-Dale?”

“Walked up towards the Watling-street, to watch for the Prior of
Jorvaulx.”

“That is well thought on also,” replied the Captain;--“and where is the
Friar?”

“In his cell.”

“Thither will I go,” said Locksley. “Disperse and seek your companions.
Collect what force you can, for there’s game afoot that must be hunted
hard, and will turn to bay. Meet me here by daybreak.--And stay,” he
added, “I have forgotten what is most necessary of the whole--Two of
you take the road quickly towards Torquilstone, the Castle of
Front-de-Boeuf. A set of gallants, who have been masquerading in such
guise as our own, are carrying a band of prisoners thither--Watch them
closely, for even if they reach the castle before we collect our force,
our honour is concerned to punish them, and we will find means to do so.
Keep a close watch on them therefore; and dispatch one of your comrades,
the lightest of foot, to bring the news of the yeomen thereabout.”

They promised implicit obedience, and departed with alacrity on
their different errands. In the meanwhile, their leader and his two
companions, who now looked upon him with great respect, as well as some
fear, pursued their way to the Chapel of Copmanhurst.

When they had reached the little moonlight glade, having in front the
reverend, though ruinous chapel, and the rude hermitage, so well
suited to ascetic devotion, Wamba whispered to Gurth, “If this be the
habitation of a thief, it makes good the old proverb, The nearer the
church the farther from God.--And by my coxcomb,” he added, “I think it
be even so--Hearken but to the black sanctus which they are singing in
the hermitage!”

In fact the anchorite and his guest were performing, at the full extent
of their very powerful lungs, an old drinking song, of which this was
the burden:--

     “Come, trowl the brown bowl to me,
     Bully boy, bully boy,
     Come, trowl the brown bowl to me:
     Ho! jolly Jenkin, I spy a knave in drinking,
     Come, trowl the brown bowl to me.”

“Now, that is not ill sung,” said Wamba, who had thrown in a few of his
own flourishes to help out the chorus. “But who, in the saint’s name,
ever expected to have heard such a jolly chant come from out a hermit’s
cell at midnight!”

“Marry, that should I,” said Gurth, “for the jolly Clerk of Copmanhurst
is a known man, and kills half the deer that are stolen in this walk.
Men say that the keeper has complained to his official, and that he
will be stripped of his cowl and cope altogether, if he keeps not better
order.”

While they were thus speaking, Locksley’s loud and repeated knocks had
at length disturbed the anchorite and his guest. “By my beads,” said the
hermit, stopping short in a grand flourish, “here come more benighted
guests. I would not for my cowl that they found us in this goodly
exercise. All men have their enemies, good Sir Sluggard; and there be
those malignant enough to construe the hospitable refreshment which I
have been offering to you, a weary traveller, for the matter of three
short hours, into sheer drunkenness and debauchery, vices alike alien to
my profession and my disposition.”

“Base calumniators!” replied the knight; “I would I had the chastising
of them. Nevertheless, Holy Clerk, it is true that all have their
enemies; and there be those in this very land whom I would rather speak
to through the bars of my helmet than barefaced.”

“Get thine iron pot on thy head then, friend Sluggard, as quickly as
thy nature will permit,” said the hermit, “while I remove these pewter
flagons, whose late contents run strangely in mine own pate; and to
drown the clatter--for, in faith, I feel somewhat unsteady--strike into
the tune which thou hearest me sing; it is no matter for the words--I
scarce know them myself.”

So saying, he struck up a thundering “De profundis clamavi”, under cover
of which he removed the apparatus of their banquet: while the knight,
laughing heartily, and arming himself all the while, assisted his host
with his voice from time to time as his mirth permitted.

“What devil’s matins are you after at this hour?” said a voice from
without.

“Heaven forgive you, Sir Traveller!” said the hermit, whose own noise,
and perhaps his nocturnal potations, prevented from recognising accents
which were tolerably familiar to him--“Wend on your way, in the name of
God and Saint Dunstan, and disturb not the devotions of me and my holy
brother.”

“Mad priest,” answered the voice from without, “open to Locksley!”

“All’s safe--all’s right,” said the hermit to his companion.

“But who is he?” said the Black Knight; “it imports me much to know.”

“Who is he?” answered the hermit; “I tell thee he is a friend.”

“But what friend?” answered the knight; “for he may be friend to thee
and none of mine?”

“What friend?” replied the hermit; “that, now, is one of the questions
that is more easily asked than answered. What friend?--why, he is, now
that I bethink me a little, the very same honest keeper I told thee of a
while since.”

“Ay, as honest a keeper as thou art a pious hermit,” replied the knight,
“I doubt it not. But undo the door to him before he beat it from its
hinges.”

The dogs, in the meantime, which had made a dreadful baying at the
commencement of the disturbance, seemed now to recognise the voice
of him who stood without; for, totally changing their manner, they
scratched and whined at the door, as if interceding for his admission.
The hermit speedily unbolted his portal, and admitted Locksley, with his
two companions.

“Why, hermit,” was the yeoman’s first question as soon as he beheld the
knight, “what boon companion hast thou here?”

“A brother of our order,” replied the friar, shaking his head; “we have
been at our orisons all night.”

“He is a monk of the church militant, I think,” answered Locksley; “and
there be more of them abroad. I tell thee, friar, thou must lay down
the rosary and take up the quarter-staff; we shall need every one of our
merry men, whether clerk or layman.--But,” he added, taking him a step
aside, “art thou mad? to give admittance to a knight thou dost not know?
Hast thou forgot our articles?”

“Not know him!” replied the friar, boldly, “I know him as well as the
beggar knows his dish.”

“And what is his name, then?” demanded Locksley.

“His name,” said the hermit--“his name is Sir Anthony of
Scrabelstone--as if I would drink with a man, and did not know his
name!”

“Thou hast been drinking more than enough, friar,” said the woodsman,
“and, I fear, prating more than enough too.”

“Good yeoman,” said the knight, coming forward, “be not wroth with my
merry host. He did but afford me the hospitality which I would have
compelled from him if he had refused it.”

“Thou compel!” said the friar; “wait but till have changed this grey
gown for a green cassock, and if I make not a quarter-staff ring twelve
upon thy pate, I am neither true clerk nor good woodsman.”

While he spoke thus, he stript off his gown, and appeared in a close
black buckram doublet and drawers, over which he speedily did on a
cassock of green, and hose of the same colour. “I pray thee truss my
points,” said he to Wamba, “and thou shalt have a cup of sack for thy
labour.”

“Gramercy for thy sack,” said Wamba; “but think’st thou it is lawful
for me to aid you to transmew thyself from a holy hermit into a sinful
forester?”

“Never fear,” said the hermit; “I will but confess the sins of my green
cloak to my greyfriar’s frock, and all shall be well again.”

“Amen!” answered the Jester; “a broadcloth penitent should have a
sackcloth confessor, and your frock may absolve my motley doublet into
the bargain.”

So saying, he accommodated the friar with his assistance in tying the
endless number of points, as the laces which attached the hose to the
doublet were then termed.

While they were thus employed, Locksley led the knight a little apart,
and addressed him thus:--“Deny it not, Sir Knight--you are he who
decided the victory to the advantage of the English against the
strangers on the second day of the tournament at Ashby.”

“And what follows if you guess truly, good yeoman?” replied the knight.

“I should in that case hold you,” replied the yeoman, “a friend to the
weaker party.”

“Such is the duty of a true knight at least,” replied the Black
Champion; “and I would not willingly that there were reason to think
otherwise of me.”

“But for my purpose,” said the yeoman, “thou shouldst be as well a
good Englishman as a good knight; for that, which I have to speak of,
concerns, indeed, the duty of every honest man, but is more especially
that of a true-born native of England.”

“You can speak to no one,” replied the knight, “to whom England, and the
life of every Englishman, can be dearer than to me.”

“I would willingly believe so,” said the woodsman, “for never had this
country such need to be supported by those who love her. Hear me, and
I will tell thee of an enterprise, in which, if thou be’st really
that which thou seemest, thou mayst take an honourable part. A band
of villains, in the disguise of better men than themselves, have made
themselves master of the person of a noble Englishman, called Cedric
the Saxon, together with his ward, and his friend Athelstane of
Coningsburgh, and have transported them to a castle in this forest,
called Torquilstone. I ask of thee, as a good knight and a good
Englishman, wilt thou aid in their rescue?”

“I am bound by my vow to do so,” replied the knight; “but I would
willingly know who you are, who request my assistance in their behalf?”

“I am,” said the forester, “a nameless man; but I am the friend of my
country, and of my country’s friends--With this account of me you must
for the present remain satisfied, the more especially since you yourself
desire to continue unknown. Believe, however, that my word, when
pledged, is as inviolate as if I wore golden spurs.”

“I willingly believe it,” said the knight; “I have been accustomed
to study men’s countenances, and I can read in thine honesty and
resolution. I will, therefore, ask thee no further questions, but aid
thee in setting at freedom these oppressed captives; which done, I trust
we shall part better acquainted, and well satisfied with each other.”

“So,” said Wamba to Gurth,--for the friar being now fully equipped, the
Jester, having approached to the other side of the hut, had heard the
conclusion of the conversation,--“So we have got a new ally?--l trust
the valour of the knight will be truer metal than the religion of the
hermit, or the honesty of the yeoman; for this Locksley looks like a
born deer-stealer, and the priest like a lusty hypocrite.”

“Hold thy peace, Wamba,” said Gurth; “it may all be as thou dost guess;
but were the horned devil to rise and proffer me his assistance to
set at liberty Cedric and the Lady Rowena, I fear I should hardly have
religion enough to refuse the foul fiend’s offer, and bid him get behind
me.”

The friar was now completely accoutred as a yeoman, with sword and
buckler, bow, and quiver, and a strong partisan over his shoulder. He
left his cell at the head of the party, and, having carefully locked the
door, deposited the key under the threshold.

“Art thou in condition to do good service, friar,” said Locksley, “or
does the brown bowl still run in thy head?”

“Not more than a drought of St Dunstan’s fountain will allay,” answered
the priest; “something there is of a whizzing in my brain, and of
instability in my legs, but you shall presently see both pass away.”

So saying, he stepped to the stone basin, in which the waters of
the fountain as they fell formed bubbles which danced in the white
moonlight, and took so long a drought as if he had meant to exhaust the
spring.

“When didst thou drink as deep a drought of water before, Holy Clerk of
Copmanhurst?” said the Black Knight.

“Never since my wine-butt leaked, and let out its liquor by an illegal
vent,” replied the friar, “and so left me nothing to drink but my
patron’s bounty here.”

Then plunging his hands and head into the fountain, he washed from them
all marks of the midnight revel.

Thus refreshed and sobered, the jolly priest twirled his heavy partisan
round his head with three fingers, as if he had been balancing a reed,
exclaiming at the same time, “Where be those false ravishers, who carry
off wenches against their will? May the foul fiend fly off with me, if I
am not man enough for a dozen of them.”

“Swearest thou, Holy Clerk?” said the Black Knight.

“Clerk me no Clerks,” replied the transformed priest; “by Saint George
and the Dragon, I am no longer a shaveling than while my frock is on my
back--When I am cased in my green cassock, I will drink, swear, and woo
a lass, with any blithe forester in the West Riding.”

“Come on, Jack Priest,” said Locksley, “and be silent; thou art as noisy
as a whole convent on a holy eve, when the Father Abbot has gone to
bed.--Come on you, too, my masters, tarry not to talk of it--I say, come
on, we must collect all our forces, and few enough we shall have, if we
are to storm the Castle of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf.”

“What! is it Front-de-Boeuf,” said the Black Knight, “who has stopt on
the king’s highway the king’s liege subjects?--Is he turned thief and
oppressor?”

“Oppressor he ever was,” said Locksley.

“And for thief,” said the priest, “I doubt if ever he were even half so
honest a man as many a thief of my acquaintance.”

“Move on, priest, and be silent,” said the yeoman; “it were better you
led the way to the place of rendezvous, than say what should be left
unsaid, both in decency and prudence.”




CHAPTER XXI

     Alas, how many hours and years have past,
     Since human forms have round this table sate,
     Or lamp, or taper, on its surface gleam’d!
     Methinks, I hear the sound of time long pass’d
     Still murmuring o’er us, in the lofty void
     Of these dark arches, like the ling’ring voices
     Of those who long within their graves have slept.
     Orra, a Tragedy

While these measures were taking in behalf of Cedric and his companions,
the armed men by whom the latter had been seized, hurried their captives
along towards the place of security, where they intended to imprison
them. But darkness came on fast, and the paths of the wood seemed but
imperfectly known to the marauders. They were compelled to make several
long halts, and once or twice to return on their road to resume the
direction which they wished to pursue. The summer morn had dawned upon
them ere they could travel in full assurance that they held the right
path. But confidence returned with light, and the cavalcade now moved
rapidly forward. Meanwhile, the following dialogue took place between
the two leaders of the banditti.

“It is time thou shouldst leave us, Sir Maurice,” said the Templar to
De Bracy, “in order to prepare the second part of thy mystery. Thou art
next, thou knowest, to act the Knight Deliverer.”

“I have thought better of it,” said De Bracy; “I will not leave thee
till the prize is fairly deposited in Front-de-Boeuf’s castle. There
will I appear before the Lady Rowena in mine own shape, and trust that
she will set down to the vehemence of my passion the violence of which I
have been guilty.”

“And what has made thee change thy plan, De Bracy?” replied the Knight
Templar.

“That concerns thee nothing,” answered his companion.

“I would hope, however, Sir Knight,” said the Templar, “that this
alteration of measures arises from no suspicion of my honourable
meaning, such as Fitzurse endeavoured to instil into thee?”

“My thoughts are my own,” answered De Bracy; “the fiend laughs, they
say, when one thief robs another; and we know, that were he to spit fire
and brimstone instead, it would never prevent a Templar from following
his bent.”

“Or the leader of a Free Company,” answered the Templar, “from dreading
at the hands of a comrade and friend, the injustice he does to all
mankind.”

“This is unprofitable and perilous recrimination,” answered De Bracy;
“suffice it to say, I know the morals of the Temple-Order, and I will
not give thee the power of cheating me out of the fair prey for which I
have run such risks.”

“Psha,” replied the Templar, “what hast thou to fear?--Thou knowest the
vows of our order.”

“Right well,” said De Bracy, “and also how they are kept. Come,
Sir Templar, the laws of gallantry have a liberal interpretation in
Palestine, and this is a case in which I will trust nothing to your
conscience.”

“Hear the truth, then,” said the Templar; “I care not for your blue-eyed
beauty. There is in that train one who will make me a better mate.”

“What! wouldst thou stoop to the waiting damsel?” said De Bracy.

“No, Sir Knight,” said the Templar, haughtily. “To the waiting-woman
will I not stoop. I have a prize among the captives as lovely as thine
own.”

“By the mass, thou meanest the fair Jewess!” said De Bracy.

“And if I do,” said Bois-Guilbert, “who shall gainsay me?”

“No one that I know,” said De Bracy, “unless it be your vow of celibacy,
or a 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,
[26] beheld that direful conflict, in which, after displaying the most
undaunted valour, the King of Norway, and Tosti, both fell, with ten
thousand of their bravest followers. Who would have thought that upon
the proud day when this battle was won, the very gale which waved the
Saxon banners in triumph, was filling the Norman sails, and impelling
them to the fatal shores of Sussex?--Who would have thought that Harold,
within a few brief days, would himself possess no more of his kingdom,
than the share which he allotted in his wrath to the Norwegian
invader?--Who would have thought that you, noble Athelstane--that you,
descended of Harold’s blood, and that I, whose father was not the worst
defender of the Saxon crown, should be prisoners to a vile Norman, in
the very hall in which our ancestors held such high festival?”

“It is sad enough,” replied Athelstane; “but I trust they will hold us
to a moderate ransom--At any rate it cannot be their purpose to starve
us outright; and yet, although it is high noon, I see no preparations
for serving dinner. Look up at the window, noble Cedric, and judge by
the sunbeams if it is not on the verge of noon.”

“It may be so,” answered Cedric; “but I cannot look on that stained
lattice without its awakening other reflections than those which concern
the passing moment, or its privations. When that window was wrought, my
noble friend, our hardy fathers knew not the art of making glass, or
of staining it--The pride of Wolfganger’s father brought an artist from
Normandy to adorn his hall with this new species of emblazonment, that
breaks the golden light of God’s blessed day into so many fantastic
hues. The foreigner came here poor, beggarly, cringing, and subservient,
ready to doff his cap to the meanest native of the household. He
returned pampered and proud, to tell his rapacious countrymen of the
wealth and the simplicity of the Saxon nobles--a folly, oh, Athelstane,
foreboded of old, as well as foreseen, by those descendants of Hengist
and his hardy tribes, who retained the simplicity of their manners. We
made these strangers our bosom friends, our confidential servants;
we borrowed their artists and their arts, and despised the honest
simplicity and hardihood with which our brave ancestors supported
themselves, and we became enervated by Norman arts long ere we fell
under Norman arms. Far better was our homely diet, eaten in peace and
liberty, than the luxurious dainties, the love of which hath delivered
us as bondsmen to the foreign conqueror!”

“I should,” replied Athelstane, “hold very humble diet a luxury at
present; and it astonishes me, noble Cedric, that you can bear so truly
in mind the memory of past deeds, when it appeareth you forget the very
hour of dinner.”

“It is time lost,” muttered Cedric apart and impatiently, “to speak
to him of aught else but that which concerns his appetite! The soul of
Hardicanute hath taken possession of him, and he hath no pleasure save
to fill, to swill, and to call for more.--Alas!” said he, looking at
Athelstane with compassion, “that so dull a spirit should be lodged in
so goodly a form! Alas! that such an enterprise as the regeneration of
England should turn on a hinge so imperfect! Wedded to Rowena, indeed,
her nobler and more generous soul may yet awake the better nature which
is torpid within him. Yet how should this be, while Rowena, Athelstane,
and I myself, remain the prisoners of this brutal marauder and have
been made so perhaps from a sense of the dangers which our liberty might
bring to the usurped power of his nation?”

While the Saxon was plunged in these painful reflections, the door of
their prison opened, and gave entrance to a sewer, holding his white rod
of office. This important person advanced into the chamber with a grave
pace, followed by four attendants, bearing in a table covered
with dishes, the sight and smell of which seemed to be an instant
compensation to Athelstane for all the inconvenience he had undergone.
The persons who attended on the feast were masked and cloaked.

“What mummery is this?” said Cedric; “think you that we are ignorant
whose prisoners we are, when we are in the castle of your master?
Tell him,” he continued, willing to use this opportunity to open
a negotiation for his freedom,--“Tell your master, Reginald
Front-de-Boeuf, that we know no reason he can have for withholding our
liberty, excepting his unlawful desire to enrich himself at our expense.
Tell him that we yield to his rapacity, as in similar circumstances we
should do to that of a literal robber. Let him name the ransom at which
he rates our liberty, and it shall be paid, providing the exaction is
suited to our means.” The sewer made no answer, but bowed his head.

“And tell Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf,” said Athelstane, “that I send
him my mortal defiance, and challenge him to combat with me, on foot or
horseback, at any secure place, within eight days after our liberation;
which, if he be a true knight, he will not, under these circumstances,
venture to refuse or to delay.”

“I shall deliver to the knight your defiance,” answered the sewer;
“meanwhile I leave you to your food.”

The challenge of Athelstane was delivered with no good grace; for a
large mouthful, which required the exercise of both jaws at once, added
to a natural hesitation, considerably damped the effect of the bold
defiance it contained. Still, however, his speech was hailed by Cedric
as an incontestible token of reviving spirit in his companion, whose
previous indifference had begun, notwithstanding his respect for
Athelstane’s descent, to wear out his patience. But he now cordially
shook hands with him in token of his approbation, and was somewhat
grieved when Athelstane observed, “that he would fight a dozen such men
as Front-de-Boeuf, if, by so doing, he could hasten his departure from
a dungeon where they put so much garlic into their pottage.”
 Notwithstanding this intimation of a relapse into the apathy of
sensuality, Cedric placed himself opposite to Athelstane, and soon
showed, that if the distresses of his country could banish the
recollection of food while the table was uncovered, yet no sooner were
the victuals put there, than he proved that the appetite of his Saxon
ancestors had descended to him along with their other qualities.

The captives had not long enjoyed their refreshment, however, ere their
attention was disturbed even from this most serious occupation by the
blast of a horn winded before the gate. It was repeated three times,
with as much violence as if it had been blown before an enchanted castle
by the destined knight, at whose summons halls and towers, barbican and
battlement, were to roll off like a morning vapour. The Saxons started
from the table, and hastened to the window. But their curiosity was
disappointed; for these outlets only looked upon the court of the
castle, and the sound came from beyond its precincts. The summons,
however, seemed of importance, for a considerable degree of bustle
instantly took place in the castle.




CHAPTER XXII

     My daughter--O my ducats--O my daughter!
     ------O my Christian ducats!
     Justice--the Law--my ducats, and my daughter!
     --Merchant of Venice

Leaving the Saxon chiefs to return to their banquet as soon as their
ungratified curiosity should permit them to attend to the calls of their
half-satiated appetite, we have to look in upon the yet more severe
imprisonment of Isaac of York. The poor Jew had been hastily thrust into
a dungeon-vault of the castle, the floor of which was deep beneath
the level of the ground, and very damp, being lower than even the moat
itself. The only light was received through one or two loop-holes far
above the reach of the captive’s hand. These apertures admitted, even
at mid-day, only a dim and uncertain light, which was changed for utter
darkness long before the rest of the castle had lost the blessing of
day. Chains and shackles, which had been the portion of former captives,
from whom active exertions to escape had been apprehended, hung rusted
and empty on the walls of the prison, and in the rings of one of those
sets of fetters there remained two mouldering bones, which seemed to
have been once those of the human leg, as if some prisoner had been left
not only to perish there, but to be consumed to a skeleton.

At one end of this ghastly apartment was a large fire-grate, over the
top of which were stretched some transverse iron bars, half devoured
with rust.

The whole appearance of the dungeon might have appalled a stouter heart
than that of Isaac, who, nevertheless, was more composed under the
imminent pressure of danger, than he had seemed to be while affected by
terrors, of which the cause was as yet remote and contingent. The lovers
of the chase say that the hare feels more agony during the pursuit of
the greyhounds, than when she is struggling in their fangs. [27]

And thus it is probable, that the Jews, by the very frequency of their
fear on all occasions, had their minds in some degree prepared for
every effort of tyranny which could be practised upon them; so that no
aggression, when it had taken place, could bring with it that surprise
which is the most disabling quality of terror. Neither was it the first
time that Isaac had been placed in circumstances so dangerous. He had
therefore experience to guide him, as well as hope, that he might again,
as formerly, be delivered as a prey from the fowler. Above all, he had
upon his side the unyielding obstinacy of his nation, and that unbending
resolution, with which Israelites have been frequently known to submit
to the uttermost evils which power and violence can inflict upon them,
rather than gratify their oppressors by granting their demands.

In this humour of passive resistance, and with his garment collected
beneath him to keep his limbs from the wet pavement, Isaac sat in a
corner of his dungeon, where his folded hands, his dishevelled hair and
beard, his furred cloak and high cap, seen by the wiry and broken light,
would have afforded a study for Rembrandt, had that celebrated painter
existed at the period. The Jew remained, without altering his position,
for nearly three hours, at the expiry of which steps were heard on the
dungeon stair. The bolts screamed as they were withdrawn--the hinges
creaked as the wicket opened, and Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, followed by
the two Saracen slaves of the Templar, entered the prison.

Front-de-Boeuf, a tall and strong man, whose life had been spent in
public war or in private feuds and broils, and who had hesitated at no
means of extending his feudal power, had features corresponding to his
character, and which strongly expressed the fiercer and more malignant
passions of the mind. The scars with which his visage was seamed,
would, on features of a different cast, have excited the sympathy and
veneration due to the marks of honourable valour; but, in the peculiar
case of Front-de-Boeuf, they only added to the ferocity of his
countenance, and to the dread which his presence inspired. This
formidable baron was clad in a leathern doublet, fitted close to his
body, which was frayed and soiled with the stains of his armour. He
had no weapon, excepting a poniard at his belt, which served to
counterbalance the weight of the bunch of rusty keys that hung at his
right side.

The black slaves who attended Front-de-Boeuf were stripped of their
gorgeous apparel, and attired in jerkins and trowsers of coarse linen,
their sleeves being tucked up above the elbow, like those of butchers
when about to exercise their function in the slaughter-house. Each had
in his hand a small pannier; and, when they entered the dungeon, they
stopt at the door until Front-de-Boeuf himself carefully locked and
double-locked it. Having taken this precaution, he advanced slowly up
the apartment towards the Jew, upon whom he kept his eye fixed, as if
he wished to paralyze him with his glance, as some animals are said to
fascinate their prey. It seemed indeed as if the sullen and malignant
eye of Front-de-Boeuf possessed some portion of that supposed power over
his unfortunate prisoner. The Jew sat with his mouth agape, and his
eyes fixed on the savage baron with such earnestness of terror, that his
frame seemed literally to shrink together, and to diminish in size while
encountering the fierce Norman’s fixed and baleful gaze. The unhappy
Isaac was deprived not only of the power of rising to make the obeisance
which his terror dictated, but he could not even doff his cap, or utter
any word of supplication; so strongly was he agitated by the conviction
that tortures and death were impending over him.

On the other hand, the stately form of the Norman appeared to dilate
in magnitude, like that of the eagle, which ruffles up its plumage when
about to pounce on its defenceless prey. He paused within three steps
of the corner in which the unfortunate Jew had now, as it were, coiled
himself up into the smallest possible space, and made a sign for one of
the slaves to approach. The black satellite came forward accordingly,
and, producing from his basket a large pair of scales and several
weights, he laid them at the feet of Front-de-Boeuf, and again retired
to the respectful distance, at which his companion had already taken his
station.

The motions of these men were slow and solemn, as if there impended over
their souls some preconception of horror and of cruelty. Front-de-Boeuf
himself opened the scene by thus addressing his ill-fated captive.

“Most accursed dog of an accursed race,” he said, awaking with his deep
and sullen voice the sullen echoes of his dungeon vault, “seest thou
these scales?”

The unhappy Jew returned a feeble affirmative.

“In these very scales shalt thou weigh me out,” said the relentless
Baron, “a thousand silver pounds, after the just measure and weight of
the Tower of London.”

“Holy Abraham!” returned the Jew, finding voice through the very
extremity of his danger, “heard man ever such a demand?--Who ever
heard, even in a minstrel’s tale, of such a sum as a thousand pounds
of silver?--What human sight was ever blessed with the vision of such
a mass of treasure?--Not within the walls of York, ransack my house
and that of all my tribe, wilt thou find the tithe of that huge sum of
silver that thou speakest of.”

“I am reasonable,” answered Front-de-Boeuf, “and if silver be scant, I
refuse not gold. At the rate of a mark of gold for each six pounds of
silver, thou shalt free thy unbelieving carcass from such punishment as
thy heart has never even conceived.”

“Have mercy on me, noble knight!” exclaimed Isaac; “I am old, and poor,
and helpless. It were unworthy to triumph over me--It is a poor deed to
crush a worm.”

“Old thou mayst be,” replied the knight; “more shame to their folly who
have suffered thee to grow grey in usury and knavery--Feeble thou mayst
be, for when had a Jew either heart or hand--But rich it is well known
thou art.”

“I swear to you, noble knight,” said the Jew “by all which I believe,
and by all which we believe in common---”

“Perjure not thyself,” said the Norman, interrupting him, “and let not
thine obstinacy seal thy doom, until thou hast seen and well considered
the fate that awaits thee. Think not I speak to thee only to excite thy
terror, and practise on the base cowardice thou hast derived from thy
tribe. I swear to thee by that which thou dost NOT believe, by the
gospel which our church teaches, and by the keys which are given her to
bind and to loose, that my purpose is deep and peremptory. This
dungeon is no place for trifling. Prisoners ten thousand times more
distinguished than thou have died within these walls, and their fate
hath never been known! But for thee is reserved a long and lingering
death, to which theirs were luxury.”

He again made a signal for the slaves to approach, and spoke to them
apart, in their own language; for he also had been in Palestine, where
perhaps, he had learnt his lesson of cruelty. The Saracens produced from
their baskets a quantity of charcoal, a pair of bellows, and a flask
of oil. While the one struck a light with a flint and steel, the other
disposed the charcoal in the large rusty grate which we have already
mentioned, and exercised the bellows until the fuel came to a red glow.

“Seest thou, Isaac,” said Front-de-Boeuf, “the range of iron bars above
the glowing charcoal?-- [28] on that warm couch thou shalt lie, stripped
of thy clothes as if thou wert to rest on a bed of down. One of these
slaves shall maintain the fire beneath thee, while the other shall
anoint thy wretched limbs with oil, lest the roast should burn.--Now,
choose betwixt such a scorching bed and the payment of a thousand pounds
of silver; for, by the head of my father, thou hast no other option.”

“It is impossible,” exclaimed the miserable Jew--“it is impossible that
your purpose can be real! The good God of nature never made a heart
capable of exercising such cruelty!”

“Trust not to that, Isaac,” said Front-de-Boeuf, “it were a fatal error.
Dost thou think that I, who have seen a town sacked, in which thousands
of my Christian countrymen perished by sword, by flood, and by fire,
will blench from my purpose for the outcries or screams of one single
wretched Jew?--or thinkest thou that these swarthy slaves, who have
neither law, country, nor conscience, but their master’s will--who use
the poison, or the stake, or the poniard, or the cord, at his slightest
wink--thinkest thou that THEY will have mercy, who do not even
understand the language in which it is asked?--Be wise, old man;
discharge thyself of a portion of thy superfluous wealth; repay to the
hands of a Christian a part of what thou hast acquired by the usury thou
hast practised on those of his religion. Thy cunning may soon swell
out once more thy shrivelled purse, but neither leech nor medicine can
restore thy scorched hide and flesh wert thou once stretched on these
bars. Tell down thy ransom, I say, and rejoice that at such rate thou
canst redeem thee from a dungeon, the secrets of which few have returned
to tell. I waste no more words with thee--choose between thy dross and
thy flesh and blood, and as thou choosest, so shall it be.”

“So may Abraham, Jacob, and all the fathers of our people assist me,”
 said Isaac, “I cannot make the choice, because I have not the means of
satisfying your exorbitant demand!”

“Seize him and strip him, slaves,” said the knight, “and let the fathers
of his race assist him if they can.”

The assistants, taking their directions more from the Baron’s eye and
his hand than his tongue, once more stepped forward, laid hands on the
unfortunate Isaac, plucked him up from the ground, and, holding him
between them, waited the hard-hearted Baron’s farther signal. The
unhappy Jew eyed their countenances and that of Front-de-Boeuf, in
hope of discovering some symptoms of relenting; but that of the Baron
exhibited the same cold, half-sullen, half-sarcastic smile which had
been the prelude to his cruelty; and the savage eyes of the Saracens,
rolling gloomily under their dark brows, acquiring a yet more sinister
expression by the whiteness of the circle which surrounds the pupil,
evinced rather the secret pleasure which they expected from the
approaching scene, than any reluctance to be its directors or agents.
The Jew then looked at the glowing furnace, over which he was presently
to be stretched, and seeing no chance of his tormentor’s relenting, his
resolution gave way.

“I will pay,” he said, “the thousand pounds of silver--That is,” he
added, after a moment’s pause, “I will pay it with the help of my
brethren; for I must beg as a mendicant at the door of our synagogue ere
I make up so unheard-of a sum.--When and where must it be delivered?”

“Here,” replied Front-de-Boeuf, “here it must be delivered--weighed it
must be--weighed and told down on this very dungeon floor.--Thinkest
thou I will part with thee until thy ransom is secure?”

“And what is to be my surety,” said the Jew, “that I shall be at liberty
after this ransom is paid?”

“The word of a Norman noble, thou pawn-broking slave,” answered
Front-de-Boeuf; “the faith of a Norman nobleman, more pure than the gold
and silver of thee and all thy tribe.”

“I crave pardon, noble lord,” said Isaac timidly, “but wherefore should
I rely wholly on the word of one who will trust nothing to mine?”

“Because thou canst not help it, Jew,” said the knight, sternly. “Wert
thou now in thy treasure-chamber at York, and were I craving a loan of
thy shekels, it would be thine to dictate the time of payment, and the
pledge of security. This is MY treasure-chamber. Here I have thee at
advantage, nor will I again deign to repeat the terms on which I grant
thee liberty.”

The Jew groaned deeply.--“Grant me,” he said, “at least with my own
liberty, that of the companions with whom I travel. They scorned me as
a Jew, yet they pitied my desolation, and because they tarried to aid me
by the way, a share of my evil hath come upon them; moreover, they may
contribute in some sort to my ransom.”

“If thou meanest yonder Saxon churls,” said Front-de-Boeuf, “their
ransom will depend upon other terms than thine. Mind thine own concerns,
Jew, I warn thee, and meddle not with those of others.”

“I am, then,” said Isaac, “only to be set at liberty, together with mine
wounded friend?”

“Shall I twice recommend it,” said Front-de-Boeuf, “to a son of Israel,
to meddle with his own concerns, and leave those of others alone?--Since
thou hast made thy choice, it remains but that thou payest down thy
ransom, and that at a short day.”

“Yet hear me,” said the Jew--“for the sake of that very wealth which
thou wouldst obtain at the expense of thy---” Here he stopt short,
afraid of irritating the savage Norman. But Front-de-Boeuf only laughed,
and himself filled up the blank at which the Jew had hesitated.

“At the expense of my conscience, thou wouldst say, Isaac; speak it
out--I tell thee, I am reasonable. I can bear the reproaches of a loser,
even when that loser is a Jew. Thou wert not so patient, Isaac, when
thou didst invoke justice against Jacques Fitzdotterel, for calling thee
a usurious blood-sucker, when thy exactions had devoured his patrimony.”

“I swear by the Talmud,” said the Jew, “that your valour has been
misled in that matter. Fitzdotterel drew his poniard upon me in mine own
chamber, because I craved him for mine own silver. The term of payment
was due at the Passover.”

“I care not what he did,” said Front-de-Boeuf; “the question is, when
shall I have mine own?--when shall I have the shekels, Isaac?”

“Let my daughter Rebecca go forth to York,” answered Isaac, “with your
safe conduct, noble knight, and so soon as man and horse can return, the
treasure---” Here he groaned deeply, but added, after the pause of a few
seconds,--“The treasure shall be told down on this very floor.”

“Thy daughter!” said Front-de-Boeuf, as if surprised,--“By heavens,
Isaac, I would I had known of this. I deemed that yonder black-browed
girl had been thy concubine, and I gave her to be a handmaiden to Sir
Brian de Bois-Guilbert, after the fashion of patriarchs and heroes of
the days of old, who set us in these matters a wholesome example.”

The yell which Isaac raised at this unfeeling communication made the
very vault to ring, and astounded the two Saracens so much that they let
go their hold of the Jew. He availed himself of his enlargement to throw
himself on the pavement, and clasp the knees of Front-de-Boeuf.

“Take all that you have asked,” said he, “Sir Knight--take ten times
more--reduce me to ruin and to beggary, if thou wilt,--nay, pierce
me with thy poniard, broil me on that furnace, but spare my daughter,
deliver her in safety and honour!--As thou art born of woman, spare the
honour of a helpless maiden--She is the image of my deceased Rachel,
she is the last of six pledges of her love--Will you deprive a widowed
husband of his sole remaining comfort?--Will you reduce a father to wish
that his only living child were laid beside her dead mother, in the tomb
of our fathers?”

“I would,” said the Norman, somewhat relenting, “that I had known
of this before. I thought your race had loved nothing save their
moneybags.”

“Think not so vilely of us, Jews though we be,” said Isaac, eager to
improve the moment of apparent sympathy; “the hunted fox, the tortured
wildcat loves its young--the despised and persecuted race of Abraham
love their children!”

“Be it so,” said Front-de-Boeuf; “I will believe it in future, Isaac,
for thy very sake--but it aids us not now, I cannot help what has
happened, or what is to follow; my word is passed to my comrade in arms,
nor would I break it for ten Jews and Jewesses to boot. Besides, why
shouldst thou think evil is to come to the girl, even if she became
Bois-Guilbert’s booty?”

“There will, there must!” exclaimed Isaac, wringing his hands in agony;
“when did Templars breathe aught but cruelty to men, and dishonour to
women!”

“Dog of an infidel,” said Front-de-Boeuf, with sparkling eyes, and not
sorry, perhaps, to seize a pretext for working himself into a passion,
“blaspheme not the Holy Order of the Temple of Zion, but take thought
instead to pay me the ransom thou hast promised, or woe betide thy
Jewish throat!”

“Robber and villain!” said the Jew, retorting the insults of his
oppressor with passion, which, however impotent, he now found it
impossible to bridle, “I will pay thee nothing--not one silver penny
will I pay thee, unless my daughter is delivered to me in safety and
honour!”

“Art thou in thy senses, Israelite?” said the Norman, sternly--“has thy
flesh and blood a charm against heated iron and scalding oil?”

“I care not!” said the Jew, rendered desperate by paternal affection;
“do thy worst. My daughter is my flesh and blood, dearer to me a
thousand times than those limbs which thy cruelty threatens. No silver
will I give thee, unless I were to pour it molten down thy avaricious
throat--no, not a silver penny will I give thee, Nazarene, were it to
save thee from the deep damnation thy whole life has merited! Take my
life if thou wilt, and say, the Jew, amidst his tortures, knew how to
disappoint the Christian.”

“We shall see that,” said Front-de-Boeuf; “for by the blessed rood,
which is the abomination of thy accursed tribe, thou shalt feel the
extremities of fire and steel!--Strip him, slaves, and chain him down
upon the bars.”

In spite of the feeble struggles of the old man, the Saracens had
already torn from him his upper garment, and were proceeding totally to
disrobe him, when the sound of a bugle, twice winded without the castle,
penetrated even to the recesses of the dungeon, and immediately
after loud voices were heard calling for Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf.
Unwilling to be found engaged in his hellish occupation, the savage
Baron gave the slaves a signal to restore Isaac’s garment, and, quitting
the dungeon with his attendants, he left the Jew to thank God for
his own deliverance, or to lament over his daughter’s captivity,
and probable fate, as his personal or parental feelings might prove
strongest.




CHAPTER XXIII

     Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words
     Can no way change you to a milder form,
     I’ll woo you, like a soldier, at arms’ end,
     And love you ‘gainst the nature of love, force you.
     --Two Gentlemen of Verona

The apartment to which the Lady Rowena had been introduced was fitted
up with some rude attempts at ornament and magnificence, and her being
placed there might be considered as a peculiar mark of respect not
offered to the other prisoners. But the wife of Front-de-Boeuf, for whom
it had been originally furnished, was long dead, and decay and neglect
had impaired the few ornaments with which her taste had adorned it.
The tapestry hung down from the walls in many places, and in others
was tarnished and faded under the effects of the sun, or tattered and
decayed by age. Desolate, however, as it was, this was the apartment of
the castle which had been judged most fitting for the accommodation
of the Saxon heiress; and here she was left to meditate upon her fate,
until the actors in this nefarious drama had arranged the several parts
which each of them was to perform. This had been settled in a council
held by Front-de-Boeuf, De Bracy, and the Templar, in which, after
a long and warm debate concerning the several advantages which each
insisted upon deriving from his peculiar share in this audacious
enterprise, they had at length determined the fate of their unhappy
prisoners.

It was about the hour of noon, therefore, when De Bracy, for whose
advantage the expedition had been first planned, appeared to prosecute
his views upon the hand and possessions of the Lady Rowena.

The interval had not entirely been bestowed in holding council with his
confederates, for De Bracy had found leisure to decorate his person
with all the foppery of the times. His green cassock and vizard were
now flung aside. His long luxuriant hair was trained to flow in quaint
tresses down his richly furred cloak. His beard was closely shaved, his
doublet reached to the middle of his leg, and the girdle which secured
it, and at the same time supported his ponderous sword, was embroidered
and embossed with gold work. We have already noticed the extravagant
fashion of the shoes at this period, and the points of Maurice de
Bracy’s might have challenged the prize of extravagance with the gayest,
being turned up and twisted like the horns of a ram. Such was the dress
of a gallant of the period; and, in the present instance, that effect
was aided by the handsome person and good demeanour of the wearer, whose
manners partook alike of the grace of a courtier, and the frankness of a
soldier.

He saluted Rowena by doffing his velvet bonnet, garnished with a golden
broach, representing St Michael trampling down the Prince of Evil. With
this, he gently motioned the lady to a seat; and, as she still retained
her standing posture, the knight ungloved his right hand, and motioned
to conduct her thither. But Rowena declined, by her gesture, the
proffered compliment, and replied, “If I be in the presence of
my jailor, Sir Knight--nor will circumstances allow me to think
otherwise--it best becomes his prisoner to remain standing till she
learns her doom.”

“Alas! fair Rowena,” returned De Bracy, “you are in presence of your
captive, not your jailor; and it is from your fair eyes that De Bracy
must receive that doom which you fondly expect from him.”

“I know you not, sir,” said the lady, drawing herself up with all the
pride of offended rank and beauty; “I know you not--and the insolent
familiarity with which you apply to me the jargon of a troubadour, forms
no apology for the violence of a robber.”

“To thyself, fair maid,” answered De Bracy, in his former tone--“to
thine own charms be ascribed whate’er I have done which passed the
respect due to her, whom I have chosen queen of my heart, and lodestar
of my eyes.”

“I repeat to you, Sir Knight, that I know you not, and that no man
wearing chain and spurs ought thus to intrude himself upon the presence
of an unprotected lady.”

“That I am unknown to you,” said De Bracy, “is indeed my misfortune;
yet let me hope that De Bracy’s name has not been always unspoken, when
minstrels or heralds have praised deeds of chivalry, whether in the
lists or in the battle-field.”

“To heralds and to minstrels, then, leave thy praise, Sir Knight,”
 replied Rowena, “more suiting for their mouths than for thine own; and
tell me which of them shall record in song, or in book of tourney, the
memorable conquest of this night, a conquest obtained over an old man,
followed by a few timid hinds; and its booty, an unfortunate maiden,
transported against her will to the castle of a robber?”

“You are unjust, Lady Rowena,” said the knight, biting his lips in
some confusion, and speaking in a tone more natural to him than that of
affected gallantry, which he had at first adopted; “yourself free from
passion, you can allow no excuse for the frenzy of another, although
caused by your own beauty.”

“I pray you, Sir Knight,” said Rowena, “to cease a language so commonly
used by strolling minstrels, that it becomes not the mouth of knights or
nobles. Certes, you constrain me to sit down, since you enter upon such
commonplace terms, of which each vile crowder hath a stock that might
last from hence to Christmas.”

“Proud damsel,” said De Bracy, incensed at finding his gallant style
procured him nothing but contempt--“proud damsel, thou shalt be as
proudly encountered. Know then, that I have supported my pretensions to
your hand in the way that best suited thy character. It is meeter for
thy humour to be wooed with bow and bill, than in set terms, and in
courtly language.”

“Courtesy of tongue,” said Rowena, “when it is used to veil churlishness
of deed, is but a knight’s girdle around the breast of a base clown. I
wonder not that the restraint appears to gall you--more it were for your
honour to have retained the dress and language of an outlaw, than
to veil the deeds of one under an affectation of gentle language and
demeanour.”

“You counsel well, lady,” said the Norman; “and in the bold language
which best justifies bold action I tell thee, thou shalt never leave
this castle, or thou shalt leave it as Maurice de Bracy’s wife. I am
not wont to be baffled in my enterprises, nor needs a Norman noble
scrupulously to vindicate his conduct to the Saxon maiden whom he
distinguishes by the offer of his hand. Thou art proud, Rowena, and thou
art the fitter to be my wife. By what other means couldst thou be raised
to high honour and to princely place, saving by my alliance? How else
wouldst thou escape from the mean precincts of a country grange, where
Saxons herd with the swine which form their wealth, to take thy seat,
honoured as thou shouldst be, and shalt be, amid all in England that is
distinguished by beauty, or dignified by power?”

“Sir Knight,” replied Rowena, “the grange which you contemn hath been
my shelter from infancy; and, trust me, when I leave it--should that
day ever arrive--it shall be with one who has not learnt to despise the
dwelling and manners in which I have been brought up.”

“I guess your meaning, lady,” said De Bracy, “though you may think it
lies too obscure for my apprehension. But dream not, that Richard Coeur
de Lion will ever resume his throne, far less that Wilfred of Ivanhoe,
his minion, will ever lead thee to his footstool, to be there welcomed
as the bride of a favourite. Another suitor might feel jealousy while he
touched this string; but my firm purpose cannot be changed by a passion
so childish and so hopeless. Know, lady, that this rival is in my power,
and that it rests but with me to betray the secret of his being within
the castle to Front-de-Boeuf, whose jealousy will be more fatal than
mine.”

“Wilfred here?” said Rowena, in disdain; “that is as true as that
Front-de-Boeuf is his rival.”

De Bracy looked at her steadily for an instant.

“Wert thou really ignorant of this?” said he; “didst thou not know
that Wilfred of Ivanhoe travelled in the litter of the Jew?--a meet
conveyance for the crusader, whose doughty arm was to reconquer the Holy
Sepulchre!” And he laughed scornfully.

“And if he is here,” said Rowena, compelling herself to a tone of
indifference, though trembling with an agony of apprehension which she
could not suppress, “in what is he the rival of Front-de-Boeuf? or what
has he to fear beyond a short imprisonment, and an honourable ransom,
according to the use of chivalry?”

“Rowena,” said De Bracy, “art thou, too, deceived by the common error of
thy sex, who think there can be no rivalry but that respecting their own
charms? Knowest thou not there is a jealousy of ambition and of wealth,
as well as of love; and that this our host, Front-de-Boeuf, will push
from his road him who opposes his claim to the fair barony of Ivanhoe,
as readily, eagerly, and unscrupulously, as if he were preferred to him
by some blue-eyed damsel? But smile on my suit, lady, and the wounded
champion shall have nothing to fear from Front-de-Boeuf, whom else thou
mayst mourn for, as in the hands of one who has never shown compassion.”

“Save him, for the love of Heaven!” said Rowena, her firmness giving way
under terror for her lover’s impending fate.

“I can--I will--it is my purpose,” said De Bracy; “for, when Rowena
consents to be the bride of De Bracy, who is it shall dare to put forth
a violent hand upon her kinsman--the son of her guardian--the companion
of her youth? But it is thy love must buy his protection. I am not
romantic fool enough to further the fortune, or avert the fate, of one
who is likely to be a successful obstacle between me and my wishes. Use
thine influence with me in his behalf, and he is safe,--refuse to employ
it, Wilfred dies, and thou thyself art not the nearer to freedom.”

“Thy language,” answered Rowena, “hath in its indifferent bluntness
something which cannot be reconciled with the horrors it seems to
express. I believe not that thy purpose is so wicked, or thy power so
great.”

“Flatter thyself, then, with that belief,” said De Bracy, “until
time shall prove it false. Thy lover lies wounded in this castle--thy
preferred lover. He is a bar betwixt Front-de-Boeuf and that which
Front-de-Boeuf loves better than either ambition or beauty. What will
it cost beyond the blow of a poniard, or the thrust of a javelin, to
silence his opposition for ever? Nay, were Front-de-Boeuf afraid to
justify a deed so open, let the leech but give his patient a wrong
draught--let the chamberlain, or the nurse who tends him, but pluck
the pillow from his head, and Wilfred in his present condition, is sped
without the effusion of blood. Cedric also--”

“And Cedric also,” said Rowena, repeating his words; “my noble--my
generous guardian! I deserved the evil I have encountered, for
forgetting his fate even in that of his son!”

“Cedric’s fate also depends upon thy determination,” said De Bracy; “and
I leave thee to form it.”

Hitherto, Rowena had sustained her part in this trying scene with
undismayed courage, but it was because she had not considered the
danger as serious and imminent. Her disposition was naturally that which
physiognomists consider as proper to fair complexions, mild, timid,
and gentle; but it had been tempered, and, as it were, hardened, by the
circumstances of her education. Accustomed to see the will of all, even
of Cedric himself, (sufficiently arbitrary with others,) give way before
her wishes, she had acquired that sort of courage and self-confidence
which arises from the habitual and constant deference of the circle in
which we move. She could scarce conceive the possibility of her will
being opposed, far less that of its being treated with total disregard.

Her haughtiness and habit of domination was, therefore, a fictitious
character, induced over that which was natural to her, and it deserted
her when her eyes were opened to the extent of her own danger, as well
as that of her lover and her guardian; and when she found her will, the
slightest expression of which was wont to command respect and attention,
now placed in opposition to that of a man of a strong, fierce, and
determined mind, who possessed the advantage over her, and was resolved
to use it, she quailed before him.

After casting her eyes around, as if to look for the aid which was
nowhere to be found, and after a few broken interjections, she raised
her hands to heaven, and burst into a passion of uncontrolled vexation
and sorrow. It was impossible to see so beautiful a creature in such
extremity without feeling for her, and De Bracy was not unmoved, though
he was yet more embarrassed than touched. He had, in truth, gone too
far to recede; and yet, in Rowena’s present condition, she could not be
acted on either by argument or threats. He paced the apartment to and
fro, now vainly exhorting the terrified maiden to compose herself, now
hesitating concerning his own line of conduct.

If, thought he, I should be moved by the tears and sorrow of this
disconsolate damsel, what should I reap but the loss of these fair hopes
for which I have encountered so much risk, and the ridicule of Prince
John and his jovial comrades? “And yet,” he said to himself, “I feel
myself ill framed for the part which I am playing. I cannot look on so
fair a face while it is disturbed with agony, or on those eyes when they
are drowned in tears. I would she had retained her original haughtiness
of disposition, or that I had a larger share of Front-de-Boeuf’s
thrice-tempered hardness of heart!”

Agitated by these thoughts, he could only bid the unfortunate Rowena be
comforted, and assure her, that as yet she had no reason for the
excess of despair to which she was now giving way. But in this task of
consolation De Bracy was interrupted by the horn, “hoarse-winded blowing
far and keen,” which had at the same time alarmed the other inmates
of the castle, and interrupted their several plans of avarice and
of license. Of them all, perhaps, De Bracy least regretted the
interruption; for his conference with the Lady Rowena had arrived at a
point, where he found it equally difficult to prosecute or to resign his
enterprise.

And here we cannot but think it necessary to offer some better proof
than the incidents of an idle tale, to vindicate the melancholy
representation of manners which has been just laid before the reader. It
is grievous to think that those valiant barons, to whose stand against
the crown the liberties of England were indebted for their existence,
should themselves have been such dreadful oppressors, and capable of
excesses contrary not only to the laws of England, but to those of
nature and humanity. But, alas! we have only to extract from the
industrious Henry one of those numerous passages which he has collected
from contemporary historians, to prove that fiction itself can hardly
reach the dark reality of the horrors of the period.

The description given by the author of the Saxon Chronicle of the
cruelties exercised in the reign of King Stephen by the great barons and
lords of castles, who were all Normans, affords a strong proof of the
excesses of which they were capable when their passions were inflamed.
“They grievously oppressed the poor people by building castles; and when
they were built, they filled them with wicked men, or rather devils, who
seized both men and women who they imagined had any money, threw them
into prison, and put them to more cruel tortures than the martyrs ever
endured. They suffocated some in mud, and suspended others by the feet,
or the head, or the thumbs, kindling fires below them. They squeezed the
heads of some with knotted cords till they pierced their brains, while
they threw others into dungeons swarming with serpents, snakes, and
toads.” But it would be cruel to put the reader to the pain of perusing
the remainder of this description. [29]

As another instance of these bitter fruits of conquest, and perhaps the
strongest that can be quoted, we may mention, that the Princess Matilda,
though a daughter of the King of Scotland, and afterwards both Queen of
England, niece to Edgar Atheling, and mother to the Empress of Germany,
the daughter, the wife, and the mother of monarchs, was obliged, during
her early residence for education in England, to assume the veil of a
nun, as the only means of escaping the licentious pursuit of the Norman
nobles. This excuse she stated before a great council of the clergy of
England, as the sole reason for her having taken the religious habit.
The assembled clergy admitted the validity of the plea, and the
notoriety of the circumstances upon which it was founded; giving thus
an indubitable and most remarkable testimony to the existence of that
disgraceful license by which that age was stained. It was a matter of
public knowledge, they said, that after the conquest of King William,
his Norman followers, elated by so great a victory, acknowledged no
law but their own wicked pleasure, and not only despoiled the conquered
Saxons of their lands and their goods, but invaded the honour of their
wives and of their daughters with the most unbridled license; and hence
it was then common for matrons and maidens of noble families to assume
the veil, and take shelter in convents, not as called thither by the
vocation of God, but solely to preserve their honour from the unbridled
wickedness of man.

Such and so licentious were the times, as announced by the public
declaration of the assembled clergy, recorded by Eadmer; and we need add
nothing more to vindicate the probability of the scenes which we have
detailed, and are about to detail, upon the more apocryphal authority of
the Wardour MS.




CHAPTER XXIV

     I’ll woo her as the lion woos his bride.
     --Douglas

While the scenes we have described were passing in other parts of the
castle, the Jewess Rebecca awaited her fate in a distant and sequestered
turret. Hither she had been led by two of her disguised ravishers, and
on being thrust into the little cell, she found herself in the presence
of an old sibyl, who kept murmuring to herself a Saxon rhyme, as if to
beat time to the revolving dance which her spindle was performing upon
the floor. The hag raised her head as Rebecca entered, and scowled at
the fair Jewess with the malignant envy with which old age and ugliness,
when united with evil conditions, are apt to look upon youth and beauty.

“Thou must up and away, old house-cricket,” said one of the men; “our
noble master commands it--Thou must e’en leave this chamber to a fairer
guest.”

“Ay,” grumbled the hag, “even thus is service requited. I have known
when my bare word would have cast the best man-at-arms among ye out of
saddle and out of service; and now must I up and away at the command of
every groom such as thou.”

“Good Dame Urfried,” said the other man, “stand not to reason on it,
but up and away. Lords’ hests must be listened to with a quick ear. Thou
hast had thy day, old dame, but thy sun has long been set. Thou art now
the very emblem of an old war-horse turned out on the barren heath--thou
hast had thy paces in thy time, but now a broken amble is the best of
them--Come, amble off with thee.”

“Ill omens dog ye both!” said the old woman; “and a kennel be your
burying-place! May the evil demon Zernebock tear me limb from limb, if I
leave my own cell ere I have spun out the hemp on my distaff!”

“Answer it to our lord, then, old housefiend,” said the man, and
retired; leaving Rebecca in company with the old woman, upon whose
presence she had been thus unwillingly forced.

“What devil’s deed have they now in the wind?” said the old hag,
murmuring to herself, yet from time to time casting a sidelong and
malignant glance at Rebecca; “but it is easy to guess--Bright eyes,
black locks, and a skin like paper, ere the priest stains it with his
black unguent--Ay, it is easy to guess why they send her to this lone
turret, whence a shriek could no more be heard than at the depth of
five hundred fathoms beneath the earth.--Thou wilt have owls for thy
neighbours, fair one; and their screams will be heard as far, and as
much regarded, as thine own. Outlandish, too,” she said, marking the
dress and turban of Rebecca--“What country art thou of?--a Saracen?
or an Egyptian?--Why dost not answer?--thou canst weep, canst thou not
speak?”

“Be not angry, good mother,” said Rebecca.

“Thou needst say no more,” replied Urfried “men know a fox by the train,
and a Jewess by her tongue.”

“For the sake of mercy,” said Rebecca, “tell me what I am to expect as
the conclusion of the violence which hath dragged me hither! Is it
my life they seek, to atone for my religion? I will lay it down
cheerfully.”

“Thy life, minion?” answered the sibyl; “what would taking thy life
pleasure them?--Trust me, thy life is in no peril. Such usage shalt thou
have as was once thought good enough for a noble Saxon maiden. And shall
a Jewess, like thee, repine because she hath no better? Look at me--I
was as young and twice as fair as thou, when Front-de-Boeuf, father of
this Reginald, and his Normans, stormed this castle. My father and his
seven sons defended their inheritance from story to story, from chamber
to chamber--There was not a room, not a step of the stair, that was not
slippery with their blood. They died--they died every man; and ere their
bodies were cold, and ere their blood was dried, I had become the prey
and the scorn of the conqueror!”

“Is there no help?--Are there no means of escape?” said
Rebecca--“Richly, richly would I requite thine aid.”

“Think not of it,” said the hag; “from hence there is no escape but
through the gates of death; and it is late, late,” she added, shaking
her grey head, “ere these open to us--Yet it is comfort to think that we
leave behind us on earth those who shall be wretched as ourselves. Fare
thee well, Jewess!--Jew or Gentile, thy fate would be the same; for thou
hast to do with them that have neither scruple nor pity. Fare thee well,
I say. My thread is spun out--thy task is yet to begin.”

“Stay! stay! for Heaven’s sake!” said Rebecca; “stay, though it be to
curse and to revile me--thy presence is yet some protection.”

“The presence of the mother of God were no protection,” answered the old
woman. “There she stands,” pointing to a rude image of the Virgin Mary,
“see if she can avert the fate that awaits thee.”

She left the room as she spoke, her features writhed into a sort of
sneering laugh, which made them seem even more hideous than their
habitual frown. She locked the door behind her, and Rebecca might hear
her curse every step for its steepness, as slowly and with difficulty
she descended the turret-stair.

Rebecca was now to expect a fate even more dreadful than that of Rowena;
for what probability was there that either softness or ceremony would be
used towards one of her oppressed race, whatever shadow of these might
be preserved towards a Saxon heiress? Yet had the Jewess this advantage,
that she was better prepared by habits of thought, and by natural
strength of mind, to encounter the dangers to which she was exposed. Of
a strong and observing character, even from her earliest years, the pomp
and wealth which her father displayed within his walls, or which she
witnessed in the houses of other wealthy Hebrews, had not been able to
blind her to the precarious circumstances under which they were enjoyed.
Like Damocles at his celebrated banquet, Rebecca perpetually beheld,
amid that gorgeous display, the sword which was suspended over the heads
of her people by a single hair. These reflections had tamed and brought
down to a pitch of sounder judgment a temper, which, under other
circumstances, might have waxed haughty, supercilious, and obstinate.

From her father’s example and injunctions, Rebecca had learnt to bear
herself courteously towards all who approached her. She could not indeed
imitate his excess of subservience, because she was a stranger to the
meanness of mind, and to the constant state of timid apprehension, by
which it was dictated; but she bore herself with a proud humility, as
if submitting to the evil circumstances in which she was placed as
the daughter of a despised race, while she felt in her mind the
consciousness that she was entitled to hold a higher rank from her
merit, than the arbitrary despotism of religious prejudice permitted her
to aspire to.

Thus prepared to expect adverse circumstances, she had acquired the
firmness necessary for acting under them. Her present situation required
all her presence of mind, and she summoned it up accordingly.

Her first care was to inspect the apartment; but it afforded few hopes
either of escape or protection. It contained neither secret passage nor
trap-door, and unless where the door by which she had entered joined the
main building, seemed to be circumscribed by the round exterior wall of
the turret. The door had no inside bolt or bar. The single window opened
upon an embattled space surmounting the turret, which gave Rebecca,
at first sight, some hopes of escaping; but she soon found it had no
communication with any other part of the battlements, being an isolated
bartisan, or balcony, secured, as usual, by a parapet, with embrasures,
at which a few archers might be stationed for defending the turret, and
flanking with their shot the wall of the castle on that side.

There was therefore no hope but in passive fortitude, and in that strong
reliance on Heaven natural to great and generous characters. Rebecca,
however erroneously taught to interpret the promises of Scripture to
the chosen people of Heaven, did not err in supposing the present to be
their hour of trial, or in trusting that the children of Zion would be
one day called in with the fulness of the Gentiles. In the meanwhile,
all around her showed that their present state was that of punishment
and probation, and that it was their especial duty to suffer without
sinning. Thus prepared to consider herself as the victim of misfortune,
Rebecca had early reflected upon her own state, and schooled her mind to
meet the dangers which she had probably to encounter.

The prisoner trembled, however, and changed colour, when a step was
heard on the stair, and the door of the turret-chamber slowly opened,
and a tall man, dressed as one of those banditti to whom they owed
their misfortune, slowly entered, and shut the door behind him; his cap,
pulled down upon his brows, concealed the upper part of his face, and he
held his mantle in such a manner as to muffle the rest. In this guise,
as if prepared for the execution of some deed, at the thought of which
he was himself ashamed, he stood before the affrighted prisoner; yet,
ruffian as his dress bespoke him, he seemed at a loss to express what
purpose had brought him thither, so that Rebecca, making an effort
upon herself, had time to anticipate his explanation. She had already
unclasped two costly bracelets and a collar, which she hastened to
proffer to the supposed outlaw, concluding naturally that to gratify his
avarice was to bespeak his favour.

“Take these,” she said, “good friend, and for God’s sake be merciful
to me and my aged father! These ornaments are of value, yet are they
trifling to what he would bestow to obtain our dismissal from this
castle, free and uninjured.”

“Fair flower of Palestine,” replied the outlaw, “these pearls are
orient, but they yield in whiteness to your teeth; the diamonds are
brilliant, but they cannot match your eyes; and ever since I have taken
up this wild trade, I have made a vow to prefer beauty to wealth.”

“Do not do yourself such wrong,” said Rebecca; “take ransom, and have
mercy!--Gold will purchase you pleasure,--to misuse us, could only bring
thee remorse. My father will willingly satiate thy utmost wishes; and
if thou wilt act wisely, thou mayst purchase with our spoils thy
restoration to civil society--mayst obtain pardon for past errors, and
be placed beyond the necessity of committing more.”

“It is well spoken,” replied the outlaw in French, finding it difficult
probably to sustain, in Saxon, a conversation which Rebecca had opened
in that language; “but know, bright lily of the vale of Baca! that thy
father is already in the hands of a powerful alchemist, who knows how to
convert into gold and silver even the rusty bars of a dungeon grate. The
venerable Isaac is subjected to an alembic, which will distil from
him all he holds dear, without any assistance from my requests or thy
entreaty. The ransom must be paid by love and beauty, and in no other
coin will I accept it.”

“Thou art no outlaw,” said Rebecca, in the same language in which he
addressed her; “no outlaw had refused such offers. No outlaw in this
land uses the dialect in which thou hast spoken. Thou art no outlaw, but
a Norman--a Norman, noble perhaps in birth--O, be so in thy actions, and
cast off this fearful mask of outrage and violence!”

“And thou, who canst guess so truly,” said Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
dropping the mantle from his face, “art no true daughter of Israel,
but in all, save youth and beauty, a very witch of Endor. I am not an
outlaw, then, fair rose of Sharon. And I am one who will be more prompt
to hang thy neck and arms with pearls and diamonds, which so well become
them, than to deprive thee of these ornaments.”

“What wouldst thou have of me,” said Rebecca, “if not my wealth?--We
can have nought in common between us--you are a Christian--I am a
Jewess.--Our union were contrary to the laws, alike of the church and
the synagogue.”

“It were so, indeed,” replied the Templar, laughing; “wed with a Jewess?
‘Despardieux!’--Not if she were the Queen of Sheba! And know, besides,
sweet daughter of Zion, that were the most Christian king to offer me
his most Christian daughter, with Languedoc for a dowery, I could not
wed her. It is against my vow to love any maiden, otherwise than ‘par
amours’, as I will love thee. I am a Templar. Behold the cross of my
Holy Order.”

“Darest thou appeal to it,” said Rebecca, “on an occasion like the
present?”

“And if I do so,” said the Templar, “it concerns not thee, who art no
believer in the blessed sign of our salvation.”

“I believe as my fathers taught,” said Rebecca; “and may God forgive my
belief if erroneous! But you, Sir Knight, what is yours, when you appeal
without scruple to that which you deem most holy, even while you are
about to transgress the most solemn of your vows as a knight, and as a
man of religion?”

“It is gravely and well preached, O daughter of Sirach!” answered the
Templar; “but, gentle Ecclesiastics, thy narrow Jewish prejudices make
thee blind to our high privilege. Marriage were an enduring crime on
the part of a Templar; but what lesser folly I may practise, I shall
speedily be absolved from at the next Preceptory of our Order. Not the
wisest of monarchs, not his father, whose examples you must needs allow
are weighty, claimed wider privileges than we poor soldiers of the
Temple of Zion have won by our zeal in its defence. The protectors of
Solomon’s Temple may claim license by the example of Solomon.”

“If thou readest the Scripture,” said the Jewess, “and the lives of the
saints, only to justify thine own license and profligacy, thy crime
is like that of him who extracts poison from the most healthful and
necessary herbs.”

The eyes of the Templar flashed fire at this reproof--“Hearken,” he
said, “Rebecca; I have hitherto spoken mildly to thee, but now my
language shall be that of a conqueror. Thou art the captive of my bow
and spear--subject to my will by the laws of all nations; nor will I
abate an inch of my right, or abstain from taking by violence what thou
refusest to entreaty or necessity.”

“Stand back,” said Rebecca--“stand back, and hear me ere thou offerest
to commit a sin so deadly! My strength thou mayst indeed overpower for
God made women weak, and trusted their defence to man’s generosity. But
I will proclaim thy villainy, Templar, from one end of Europe to
the other. I will owe to the superstition of thy brethren what their
compassion might refuse me, Each Preceptory--each Chapter of thy Order,
shall learn, that, like a heretic, thou hast sinned with a Jewess. Those
who tremble not at thy crime, will hold thee accursed for having so
far dishonoured the cross thou wearest, as to follow a daughter of my
people.”

“Thou art keen-witted, Jewess,” replied the Templar, well aware of the
truth of what she spoke, and that the rules of his Order condemned in
the most positive manner, and under high penalties, such intrigues as
he now prosecuted, and that, in some instances, even degradation had
followed upon it--“thou art sharp-witted,” he said; “but loud must be
thy voice of complaint, if it is heard beyond the iron walls of this
castle; within these, murmurs, laments, appeals to justice, and screams
for help, die alike silent away. One thing only can save thee, Rebecca.
Submit to thy fate--embrace our religion, and thou shalt go forth in
such state, that many a Norman lady shall yield as well in pomp as in
beauty to the favourite of the best lance among the defenders of the
Temple.”

“Submit to my fate!” said Rebecca--“and, sacred Heaven! to what
fate?--embrace thy religion! and what religion can it be that
harbours such a villain?--THOU the best lance of the Templars!--Craven
knight!--forsworn priest! I spit at thee, and I defy thee.--The God of
Abraham’s promise hath opened an escape to his daughter--even from this
abyss of infamy!”

As she spoke, she threw open the latticed window which led to the
bartisan, and in an instant after, stood on the very verge of the
parapet, with not the slightest screen between her and the tremendous
depth below. Unprepared for such a desperate effort, for she had
hitherto stood perfectly motionless, Bois-Guilbert had neither time
to intercept nor to stop her. As he offered to advance, she exclaimed,
“Remain where thou art, proud Templar, or at thy choice advance!--one
foot nearer, and I plunge myself from the precipice; my body shall
be crushed out of the very form of humanity upon the stones of that
court-yard, ere it become the victim of thy brutality!”

As she spoke this, she clasped her hands and extended them towards
heaven, as if imploring mercy on her soul before she made the final
plunge. The Templar hesitated, and a resolution which had never yielded
to pity or distress, gave way to his admiration of her fortitude. “Come
down,” he said, “rash girl!--I swear by earth, and sea, and sky, I will
offer thee no offence.”

“I will not trust thee, Templar,” said Rebecca; “thou hast taught me
better how to estimate the virtues of thine Order. The next Preceptory
would grant thee absolution for an oath, the keeping of which concerned
nought but the honour or the dishonour of a miserable Jewish maiden.”

“You do me injustice,” exclaimed the Templar fervently; “I swear to you
by the name which I bear--by the cross on my bosom--by the sword on my
side--by the ancient crest of my fathers do I swear, I will do thee
no injury whatsoever! If not for thyself, yet for thy father’s sake
forbear! I will be his friend, and in this castle he will need a
powerful one.”

“Alas!” said Rebecca, “I know it but too well--dare I trust thee?”

“May my arms be reversed, and my name dishonoured,” said Brian de
Bois-Guilbert, “if thou shalt have reason to complain of me! Many a law,
many a commandment have I broken, but my word never.”

“I will then trust thee,” said Rebecca, “thus far;” and she descended
from the verge of the battlement, but remained standing close by one of
the embrasures, or “machicolles”, as they were then called.--“Here,” she
said, “I take my stand. Remain where thou art, and if thou shalt attempt
to diminish by one step the distance now between us, thou shalt see that
the Jewish maiden will rather trust her soul with God, than her honour
to the Templar!”

While Rebecca spoke thus, her high and firm resolve, which corresponded
so well with the expressive beauty of her countenance, gave to her
looks, air, and manner, a dignity that seemed more than mortal. Her
glance quailed not, her cheek blanched not, for the fear of a fate so
instant and so horrible; on the contrary, the thought that she had her
fate at her command, and could escape at will from infamy to death,
gave a yet deeper colour of carnation to her complexion, and a yet
more brilliant fire to her eye. Bois-Guilbert, proud himself and
high-spirited, thought he had never beheld beauty so animated and so
commanding.

“Let there be peace between us, Rebecca,” he said.

“Peace, if thou wilt,” answered Rebecca--“Peace--but with this space
between.”

“Thou needst no longer fear me,” said Bois-Guilbert.

“I fear thee not,” replied she; “thanks to him that reared this dizzy
tower so high, that nought could fall from it and live--thanks to him,
and to the God of Israel!--I fear thee not.”

“Thou dost me injustice,” said the Templar; “by earth, sea, and sky,
thou dost me injustice! I am not naturally that which you have seen me,
hard, selfish, and relentless. It was woman that taught me cruelty, and
on woman therefore I have exercised it; but not upon such as thou. Hear
me, Rebecca--Never did knight take lance in his hand with a heart more
devoted to the lady of his love than Brian de Bois-Guilbert. She, the
daughter of a petty baron, who boasted for all his domains but a ruinous
tower, and an unproductive vineyard, and some few leagues of the barren
Landes of Bourdeaux, her name was known wherever deeds of arms were
done, known wider than that of many a lady’s that had a county for a
dowery.--Yes,” he continued, pacing up and down the little platform,
with an animation in which he seemed to lose all consciousness of
Rebecca’s presence--“Yes, my deeds, my danger, my blood, made the name
of Adelaide de Montemare known from the court of Castile to that of
Byzantium. And how was I requited?--When I returned with my dear-bought
honours, purchased by toil and blood, I found her wedded to a Gascon
squire, whose name was never heard beyond the limits of his own paltry
domain! Truly did I love her, and bitterly did I revenge me of her
broken faith! But my vengeance has recoiled on myself. Since that day
I have separated myself from life and its ties--My manhood must know no
domestic home--must be soothed by no affectionate wife--My age must
know no kindly hearth--My grave must be solitary, and no offspring must
outlive me, to bear the ancient name of Bois-Guilbert. At the feet of
my Superior I have laid down the right of self-action--the privilege
of independence. The Templar, a serf in all but the name, can possess
neither lands nor goods, and lives, moves, and breathes, but at the will
and pleasure of another.”

“Alas!” said Rebecca, “what advantages could compensate for such an
absolute sacrifice?”

“The power of vengeance, Rebecca,” replied the Templar, “and the
prospects of ambition.”

“An evil recompense,” said Rebecca, “for the surrender of the rights
which are dearest to humanity.”

“Say not so, maiden,” answered the Templar; “revenge is a feast for the
gods! And if they have reserved it, as priests tell us, to themselves,
it is because they hold it an enjoyment too precious for the possession
of mere mortals.--And ambition? it is a temptation which could disturb
even the bliss of heaven itself.”--He paused a moment, and then added,
“Rebecca! she who could prefer death to dishonour, must have a proud and
a powerful soul. Mine thou must be!--Nay, start not,” he added, “it must
be with thine own consent, and on thine own terms. Thou must consent to
share with me hopes more extended than can be viewed from the throne
of a monarch!--Hear me ere you answer and judge ere you refuse.--The
Templar loses, as thou hast said, his social rights, his power of free
agency, but he becomes a member and a limb of a mighty body, before
which thrones already tremble,--even as the single drop of rain which
mixes with the sea becomes an individual part of that resistless ocean,
which undermines rocks and ingulfs royal armadas. Such a swelling flood
is that powerful league. Of this mighty Order I am no mean member, but
already one of the Chief Commanders, and may well aspire one day to hold
the batoon of Grand Master. The poor soldiers of the Temple will not
alone place their foot upon the necks of kings--a hemp-sandall’d monk
can do that. Our mailed step shall ascend their throne--our gauntlet
shall wrench the sceptre from their gripe. Not the reign of your
vainly-expected Messiah offers such power to your dispersed tribes as my
ambition may aim at. I have sought but a kindred spirit to share it, and
I have found such in thee.”

“Sayest thou this to one of my people?” answered Rebecca. “Bethink
thee--”

“Answer me not,” said the Templar, “by urging the difference of our
creeds; within our secret conclaves we hold these nursery tales in
derision. Think not we long remained blind to the idiotical folly of our
founders, who forswore every delight of life for the pleasure of dying
martyrs by hunger, by thirst, and by pestilence, and by the swords of
savages, while they vainly strove to defend a barren desert, valuable
only in the eyes of superstition. Our Order soon adopted bolder and
wider views, and found out a better indemnification for our sacrifices.
Our immense possessions in every kingdom of Europe, our high military
fame, which brings within our circle the flower of chivalry from every
Christian clime--these are dedicated to ends of which our pious founders
little dreamed, and which are equally concealed from such weak spirits
as embrace our Order on the ancient principles, and whose superstition
makes them our passive tools. But I will not further withdraw the veil
of our mysteries. That bugle-sound announces something which may require
my presence. Think on what I have said.--Farewell!--I do not say forgive
me the violence I have threatened, for it was necessary to the display
of thy character. Gold can be only known by the application of the
touchstone. I will soon return, and hold further conference with thee.”

He re-entered the turret-chamber, and descended the stair, leaving
Rebecca scarcely more terrified at the prospect of the death to which
she had been so lately exposed, than at the furious ambition of the bold
bad man in whose power she found herself so unhappily placed. When she
entered the turret-chamber, her first duty was to return thanks to
the God of Jacob for the protection which he had afforded her, and to
implore its continuance for her and for her father. Another name glided
into her petition--it was that of the wounded Christian, whom fate had
placed in the hands of bloodthirsty men, his avowed enemies. Her heart
indeed checked her, as if, even in communing with the Deity in prayer,
she mingled in her devotions the recollection of one with whose fate
hers could have no alliance--a Nazarene, and an enemy to her faith. But
the petition was already breathed, nor could all the narrow prejudices
of her sect induce Rebecca to wish it recalled.




CHAPTER XXV

  A damn’d cramp piece of penmanship as ever I saw in my life!
  --She Stoops to Conquer

When the Templar reached the hall of the castle, he found De Bracy
already there. “Your love-suit,” said De Bracy, “hath, I suppose, been
disturbed, like mine, by this obstreperous summons. But you have come
later and more reluctantly, and therefore I presume your interview has
proved more agreeable than mine.”

“Has your suit, then, been unsuccessfully paid to the Saxon heiress?”
 said the Templar.

“By the bones of Thomas a Becket,” answered De Bracy, “the Lady Rowena
must have heard that I cannot endure the sight of women’s tears.”

“Away!” said the Templar; “thou a leader of a Free Company, and regard
a woman’s tears! A few drops sprinkled on the torch of love, make the
flame blaze the brighter.”

“Gramercy for the few drops of thy sprinkling,” replied De Bracy; “but
this damsel hath wept enough to extinguish a beacon-light. Never was
such wringing of hands and such overflowing of eyes, since the days of
St Niobe, of whom Prior Aymer told us. [30] A water-fiend hath possessed
the fair Saxon.”

“A legion of fiends have occupied the bosom of the Jewess,” replied the
Templar; “for, I think no single one, not even Apollyon himself, could
have inspired such indomitable pride and resolution.--But where is
Front-de-Boeuf? That horn is sounded more and more clamorously.”

“He is negotiating with the Jew, I suppose,” replied De Bracy, coolly;
“probably the howls of Isaac have drowned the blast of the bugle.
Thou mayst know, by experience, Sir Brian, that a Jew parting with his
treasures on such terms as our friend Front-de-Boeuf is like to offer,
will raise a clamour loud enough to be heard over twenty horns and
trumpets to boot. But we will make the vassals call him.”

They were soon after joined by Front-de-Boeuf, who had been disturbed in
his tyrannic cruelty in the manner with which the reader is acquainted,
and had only tarried to give some necessary directions.

“Let us see the cause of this cursed clamour,” said
Front-de-Boeuf--“here is a letter, and, if I mistake not, it is in
Saxon.”

He looked at it, turning it round and round as if he had had really some
hopes of coming at the meaning by inverting the position of the paper,
and then handed it to De Bracy.

“It may be magic spells for aught I know,” said De Bracy, who possessed
his full proportion of the ignorance which characterised the chivalry of
the period. “Our chaplain attempted to teach me to write,” he said, “but
all my letters were formed like spear-heads and sword-blades, and so the
old shaveling gave up the task.”

“Give it me,” said the Templar. “We have that of the priestly character,
that we have some knowledge to enlighten our valour.”

“Let us profit by your most reverend knowledge, then,” said De Bracy;
“what says the scroll?”

“It is a formal letter of defiance,” answered the Templar; “but, by
our Lady of Bethlehem, if it be not a foolish jest, it is the most
extraordinary cartel that ever was sent across the drawbridge of a
baronial castle.”

“Jest!” said Front-de-Boeuf, “I would gladly know who dares jest with me
in such a matter!--Read it, Sir Brian.”

The Templar accordingly read it as follows:--“I, Wamba, the son of
Witless, Jester to a noble and free-born man, Cedric of Rotherwood,
called the Saxon,--And I, Gurth, the son of Beowulph, the swineherd---”

“Thou art mad,” said Front-de-Boeuf, interrupting the reader.

“By St Luke, it is so set down,” answered the Templar. Then resuming his
task, he went on,--“I, Gurth, the son of Beowulph, swineherd unto the
said Cedric, with the assistance of our allies and confederates, who
make common cause with us in this our feud, namely, the good knight,
called for the present ‘Le Noir Faineant’, and the stout yeoman, Robert
Locksley, called Cleave-the-Wand. Do you, Reginald Front de-Boeuf, and
your allies and accomplices whomsoever, to wit, that whereas you have,
without cause given or feud declared, wrongfully and by mastery seized
upon the person of our lord and master the said Cedric; also upon
the person of a noble and freeborn damsel, the Lady Rowena of
Hargottstandstede; also upon the person of a noble and freeborn man,
Athelstane of Coningsburgh; also upon the persons of certain freeborn
men, their ‘cnichts’; also upon certain serfs, their born bondsmen; also
upon a certain Jew, named Isaac of York, together with his daughter, a
Jewess, and certain horses and mules: Which noble persons, with their
‘cnichts’ and slaves, and also with the horses and mules, Jew and Jewess
beforesaid, were all in peace with his majesty, and travelling as liege
subjects upon the king’s highway; therefore we require and demand
that the said noble persons, namely, Cedric of Rotherwood, Rowena of
Hargottstandstede, Athelstane of Coningsburgh, with their servants,
‘cnichts’, and followers, also the horses and mules, Jew and Jewess
aforesaid, together with all goods and chattels to them pertaining, be,
within an hour after the delivery hereof, delivered to us, or to those
whom we shall appoint to receive the same, and that untouched and
unharmed in body and goods. Failing of which, we do pronounce to you,
that we hold ye as robbers and traitors, and will wager our bodies
against ye in battle, siege, or otherwise, and do our utmost to
your annoyance and destruction. Wherefore may God have you in his
keeping.--Signed by us upon the eve of St Withold’s day, under the great
trysting oak in the Hart-hill Walk, the above being written by a
holy man, Clerk to God, our Lady, and St Dunstan, in the Chapel of
Copmanhurst.”

At the bottom of this document was scrawled, in the first place, a
rude sketch of a cock’s head and comb, with a legend expressing this
hieroglyphic to be the sign-manual of Wamba, son of Witless. Under this
respectable emblem stood a cross, stated to be the mark of Gurth, the
son of Beowulph. Then was written, in rough bold characters, the words,
“Le Noir Faineant”. And, to conclude the whole, an arrow, neatly enough
drawn, was described as the mark of the yeoman Locksley.

The knights heard this uncommon document read from end to end, and then
gazed upon each other in silent amazement, as being utterly at a loss to
know what it could portend. De Bracy was the first to break silence by
an uncontrollable fit of laughter, wherein he was joined, though with
more moderation, by the Templar. Front-de-Boeuf, on the contrary, seemed
impatient of their ill-timed jocularity.

“I give you plain warning,” he said, “fair sirs, that you had better
consult how to bear yourselves under these circumstances, than give way
to such misplaced merriment.”

“Front-de-Boeuf has not recovered his temper since his late overthrow,”
 said De Bracy to the Templar; “he is cowed at the very idea of a cartel,
though it come but from a fool and a swineherd.”

“By St Michael,” answered Front-de-Boeuf, “I would thou couldst stand
the whole brunt of this adventure thyself, De Bracy. These fellows dared
not have acted with such inconceivable impudence, had they not been
supported by some strong bands. There are enough of outlaws in this
forest to resent my protecting the deer. I did but tie one fellow, who
was taken redhanded and in the fact, to the horns of a wild stag, which
gored him to death in five minutes, and I had as many arrows shot at me
as there were launched against yonder target at Ashby.--Here, fellow,”
 he added, to one of his attendants, “hast thou sent out to see by what
force this precious challenge is to be supported?”

“There are at least two hundred men assembled in the woods,” answered a
squire who was in attendance.

“Here is a proper matter!” said Front-de-Boeuf, “this comes of lending
you the use of my castle, that cannot manage your undertaking quietly,
but you must bring this nest of hornets about my ears!”

“Of hornets?” said De Bracy; “of stingless drones rather; a band of lazy
knaves, who take to the wood, and destroy the venison rather than labour
for their maintenance.”

“Stingless!” replied Front-de-Boeuf; “fork-headed shafts of a cloth-yard
in length, and these shot within the breadth of a French crown, are
sting enough.”

“For shame, Sir Knight!” said the Templar. “Let us summon our people,
and sally forth upon them. One knight--ay, one man-at-arms, were enough
for twenty such peasants.”

“Enough, and too much,” said De Bracy; “I should only be ashamed to
couch lance against them.”

“True,” answered Front-de-Boeuf; “were they black Turks or Moors, Sir
Templar, or the craven peasants of France, most valiant De Bracy; but
these are English yeomen, over whom we shall have no advantage, save
what we may derive from our arms and horses, which will avail us little
in the glades of the forest. Sally, saidst thou? we have scarce men
enough to defend the castle. The best of mine are at York; so is all
your band, De Bracy; and we have scarcely twenty, besides the handful
that were engaged in this mad business.”

“Thou dost not fear,” said the Templar, “that they can assemble in force
sufficient to attempt the castle?”

“Not so, Sir Brian,” answered Front-de-Boeuf. “These outlaws have indeed
a daring captain; but without machines, scaling ladders, and experienced
leaders, my castle may defy them.”

“Send to thy neighbours,” said the Templar, “let them assemble their
people, and come to the rescue of three knights, besieged by a jester
and a swineherd in the baronial castle of Reginald Front-de-Boeuf!”

“You jest, Sir Knight,” answered the baron; “but to whom should I
send?--Malvoisin is by this time at York with his retainers, and so
are my other allies; and so should I have been, but for this infernal
enterprise.”

“Then send to York, and recall our people,” said De Bracy. “If they
abide the shaking of my standard, or the sight of my Free Companions,
I will give them credit for the boldest outlaws ever bent bow in
green-wood.”

“And who shall bear such a message?” said Front-de-Boeuf; “they will
beset every path, and rip the errand out of his bosom.--I have it,” he
added, after pausing for a moment--“Sir Templar, thou canst write
as well as read, and if we can but find the writing materials of my
chaplain, who died a twelvemonth since in the midst of his Christmas
carousals--”

“So please ye,” said the squire, who was still in attendance, “I think
old Urfried has them somewhere in keeping, for love of the confessor.
He was the last man, I have heard her tell, who ever said aught to her,
which man ought in courtesy to address to maid or matron.”