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X
IVANHOE
by Sir Walter Scott
CHAPTER XXIX
Ascend the watch-tower yonder, valiant soldier, Look on the field, and say how goes the battle.
—Schiller's Maid of Orleans
A moment of peril is often also a moment of open-hearted kindness and
affection. We are thrown off our guard by the general agitation of our
feelings, and betray the intensity of those, which, at more tranquil
periods, our prudence at least conceals, if it cannot altogether
suppress them. In finding herself once more by the side of Ivanhoe,
Rebecca was astonished at the keen sensation of pleasure which she
experienced, even at a time when all around them both was danger, if not
despair. As she felt his pulse, and enquired after his health, there was
a softness in her touch and in her accents implying a kinder interest
than she would herself have been pleased to have voluntarily expressed.
Her voice faltered and her hand trembled, and it was only the cold
question of Ivanhoe, "Is it you, gentle maiden?" which recalled her to
herself, and reminded her the sensations which she felt were not and
could not be mutual. A sigh escaped, but it was scarce audible; and the
questions which she asked the knight concerning his state of health were
put in the tone of calm friendship. Ivanhoe answered her hastily that
he was, in point of health, as well, and better than he could have
expected—"Thanks," he said, "dear Rebecca, to thy helpful skill."
"He calls me DEAR Rebecca," said the maiden to herself, "but it is in
the cold and careless tone which ill suits the word. His war-horse—his
hunting hound, are dearer to him than the despised Jewess!"
"My mind, gentle maiden," continued Ivanhoe, "is more disturbed by
anxiety, than my body with pain. From the speeches of those men who
were my warders just now, I learn that I am a prisoner, and, if I judge
aright of the loud hoarse voice which even now dispatched them hence
on some military duty, I am in the castle of Front-de-Boeuf—If so, how
will this end, or how can I protect Rowena and my father?"
"He names not the Jew or Jewess," said Rebecca internally; "yet what is
our portion in him, and how justly am I punished by Heaven for
letting my thoughts dwell upon him!" She hastened after this brief
self-accusation to give Ivanhoe what information she could; but it
amounted only to this, that the Templar Bois-Guilbert, and the
Baron Front-de-Boeuf, were commanders within the castle; that it was
beleaguered from without, but by whom she knew not. She added, that
there was a Christian priest within the castle who might be possessed of
more information.
"A Christian priest!" said the knight, joyfully; "fetch him hither,
Rebecca, if thou canst—say a sick man desires his ghostly counsel—say
what thou wilt, but bring him—something I must do or attempt, but how
can I determine until I know how matters stand without?"
Rebecca in compliance with the wishes of Ivanhoe, made that attempt to
bring Cedric into the wounded Knight's chamber, which was defeated as we
have already seen by the interference of Urfried, who had also been on
the watch to intercept the supposed monk. Rebecca retired to communicate
to Ivanhoe the result of her errand.
They had not much leisure to regret the failure of this source of
intelligence, or to contrive by what means it might be supplied; for the
noise within the castle, occasioned by the defensive preparations which
had been considerable for some time, now increased into tenfold bustle
and clamour. The heavy, yet hasty step of the men-at-arms, traversed the
battlements or resounded on the narrow and winding passages and stairs
which led to the various bartisans and points of defence. The voices of
the knights were heard, animating their followers, or directing means
of defence, while their commands were often drowned in the clashing of
armour, or the clamorous shouts of those whom they addressed. Tremendous
as these sounds were, and yet more terrible from the awful event which
they presaged, there was a sublimity mixed with them, which Rebecca's
high-toned mind could feel even in that moment of terror. Her eye
kindled, although the blood fled from her cheeks; and there was a
strong mixture of fear, and of a thrilling sense of the sublime, as she
repeated, half whispering to herself, half speaking to her companion,
the sacred text,—"The quiver rattleth—the glittering spear and the
shield—the noise of the captains and the shouting!"
But Ivanhoe was like the war-horse of that sublime passage, glowing with
impatience at his inactivity, and with his ardent desire to mingle in
the affray of which these sounds were the introduction. "If I could
but drag myself," he said, "to yonder window, that I might see how
this brave game is like to go—If I had but bow to shoot a shaft, or
battle-axe to strike were it but a single blow for our deliverance!—It
is in vain—it is in vain—I am alike nerveless and weaponless!"
"Fret not thyself, noble knight," answered Rebecca, "the sounds have
ceased of a sudden—it may be they join not battle."
"Thou knowest nought of it," said Wilfred, impatiently; "this dead pause
only shows that the men are at their posts on the walls, and expecting
an instant attack; what we have heard was but the instant muttering of
the storm—it will burst anon in all its fury.—Could I but reach yonder
window!"
"Thou wilt but injure thyself by the attempt, noble knight," replied his
attendant. Observing his extreme solicitude, she firmly added, "I myself
will stand at the lattice, and describe to you as I can what passes
without."
"You must not—you shall not!" exclaimed Ivanhoe; "each lattice, each
aperture, will be soon a mark for the archers; some random shaft—"
"It shall be welcome!" murmured Rebecca, as with firm pace she ascended
two or three steps, which led to the window of which they spoke.
"Rebecca, dear Rebecca!" exclaimed Ivanhoe, "this is no maiden's
pastime—do not expose thyself to wounds and death, and render me for
ever miserable for having given the occasion; at least, cover thyself
with yonder ancient buckler, and show as little of your person at the
lattice as may be."
Following with wonderful promptitude the directions of Ivanhoe, and
availing herself of the protection of the large ancient shield, which
she placed against the lower part of the window, Rebecca, with tolerable
security to herself, could witness part of what was passing without the
castle, and report to Ivanhoe the preparations which the assailants were
making for the storm. Indeed the situation which she thus obtained was
peculiarly favourable for this purpose, because, being placed on an
angle of the main building, Rebecca could not only see what passed
beyond the precincts of the castle, but also commanded a view of the
outwork likely to be the first object of the meditated assault. It was
an exterior fortification of no great height or strength, intended
to protect the postern-gate, through which Cedric had been recently
dismissed by Front-de-Boeuf. The castle moat divided this species of
barbican from the rest of the fortress, so that, in case of its being
taken, it was easy to cut off the communication with the main building,
by withdrawing the temporary bridge. In the outwork was a sallyport
corresponding to the postern of the castle, and the whole was surrounded
by a strong palisade. Rebecca could observe, from the number of men
placed for the defence of this post, that the besieged entertained
apprehensions for its safety; and from the mustering of the assailants
in a direction nearly opposite to the outwork, it seemed no less plain
that it had been selected as a vulnerable point of attack.
These appearances she hastily communicated to Ivanhoe, and added, "The
skirts of the wood seem lined with archers, although only a few are
advanced from its dark shadow."
"Under what banner?" asked Ivanhoe.
"Under no ensign of war which I can observe," answered Rebecca.
"A singular novelty," muttered the knight, "to advance to storm such a
castle without pennon or banner displayed!—Seest thou who they be that
act as leaders?"
"A knight, clad in sable armour, is the most conspicuous," said the
Jewess; "he alone is armed from head to heel, and seems to assume the
direction of all around him."
"What device does he bear on his shield?" replied Ivanhoe.
"Something resembling a bar of iron, and a padlock painted blue on the
black shield." [35]
"A fetterlock and shacklebolt azure," said Ivanhoe; "I know not who may
bear the device, but well I ween it might now be mine own. Canst thou
not see the motto?"
"Scarce the device itself at this distance," replied Rebecca; "but when
the sun glances fair upon his shield, it shows as I tell you."
"Seem there no other leaders?" exclaimed the anxious enquirer.
"None of mark and distinction that I can behold from this station," said
Rebecca; "but, doubtless, the other side of the castle is also assailed.
They appear even now preparing to advance—God of Zion, protect
us!—What a dreadful sight!—Those who advance first bear huge shields
and defences made of plank; the others follow, bending their bows
as they come on.—They raise their bows!—God of Moses, forgive the
creatures thou hast made!"
Her description was here suddenly interrupted by the signal for assault,
which was given by the blast of a shrill bugle, and at once answered by
a flourish of the Norman trumpets from the battlements, which,
mingled with the deep and hollow clang of the nakers, (a species of
kettle-drum,) retorted in notes of defiance the challenge of the enemy.
The shouts of both parties augmented the fearful din, the assailants
crying, "Saint George for merry England!" and the Normans answering
them with loud cries of "En avant De Bracy!—Beau-seant! Beau-seant!—Front-de-Boeuf a la rescousse!"
according to the war-cries of their different commanders.
It was not, however, by clamour that the contest was to be decided, and
the desperate efforts of the assailants were met by an equally vigorous
defence on the part of the besieged. The archers, trained by their
woodland pastimes to the most effective use of the long-bow, shot, to
use the appropriate phrase of the time, so "wholly together," that
no point at which a defender could show the least part of his person,
escaped their cloth-yard shafts. By this heavy discharge, which
continued as thick and sharp as hail, while, notwithstanding, every
arrow had its individual aim, and flew by scores together against each
embrasure and opening in the parapets, as well as at every window where
a defender either occasionally had post, or might be suspected to be
stationed,—by this sustained discharge, two or three of the garrison
were slain, and several others wounded. But, confident in their armour
of proof, and in the cover which their situation afforded, the followers
of Front-de-Boeuf, and his allies, showed an obstinacy in defence
proportioned to the fury of the attack and replied with the discharge
of their large cross-bows, as well as with their long-bows, slings, and
other missile weapons, to the close and continued shower of arrows;
and, as the assailants were necessarily but indifferently protected, did
considerably more damage than they received at their hand. The whizzing
of shafts and of missiles, on both sides, was only interrupted by the
shouts which arose when either side inflicted or sustained some notable
loss.
"And I must lie here like a bedridden monk," exclaimed Ivanhoe, "while
the game that gives me freedom or death is played out by the hand of
others!—Look from the window once again, kind maiden, but beware that
you are not marked by the archers beneath—Look out once more, and tell
me if they yet advance to the storm."
With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which she had
employed in mental devotion, Rebecca again took post at the lattice,
sheltering herself, however, so as not to be visible from beneath.
"What dost thou see, Rebecca?" again demanded the wounded knight.
"Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle mine eyes,
and to hide the bowmen who shoot them."
"That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe; "if they press not right on to
carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little
against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the Knight of the Fetterlock,
fair Rebecca, and see how he bears himself; for as the leader is, so
will his followers be."
"I see him not," said Rebecca.
"Foul craven!" exclaimed Ivanhoe; "does he blench from the helm when the
wind blows highest?"
"He blenches not! he blenches not!" said Rebecca, "I see him now; he
leads a body of men close under the outer barrier of the barbican. [36]
—They pull down the piles and palisades; they hew down the barriers
with axes.—His high black plume floats abroad over the throng, like
a raven over the field of the slain.—They have made a breach in the
barriers—they rush in—they are thrust back!—Front-de-Boeuf heads the
defenders; I see his gigantic form above the press. They throng again to
the breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand, and man to man. God
of Jacob! it is the meeting of two fierce tides—the conflict of two
oceans moved by adverse winds!"
She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable longer to endure a
sight so terrible.
"Look forth again, Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, mistaking the cause of her
retiring; "the archery must in some degree have ceased, since they are
now fighting hand to hand.—Look again, there is now less danger."
Rebecca again looked forth, and almost immediately exclaimed, "Holy
prophets of the law! Front-de-Boeuf and the Black Knight fight hand
to hand on the breach, amid the roar of their followers, who watch the
progress of the strife—Heaven strike with the cause of the oppressed
and of the captive!" She then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed, "He
is down!—he is down!"
"Who is down?" cried Ivanhoe; "for our dear Lady's sake, tell me which
has fallen?"
"The Black Knight," answered Rebecca, faintly; then instantly again
shouted with joyful eagerness—"But no—but no!—the name of the Lord
of Hosts be blessed!—he is on foot again, and fights as if there
were twenty men's strength in his single arm—His sword is broken—he
snatches an axe from a yeoman—he presses Front-de-Boeuf with blow on
blow—The giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of the
woodman—he falls—he falls!"
"Front-de-Boeuf?" exclaimed Ivanhoe.
"Front-de-Boeuf!" answered the Jewess; "his men rush to the rescue,
headed by the haughty Templar—their united force compels the champion
to pause—They drag Front-de-Boeuf within the walls."
"The assailants have won the barriers, have they not?" said Ivanhoe.
"They have—they have!" exclaimed Rebecca—"and they press the besieged
hard upon the outer wall; some plant ladders, some swarm like bees, and
endeavour to ascend upon the shoulders of each other—down go stones,
beams, and trunks of trees upon their heads, and as fast as they
bear the wounded to the rear, fresh men supply their places in the
assault—Great God! hast thou given men thine own image, that it should
be thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren!"
"Think not of that," said Ivanhoe; "this is no time for such
thoughts—Who yield?—who push their way?"
"The ladders are thrown down," replied Rebecca, shuddering; "the
soldiers lie grovelling under them like crushed reptiles—The besieged
have the better."
"Saint George strike for us!" exclaimed the knight; "do the false yeomen
give way?"
"No!" exclaimed Rebecca, "they bear themselves right yeomanly—the Black
Knight approaches the postern with his huge axe—the thundering blows
which he deals, you may hear them above all the din and shouts of
the battle—Stones and beams are hailed down on the bold champion—he
regards them no more than if they were thistle-down or feathers!"
"By Saint John of Acre," said Ivanhoe, raising himself joyfully on his
couch, "methought there was but one man in England that might do such a
deed!"
"The postern gate shakes," continued Rebecca; "it crashes—it is
splintered by his blows—they rush in—the outwork is won—Oh,
God!—they hurl the defenders from the battlements—they throw them
into the moat—O men, if ye be indeed men, spare them that can resist no
longer!"
"The bridge—the bridge which communicates with the castle—have they
won that pass?" exclaimed Ivanhoe.
"No," replied Rebecca, "The Templar has destroyed the plank on which
they crossed—few of the defenders escaped with him into the castle—the
shrieks and cries which you hear tell the fate of the others—Alas!—I
see it is still more difficult to look upon victory than upon battle."
"What do they now, maiden?" said Ivanhoe; "look forth yet again—this is
no time to faint at bloodshed."
"It is over for the time," answered Rebecca; "our friends strengthen
themselves within the outwork which they have mastered, and it affords
them so good a shelter from the foemen's shot, that the garrison only
bestow a few bolts on it from interval to interval, as if rather to
disquiet than effectually to injure them."
"Our friends," said Wilfred, "will surely not abandon an enterprise so
gloriously begun and so happily attained.—O no! I will put my faith
in the good knight whose axe hath rent heart-of-oak and bars of
iron.—Singular," he again muttered to himself, "if there be two who can
do a deed of such derring-do! [37]—a fetterlock, and a shacklebolt on
a field sable—what may that mean?—seest thou nought else, Rebecca, by
which the Black Knight may be distinguished?"
"Nothing," said the Jewess; "all about him is black as the wing of the
night raven. Nothing can I spy that can mark him further—but having
once seen him put forth his strength in battle, methinks I could know
him again among a thousand warriors. He rushes to the fray as if he were
summoned to a banquet. There is more than mere strength, there seems as
if the whole soul and spirit of the champion were given to every
blow which he deals upon his enemies. God assoilize him of the sin of
bloodshed!—it is fearful, yet magnificent, to behold how the arm and
heart of one man can triumph over hundreds."
"Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, "thou hast painted a hero; surely they rest
but to refresh their force, or to provide the means of crossing the
moat—Under such a leader as thou hast spoken this knight to be, there
are no craven fears, no cold-blooded delays, no yielding up a gallant
emprize; since the difficulties which render it arduous render it also
glorious. I swear by the honour of my house—I vow by the name of my
bright lady-love, I would endure ten years' captivity to fight one day
by that good knight's side in such a quarrel as this!"
"Alas," said Rebecca, leaving her station at the window, and approaching
the couch of the wounded knight, "this impatient yearning after
action—this struggling with and repining at your present weakness,
will not fail to injure your returning health—How couldst thou hope
to inflict wounds on others, ere that be healed which thou thyself hast
received?"
"Rebecca," he replied, "thou knowest not how impossible it is for one
trained to actions of chivalry to remain passive as a priest, or a
woman, when they are acting deeds of honour around him. The love of
battle is the food upon which we live—the dust of the 'melee' is the
breath of our nostrils! We live not—we wish not to live—longer than
while we are victorious and renowned—Such, maiden, are the laws of
chivalry to which we are sworn, and to which we offer all that we hold
dear."
"Alas!" said the fair Jewess, "and what is it, valiant knight, save an
offering of sacrifice to a demon of vain glory, and a passing through
the fire to Moloch?—What remains to you as the prize of all the blood
you have spilled—of all the travail and pain you have endured—of
all the tears which your deeds have caused, when death hath broken the
strong man's spear, and overtaken the speed of his war-horse?"
"What remains?" cried Ivanhoe; "Glory, maiden, glory! which gilds our
sepulchre and embalms our name."
"Glory?" continued Rebecca; "alas, is the rusted mail which hangs as a
hatchment over the champion's dim and mouldering tomb—is the defaced
sculpture of the inscription which the ignorant monk can hardly read to
the enquiring pilgrim—are these sufficient rewards for the sacrifice
of every kindly affection, for a life spent miserably that ye may
make others miserable? Or is there such virtue in the rude rhymes of
a wandering bard, that domestic love, kindly affection, peace and
happiness, are so wildly bartered, to become the hero of those ballads
which vagabond minstrels sing to drunken churls over their evening ale?"
"By the soul of Hereward!" replied the knight impatiently, "thou
speakest, maiden, of thou knowest not what. Thou wouldst quench the pure
light of chivalry, which alone distinguishes the noble from the base,
the gentle knight from the churl and the savage; which rates our life
far, far beneath the pitch of our honour; raises us victorious over
pain, toil, and suffering, and teaches us to fear no evil but disgrace.
Thou art no Christian, Rebecca; and to thee are unknown those high
feelings which swell the *** of a noble maiden when her lover hath
done some deed of emprize which sanctions his flame. Chivalry!—why,
maiden, she is the nurse of pure and high affection—the stay of the
oppressed, the redresser of grievances, the curb of the power of the
tyrant—Nobility were but an empty name without her, and liberty finds
the best protection in her lance and her sword."
"I am, indeed," said Rebecca, "sprung from a race whose courage was
distinguished in the defence of their own land, but who warred not, even
while yet a nation, save at the command of the Deity, or in defending
their country from oppression. The sound of the trumpet wakes Judah no
longer, and her despised children are now but the unresisting victims
of hostile and military oppression. Well hast thou spoken, Sir
Knight,—until the God of Jacob shall raise up for his chosen people a
second Gideon, or a new Maccabeus, it ill beseemeth the Jewish damsel to
speak of battle or of war."
The high-minded maiden concluded the argument in a tone of sorrow, which
deeply expressed her sense of the degradation of her people, embittered
perhaps by the idea that Ivanhoe considered her as one not entitled
to interfere in a case of honour, and incapable of entertaining or
expressing sentiments of honour and generosity.
"How little he knows this ***," she said, "to imagine that cowardice
or meanness of soul must needs be its guests, because I have censured
the fantastic chivalry of the Nazarenes! Would to heaven that the
shedding of mine own blood, drop by drop, could redeem the captivity of
Judah! Nay, would to God it could avail to set free my father, and this
his benefactor, from the chains of the oppressor! The proud Christian
should then see whether the daughter of God's chosen people dared not to
die as bravely as the vainest Nazarene maiden, that boasts her descent
from some petty chieftain of the rude and frozen north!"
She then looked towards the couch of the wounded knight.
"He sleeps," she said; "nature exhausted by sufferance and the waste
of spirits, his wearied frame embraces the first moment of temporary
relaxation to sink into slumber. Alas! is it a crime that I should look
upon him, when it may be for the last time?—When yet but a short space,
and those fair features will be no longer animated by the bold and
buoyant spirit which forsakes them not even in sleep!—When the nostril
shall be distended, the mouth agape, the eyes fixed and bloodshot; and
when the proud and noble knight may be trodden on by the lowest caitiff
of this accursed castle, yet stir not when the heel is lifted up against
him!—And my father!—oh, my father! evil is it with his daughter,
when his grey hairs are not remembered because of the golden locks of
youth!—What know I but that these evils are the messengers of Jehovah's
wrath to the unnatural child, who thinks of a stranger's captivity
before a parent's? who forgets the desolation of Judah, and looks upon
the comeliness of a Gentile and a stranger?—But I will tear this folly
from my heart, though every fibre bleed as I rend it away!"
She wrapped herself closely in her veil, and sat down at a distance
from the couch of the wounded knight, with her back turned towards it,
fortifying, or endeavouring to fortify her mind, not only against
the impending evils from without, but also against those treacherous
feelings which assailed her from within.
CHAPTER ***
Approach the chamber, look upon his bed. His is the passing of no peaceful ghost,
Which, as the lark arises to the sky, 'Mid morning's sweetest breeze and softest
dew, Is wing'd to heaven by good men's sighs and
tears!— Anselm parts otherwise.
—Old Play
During the interval of quiet which followed the first success of the
besiegers, while the one party was preparing to pursue their advantage,
and the other to strengthen their means of defence, the Templar and De
Bracy held brief council together in the hall of the castle.
"Where is Front-de-Boeuf?" said the latter, who had superintended the
defence of the fortress on the other side; "men say he hath been slain."
"He lives," said the Templar, coolly, "lives as yet; but had he worn the
bull's head of which he bears the name, and ten plates of iron to fence
it withal, he must have gone down before yonder fatal axe. Yet a few
hours, and Front-de-Boeuf is with his fathers—a powerful limb lopped
off Prince John's enterprise."
"And a brave addition to the kingdom of Satan," said De Bracy; "this
comes of reviling saints and angels, and ordering images of holy things
and holy men to be flung down on the heads of these rascaille yeomen."
"Go to—thou art a fool," said the Templar; "thy superstition is upon a
level with Front-de-Boeuf's want of faith; neither of you can render a
reason for your belief or unbelief."
"Benedicite, Sir Templar," replied De Bracy, "pray you to keep better
rule with your tongue when I am the theme of it. By the Mother of
Heaven, I am a better Christian man than thou and thy fellowship; for
the 'bruit' goeth shrewdly out, that the most holy Order of the Temple
of Zion nurseth not a few heretics within its ***, and that Sir Brian
de Bois-Guilbert is of the number."
"Care not thou for such reports," said the Templar; "but let us think of
making good the castle.—How fought these villain yeomen on thy side?"
"Like fiends incarnate," said De Bracy. "They swarmed close up to
the walls, headed, as I think, by the knave who won the prize at the
archery, for I knew his horn and baldric. And this is old Fitzurse's
boasted policy, encouraging these malapert knaves to rebel against us!
Had I not been armed in proof, the villain had marked me down seven
times with as little remorse as if I had been a buck in season. He told
every rivet on my armour with a cloth-yard shaft, that rapped against
my ribs with as little compunction as if my bones had been of iron—But
that I wore a shirt of Spanish mail under my plate-coat, I had been
fairly sped."
"But you maintained your post?" said the Templar. "We lost the outwork
on our part."
"That is a shrewd loss," said De Bracy; "the knaves will find cover
there to assault the castle more closely, and may, if not well watched,
gain some unguarded corner of a tower, or some forgotten window, and
so break in upon us. Our numbers are too few for the defence of every
point, and the men complain that they can nowhere show themselves, but
they are the mark for as many arrows as a parish-butt on a holyday even.
Front-de-Boeuf is dying too, so we shall receive no more aid from his
bull's head and brutal strength. How think you, Sir Brian, were we
not better make a virtue of necessity, and compound with the rogues by
delivering up our prisoners?"
"How?" exclaimed the Templar; "deliver up our prisoners, and stand an
object alike of ridicule and execration, as the doughty warriors who
dared by a night-attack to possess themselves of the persons of a party
of defenceless travellers, yet could not make good a strong castle
against a vagabond troop of outlaws, led by swineherds, jesters, and the
very refuse of mankind?—Shame on thy counsel, Maurice de Bracy!—The
ruins of this castle shall bury both my body and my shame, ere I consent
to such base and dishonourable composition."
"Let us to the walls, then," said De Bracy, carelessly; "that man never
breathed, be he Turk or Templar, who held life at lighter rate than I
do. But I trust there is no dishonour in wishing I had here some two
scores of my gallant troop of Free Companions?—Oh, my brave lances! if
ye knew but how hard your captain were this day bested, how soon should
I see my banner at the head of your clump of spears! And how short while
would these rabble villains stand to endure your encounter!"
"Wish for whom thou wilt," said the Templar, "but let us make
what defence we can with the soldiers who remain—They are chiefly
Front-de-Boeuf's followers, hated by the English for a thousand acts of
insolence and oppression."
"The better," said De Bracy; "the rugged slaves will defend themselves
to the last drop of their blood, ere they encounter the revenge of the
peasants without. Let us up and be doing, then, Brian de Bois-Guilbert;
and, live or die, thou shalt see Maurice de Bracy bear himself this day
as a gentleman of blood and lineage."
"To the walls!" answered the Templar; and they both ascended the
battlements to do all that skill could dictate, and manhood accomplish,
in defence of the place. They readily agreed that the point of greatest
danger was that opposite to the outwork of which the assailants had
possessed themselves. The castle, indeed, was divided from that barbican
by the moat, and it was impossible that the besiegers could assail the
postern-door, with which the outwork corresponded, without surmounting
that obstacle; but it was the opinion both of the Templar and De Bracy,
that the besiegers, if governed by the same policy their leader had
already displayed, would endeavour, by a formidable assault, to draw
the chief part of the defenders' observation to this point, and take
measures to avail themselves of every negligence which might take place
in the defence elsewhere. To guard against such an evil, their numbers
only permitted the knights to place sentinels from space to space along
the walls in communication with each other, who might give the alarm
whenever danger was threatened. Meanwhile, they agreed that De Bracy
should command the defence at the postern, and the Templar should keep
with him a score of men or thereabouts as a body of reserve, ready to
hasten to any other point which might be suddenly threatened. The loss
of the barbican had also this unfortunate effect, that, notwithstanding
the superior height of the castle walls, the besieged could not see from
them, with the same precision as before, the operations of the enemy;
for some straggling underwood approached so near the sallyport of the
outwork, that the assailants might introduce into it whatever force they
thought proper, not only under cover, but even without the knowledge of
the defenders. Utterly uncertain, therefore, upon what point the storm
was to burst, De Bracy and his companion were under the necessity of
providing against every possible contingency, and their followers,
however brave, experienced the anxious dejection of mind incident to men
enclosed by enemies, who possessed the power of choosing their time and
mode of attack.
Meanwhile, the lord of the beleaguered and endangered castle lay upon
a bed of bodily pain and mental agony. He had not the usual resource of
bigots in that superstitious period, most of whom were wont to atone for
the crimes they were guilty of by liberality to the church, stupefying
by this means their terrors by the idea of atonement and forgiveness;
and although the refuge which success thus purchased, was no more like
to the peace of mind which follows on sincere repentance, than the
turbid stupefaction procured by *** resembles healthy and natural
slumbers, it was still a state of mind preferable to the agonies of
awakened remorse. But among the vices of Front-de-Boeuf, a hard and
griping man, avarice was predominant; and he preferred setting church
and churchmen at defiance, to purchasing from them pardon and absolution
at the price of treasure and of manors. Nor did the Templar, an infidel
of another stamp, justly characterise his associate, when he said
Front-de-Boeuf could assign no cause for his unbelief and contempt for
the established faith; for the Baron would have alleged that the Church
sold her wares too dear, that the spiritual freedom which she put up to
sale was only to be bought like that of the chief captain of Jerusalem,
"with a great sum," and Front-de-Boeuf preferred denying the virtue of
the medicine, to paying the expense of the physician.
But the moment had now arrived when earth and all his treasures were
gliding from before his eyes, and when the savage Baron's heart, though
hard as a nether millstone, became appalled as he gazed forward into the
waste darkness of futurity. The fever of his body aided the impatience
and agony of his mind, and his death-bed exhibited a mixture of
the newly awakened feelings of horror, combating with the fixed and
inveterate obstinacy of his disposition;—a fearful state of mind, only
to be equalled in those tremendous regions, where there are complaints
without hope, remorse without repentance, a dreadful sense of present
agony, and a presentiment that it cannot cease or be diminished!
"Where be these dog-priests now," growled the Baron, "who set such price
on their ghostly mummery?—where be all those unshod Carmelites, for
whom old Front-de-Boeuf founded the convent of St Anne, robbing his heir
of many a fair rood of meadow, and many a fat field and close—where be
the greedy hounds now?—Swilling, I warrant me, at the ale, or playing
their juggling tricks at the bedside of some miserly churl.—Me, the
heir of their founder—me, whom their foundation binds them to pray
for—me—ungrateful villains as they are!—they suffer to die like the
houseless dog on yonder common, unshriven and unhouseled!—Tell the
Templar to come hither—he is a priest, and may do something—But
no!—as well confess myself to the devil as to Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
who recks neither of heaven nor of hell.—I have heard old men talk of
prayer—prayer by their own voice—Such need not to court or to bribe
the false priest—But I—I dare not!"
"Lives Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," said a broken and shrill voice close by
his bedside, "to say there is that which he dares not!"
The evil conscience and the shaken nerves of Front-de-Boeuf heard, in
this strange interruption to his soliloquy, the voice of one of those
demons, who, as the superstition of the times believed, beset the
beds of dying men to distract their thoughts, and turn them from the
meditations which concerned their eternal welfare. He shuddered and drew
himself together; but, instantly summoning up his wonted resolution, he
exclaimed, "Who is there?—what art thou, that darest to echo my words
in a tone like that of the night-raven?—Come before my couch that I may
see thee."
"I am thine evil angel, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," replied the voice.
"Let me behold thee then in thy bodily shape, if thou be'st indeed a
fiend," replied the dying knight; "think not that I will blench from
thee.—By the eternal dungeon, could I but grapple with these horrors
that hover round me, as I have done with mortal dangers, heaven or hell
should never say that I shrunk from the conflict!"
"Think on thy sins, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," said the almost unearthly
voice, "on rebellion, on rapine, on ***!—Who stirred up the
licentious John to war against his grey-headed father—against his
generous brother?"
"Be thou fiend, priest, or devil," replied Front-de-Boeuf, "thou liest
in thy throat!—Not I stirred John to rebellion—not I alone—there were
fifty knights and barons, the flower of the midland counties—better
men never laid lance in rest—And must I answer for the fault done
by fifty?—False fiend, I defy thee! Depart, and haunt my couch no
more—let me die in peace if thou be mortal—if thou be a demon, thy
time is not yet come."
"In peace thou shalt NOT die," repeated the voice; "even in death
shalt thou think on thy murders—on the groans which this castle has
echoed—on the blood that is engrained in its floors!"
"Thou canst not shake me by thy petty malice," answered Front-de-Boeuf,
with a ghastly and constrained laugh. "The infidel Jew—it was merit
with heaven to deal with him as I did, else wherefore are men canonized
who dip their hands in the blood of Saracens?—The Saxon porkers, whom I
have slain, they were the foes of my country, and of my lineage, and
of my liege lord.—Ho! ho! thou seest there is no crevice in my coat of
plate—Art thou fled?—art thou silenced?"
"No, foul parricide!" replied the voice; "think of thy father!—think
of his death!—think of his banquet-room flooded with his gore, and that
poured forth by the hand of a son!"
"Ha!" answered the Baron, after a long pause, "an thou knowest that,
thou art indeed the author of evil, and as omniscient as the monks call
thee!—That secret I deemed locked in my own breast, and in that of one
besides—the temptress, the partaker of my guilt.—Go, leave me, fiend!
and seek the Saxon witch Ulrica, who alone could tell thee what she
and I alone witnessed.—Go, I say, to her, who washed the wounds, and
straighted the corpse, and gave to the slain man the outward show of
one parted in time and in the course of nature—Go to her, she was my
temptress, the foul provoker, the more foul rewarder, of the deed—let
her, as well as I, taste of the tortures which anticipate hell!"
"She already tastes them," said Ulrica, stepping before the couch of
Front-de-Boeuf; "she hath long drunken of this cup, and its bitterness
is now sweetened to see that thou dost partake it.—Grind not thy teeth,
Front-de-Boeuf—roll not thine eyes—clench not thine hand, nor shake
it at me with that gesture of menace!—The hand which, like that of thy
renowned ancestor who gained thy name, could have broken with one stroke
the skull of a mountain-bull, is now unnerved and powerless as mine
own!"
"Vile murderous hag!" replied Front-de-Boeuf; "detestable screech-owl!
it is then thou who art come to exult over the ruins thou hast assisted
to lay low?"
"Ay, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf," answered she, "it is Ulrica!—it is the
daughter of the murdered Torquil Wolfganger!—it is the sister of his
slaughtered sons!—it is she who demands of thee, and of thy father's
house, father and kindred, name and fame—all that she has lost by the
name of Front-de-Boeuf!—Think of my wrongs, Front-de-Boeuf, and answer
me if I speak not truth. Thou hast been my evil angel, and I will be
thine—I will dog thee till the very instant of dissolution!"
"Detestable fury!" exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf, "that moment shalt thou
never witness—Ho! Giles, Clement, and Eustace! Saint Maur, and Stephen!
seize this damned witch, and hurl her from the battlements headlong—she
has betrayed us to the Saxon!—Ho! Saint Maur! Clement! false-hearted,
knaves, where tarry ye?"
"Call on them again, valiant Baron," said the hag, with a smile of
grisly mockery; "summon thy vassals around thee, doom them that loiter
to the scourge and the dungeon—But know, mighty chief," she continued,
suddenly changing her tone, "thou shalt have neither answer, nor aid,
nor obedience at their hands.—Listen to these horrid sounds," for the
din of the recommenced assault and defence now rung fearfully loud from
the battlements of the castle; "in that war-cry is the downfall of thy
house—The blood-cemented fabric of Front-de-Boeuf's power totters
to the foundation, and before the foes he most despised!—The Saxon,
Reginald!—the scorned Saxon assails thy walls!—Why liest thou here,
like a worn-out hind, when the Saxon storms thy place of strength?"
"Gods and fiends!" exclaimed the wounded knight; "O, for one moment's
strength, to drag myself to the 'melee', and perish as becomes my name!"
"Think not of it, valiant warrior!" replied she; "thou shalt die no
soldier's death, but perish like the fox in his den, when the peasants
have set fire to the cover around it."
"Hateful hag! thou liest!" exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf; "my followers bear
them bravely—my walls are strong and high—my comrades in arms fear
not a whole host of Saxons, were they headed by Hengist and Horsa!—The
war-cry of the Templar and of the Free Companions rises high over the
conflict! And by mine honour, when we kindle the blazing beacon, for joy
of our defence, it shall consume thee, body and bones; and I shall live
to hear thou art gone from earthly fires to those of that hell, which
never sent forth an incarnate fiend more utterly diabolical!"
"Hold thy belief," replied Ulrica, "till the proof reach thee—But, no!"
she said, interrupting herself, "thou shalt know, even now, the doom,
which all thy power, strength, and courage, is unable to avoid,
though it is prepared for thee by this feeble band. Markest thou the
smouldering and suffocating vapour which already eddies in sable folds
through the chamber?—Didst thou think it was but the darkening of
thy bursting eyes—the difficulty of thy cumbered breathing?—No!
Front-de-Boeuf, there is another cause—Rememberest thou the magazine of
fuel that is stored beneath these apartments?"
"Woman!" he exclaimed with fury, "thou hast not set fire to it?—By
heaven, thou hast, and the castle is in flames!"
"They are fast rising at least," said Ulrica, with frightful composure;
"and a signal shall soon wave to warn the besiegers to press hard upon
those who would extinguish them.—Farewell, Front-de-Boeuf!—May Mista,
Skogula, and Zernebock, gods of the ancient Saxons—fiends, as the
priests now call them—supply the place of comforters at your dying bed,
which Ulrica now relinquishes!—But know, if it will give thee comfort
to know it, that Ulrica is bound to the same dark coast with thyself,
the companion of thy punishment as the companion of thy guilt.—And now,
parricide, farewell for ever!—May each stone of this vaulted roof find
a tongue to echo that title into thine ear!"
So saying, she left the apartment; and Front-de-Boeuf could hear the
crash of the ponderous key, as she locked and double-locked the door
behind her, thus cutting off the most slender chance of escape. In the
extremity of agony he shouted upon his servants and allies—"Stephen and
Saint Maur!—Clement and Giles!—I burn here unaided!—To the rescue—to
the rescue, brave Bois-Guilbert, valiant De Bracy!—It is Front-de-Boeuf
who calls!—It is your master, ye traitor squires!—Your ally—your
brother in arms, ye perjured and faithless knights!—all the curses due
to traitors upon your recreant heads, do you abandon me to perish thus
miserably!—They hear me not—they cannot hear me—my voice is lost in
the din of battle.—The smoke rolls thicker and thicker—the fire has
caught upon the floor below—O, for one drought of the air of heaven,
were it to be purchased by instant annihilation!" And in the mad frenzy
of despair, the wretch now shouted with the shouts of the fighters, now
muttered curses on himself, on mankind, and on Heaven itself.—"The red
fire flashes through the thick smoke!" he exclaimed; "the demon marches
against me under the banner of his own element—Foul spirit, avoid!—I
go not with thee without my comrades—all, all are thine, that garrison
these walls—Thinkest thou Front-de-Boeuf will be singled out to go
alone?—No—the infidel Templar—the licentious De Bracy—Ulrica, the
foul murdering strumpet—the men who aided my enterprises—the dog
Saxons and accursed Jews, who are my prisoners—all, all shall attend
me—a goodly fellowship as ever took the downward road—Ha, ha, ha!" and
he laughed in his frenzy till the vaulted roof rang again. "Who laughed
there?" exclaimed Front-de-Boeuf, in altered mood, for the noise of
the conflict did not prevent the echoes of his own mad laughter
from returning upon his ear—"who laughed there?—Ulrica, was it
thou?—Speak, witch, and I forgive thee—for, only thou or the fiend of
hell himself could have laughed at such a moment. Avaunt—avaunt!—-"
But it were impious to trace any farther the picture of the blasphemer
and parricide's deathbed.
CHAPTER XXXI
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,
Or, close the wall up with our English dead. ———-And you, good yeomen,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture—let us swear That you are worth your breeding.
King Henry V
Cedric, although not greatly confident in Ulrica's message, omitted not
to communicate her promise to the Black Knight and Locksley. They were
well pleased to find they had a friend within the place, who might, in
the moment of need, be able to facilitate their entrance, and readily
agreed with the Saxon that a storm, under whatever disadvantages, ought
to be attempted, as the only means of liberating the prisoners now in
the hands of the cruel Front-de-Boeuf.
"The royal blood of Alfred is endangered," said Cedric.
"The honour of a noble lady is in peril," said the Black Knight.
"And, by the Saint Christopher at my baldric," said the good yeoman,
"were there no other cause than the safety of that poor faithful knave,
Wamba, I would jeopard a joint ere a hair of his head were hurt."
"And so would I," said the Friar; "what, sirs! I trust well that a
fool—I mean, d'ye see me, sirs, a fool that is free of his guild and
master of his craft, and can give as much relish and flavour to a cup of
wine as ever a flitch of bacon can—I say, brethren, such a fool shall
never want a wise clerk to pray for or fight for him at a strait, while
I can say a mass or flourish a partisan." And with that he made his
heavy halberd to play around his head as a shepherd boy flourishes his
light crook.
"True, Holy Clerk," said the Black Knight, "true as if Saint Dunstan
himself had said it.—And now, good Locksley, were it not well that
noble Cedric should assume the direction of this assault?"
"Not a jot I," returned Cedric; "I have never been wont to study either
how to take or how to hold out those abodes of tyrannic power, which
the Normans have erected in this groaning land. I will fight among the
foremost; but my honest neighbours well know I am not a trained soldier
in the discipline of wars, or the attack of strongholds."
"Since it stands thus with noble Cedric," said Locksley, "I am most
willing to take on me the direction of the archery; and ye shall hang
me up on my own Trysting-tree, an the defenders be permitted to show
themselves over the walls without being stuck with as many shafts as
there are cloves in a gammon of bacon at Christmas."
"Well said, stout yeoman," answered the Black Knight; "and if I be
thought worthy to have a charge in these matters, and can find among
these brave men as many as are willing to follow a true English knight,
for so I may surely call myself, I am ready, with such skill as my
experience has taught me, to lead them to the attack of these walls."
The parts being thus distributed to the leaders, they commenced the
first assault, of which the reader has already heard the issue.
When the barbican was carried, the Sable Knight sent notice of the
happy event to Locksley, requesting him at the same time, to keep such
a strict observation on the castle as might prevent the defenders from
combining their force for a sudden sally, and recovering the outwork
which they had lost. This the knight was chiefly desirous of avoiding,
conscious that the men whom he led, being hasty and untrained
volunteers, imperfectly armed and unaccustomed to discipline, must, upon
any sudden attack, fight at great disadvantage with the veteran soldiers
of the Norman knights, who were well provided with arms both defensive
and offensive; and who, to match the zeal and high spirit of the
besiegers, had all the confidence which arises from perfect discipline
and the habitual use of weapons.
The knight employed the interval in causing to be constructed a sort of
floating bridge, or long raft, by means of which he hoped to cross the
moat in despite of the resistance of the enemy. This was a work of some
time, which the leaders the less regretted, as it gave Ulrica leisure to
execute her plan of diversion in their favour, whatever that might be.
When the raft was completed, the Black Knight addressed the
besiegers:—"It avails not waiting here longer, my friends; the sun is
descending to the west—and I have that upon my hands which will not
permit me to tarry with you another day. Besides, it will be a marvel if
the horsemen come not upon us from York, unless we speedily accomplish
our purpose. Wherefore, one of ye go to Locksley, and bid him commence a
discharge of arrows on the opposite side of the castle, and move forward
as if about to assault it; and you, true English hearts, stand by me,
and be ready to thrust the raft endlong over the moat whenever the
postern on our side is thrown open. Follow me boldly across, and aid me
to burst yon sallyport in the main wall of the castle. As many of you as
like not this service, or are but ill armed to meet it, do you man the
top of the outwork, draw your bow-strings to your ears, and mind you
quell with your shot whatever shall appear to man the rampart—Noble
Cedric, wilt thou take the direction of those which remain?"
"Not so, by the soul of Hereward!" said the Saxon; "lead I cannot; but
may posterity curse me in my grave, if I follow not with the foremost
wherever thou shalt point the way—The quarrel is mine, and well it
becomes me to be in the van of the battle."
"Yet, bethink thee, noble Saxon," said the knight, "thou hast neither
hauberk, nor corslet, nor aught but that light helmet, target, and
sword."
"The better!" answered Cedric; "I shall be the lighter to climb these
walls. And,—forgive the boast, Sir Knight,—thou shalt this day see
the naked breast of a Saxon as boldly presented to the battle as ever ye
beheld the steel corslet of a Norman."
"In the name of God, then," said the knight, "fling open the door, and
launch the floating bridge."
The portal, which led from the inner-wall of the barbican to the moat,
and which corresponded with a sallyport in the main wall of the castle,
was now suddenly opened; the temporary bridge was then thrust forward,
and soon flashed in the waters, extending its length between the castle
and outwork, and forming a slippery and precarious passage for two men
abreast to cross the moat. Well aware of the importance of taking the
foe by surprise, the Black Knight, closely followed by Cedric, threw
himself upon the bridge, and reached the opposite side. Here he began to
thunder with his axe upon the gate of the castle, protected in part from
the shot and stones cast by the defenders by the ruins of the former
drawbridge, which the Templar had demolished in his retreat from the
barbican, leaving the counterpoise still attached to the upper part of
the portal. The followers of the knight had no such shelter; two were
instantly shot with cross-bow bolts, and two more fell into the moat;
the others retreated back into the barbican.
The situation of Cedric and of the Black Knight was now truly dangerous,
and would have been still more so, but for the constancy of the
archers in the barbican, who ceased not to shower their arrows upon
the battlements, distracting the attention of those by whom they were
manned, and thus affording a respite to their two chiefs from the
storm of missiles which must otherwise have overwhelmed them. But their
situation was eminently perilous, and was becoming more so with every
moment.
"Shame on ye all!" cried De Bracy to the soldiers around him; "do ye
call yourselves cross-bowmen, and let these two dogs keep their station
under the walls of the castle?—Heave over the coping stones from the
battlements, an better may not be—Get pick-axe and levers, and down
with that huge pinnacle!" pointing to a heavy piece of stone carved-work
that projected from the parapet.
At this moment the besiegers caught sight of the red flag upon the angle
of the tower which Ulrica had described to Cedric. The stout yeoman
Locksley was the first who was aware of it, as he was hasting to the
outwork, impatient to see the progress of the assault.
"Saint George!" he cried, "Merry Saint George for England!—To the
charge, bold yeomen!—why leave ye the good knight and noble Cedric to
storm the pass alone?—make in, mad priest, show thou canst fight for
thy rosary,—make in, brave yeomen!—the castle is ours, we have friends
within—See yonder flag, it is the appointed signal—Torquilstone is
ours!—Think of honour, think of spoil—One effort, and the place is
ours!"
With that he bent his good bow, and sent a shaft right through the
breast of one of the men-at-arms, who, under De Bracy's direction, was
loosening a fragment from one of the battlements to precipitate on the
heads of Cedric and the Black Knight. A second soldier caught from the
hands of the dying man the iron crow, with which he heaved at and
had loosened the stone pinnacle, when, receiving an arrow through his
head-piece, he dropped from the battlements into the moat a dead man.
The men-at-arms were daunted, for no armour seemed proof against the
shot of this tremendous archer.
"Do you give ground, base knaves!" said De Bracy; "'Mount joye Saint
Dennis!'—Give me the lever!"
And, snatching it up, he again assailed the loosened pinnacle, which was
of weight enough, if thrown down, not only to have destroyed the remnant
of the drawbridge, which sheltered the two foremost assailants, but also
to have sunk the rude float of planks over which they had crossed. All
saw the danger, and the boldest, even the stout Friar himself, avoided
setting foot on the raft. Thrice did Locksley bend his shaft against De
Bracy, and thrice did his arrow bound back from the knight's armour of
proof.
"Curse on thy Spanish steel-coat!" said Locksley, "had English smith
forged it, these arrows had gone through, an as if it had been silk or
sendal." He then began to call out, "Comrades! friends! noble Cedric!
bear back, and let the ruin fall."
His warning voice was unheard, for the din which the knight himself
occasioned by his strokes upon the postern would have drowned twenty
war-trumpets. The faithful Gurth indeed sprung forward on the planked
bridge, to warn Cedric of his impending fate, or to share it with him.
But his warning would have come too late; the massive pinnacle already
tottered, and De Bracy, who still heaved at his task, would have
accomplished it, had not the voice of the Templar sounded close in his
ears:—
"All is lost, De Bracy, the castle burns."
"Thou art mad to say so!" replied the knight.
"It is all in a light flame on the western side. I have striven in vain
to extinguish it."
With the stern coolness which formed the basis of his character, Brian
de Bois-Guilbert communicated this hideous intelligence, which was not
so calmly received by his astonished comrade.
"Saints of Paradise!" said De Bracy; "what is to be done? I vow to Saint
Nicholas of Limoges a candlestick of pure gold—"
"Spare thy vow," said the Templar, "and mark me. Lead thy men down, as
if to a sally; throw the postern-gate open—There are but two men who
occupy the float, fling them into the moat, and push across for the
barbican. I will charge from the main gate, and attack the barbican on
the outside; and if we can regain that post, be assured we shall defend
ourselves until we are relieved, or at least till they grant us fair
quarter."
"It is well thought upon," said De Bracy; "I will play my part—Templar,
thou wilt not fail me?"
"Hand and glove, I will not!" said Bois-Guilbert. "But haste thee, in
the name of God!"
De Bracy hastily drew his men together, and rushed down to the
postern-gate, which he caused instantly to be thrown open. But scarce
was this done ere the portentous strength of the Black Knight forced his
way inward in despite of De Bracy and his followers. Two of the foremost
instantly fell, and the rest gave way notwithstanding all their leader's
efforts to stop them.
"Dogs!" said De Bracy, "will ye let TWO men win our only pass for
safety?"
"He is the devil!" said a veteran man-at-arms, bearing back from the
blows of their sable antagonist.
"And if he be the devil," replied De Bracy, "would you fly from him into
the mouth of hell?—the castle burns behind us, villains!—let despair
give you courage, or let me forward! I will cope with this champion
myself."
And well and chivalrous did De Bracy that day maintain the fame he had
acquired in the civil wars of that dreadful period. The vaulted passage
to which the postern gave entrance, and in which these two redoubted
champions were now fighting hand to hand, rung with the furious blows
which they dealt each other, De Bracy with his sword, the Black Knight
with his ponderous axe. At length the Norman received a blow, which,
though its force was partly parried by his shield, for otherwise never
more would De Bracy have again moved limb, descended yet with such
violence on his crest, that he measured his length on the paved floor.
"Yield thee, De Bracy," said the Black Champion, stooping over him, and
holding against the bars of his helmet the fatal poniard with which the
knights dispatched their enemies, (and which was called the dagger of
mercy,)—"yield thee, Maurice de Bracy, rescue or no rescue, or thou art
but a dead man."
"I will not yield," replied De Bracy faintly, "to an unknown conqueror.
Tell me thy name, or work thy pleasure on me—it shall never be said
that Maurice de Bracy was prisoner to a nameless churl."
The Black Knight whispered something into the ear of the vanquished.
"I yield me to be true prisoner, rescue or no rescue," answered the
Norman, exchanging his tone of stern and determined obstinacy for one of
deep though sullen submission.
"Go to the barbican," said the victor, in a tone of authority, "and
there wait my further orders."
"Yet first, let me say," said De Bracy, "what it imports thee to know.
Wilfred of Ivanhoe is wounded and a prisoner, and will perish in the
burning castle without present help."
"Wilfred of Ivanhoe!" exclaimed the Black Knight—"prisoner, and
perish!—The life of every man in the castle shall answer it if a hair
of his head be singed—Show me his chamber!"
"Ascend yonder winding stair," said De Bracy; "it leads to his
apartment—Wilt thou not accept my guidance?" he added, in a submissive
voice.
"No. To the barbican, and there wait my orders. I trust thee not, De
Bracy."
During this combat and the brief conversation which ensued, Cedric, at
the head of a body of men, among whom the Friar was conspicuous, had
pushed across the bridge as soon as they saw the postern open, and drove
back the dispirited and despairing followers of De Bracy, of whom some
asked quarter, some offered vain resistance, and the greater part fled
towards the court-yard. De Bracy himself arose from the ground, and cast
a sorrowful glance after his conqueror. "He trusts me not!" he repeated;
"but have I deserved his trust?" He then lifted his sword from the
floor, took off his helmet in token of submission, and, going to the
barbican, gave up his sword to Locksley, whom he met by the way.
As the fire augmented, symptoms of it became soon apparent in the
chamber, where Ivanhoe was watched and tended by the Jewess Rebecca. He
had been awakened from his brief slumber by the noise of the battle; and
his attendant, who had, at his anxious desire, again placed herself at
the window to watch and report to him the fate of the attack, was
for some time prevented from observing either, by the increase of the
smouldering and stifling vapour. At length the volumes of smoke which
rolled into the apartment—the cries for water, which were heard even
above the din of the battle made them sensible of the progress of this
new danger.
"The castle burns," said Rebecca; "it burns!—What can we do to save
ourselves?"
"Fly, Rebecca, and save thine own life," said Ivanhoe, "for no human aid
can avail me."
"I will not fly," answered Rebecca; "we will be saved or perish
together—And yet, great God!—my father, my father—what will be his
fate!"
At this moment the door of the apartment flew open, and the Templar
presented himself,—a ghastly figure, for his gilded armour was broken
and bloody, and the plume was partly shorn away, partly burnt from his
casque. "I have found thee," said he to Rebecca; "thou shalt prove I
will keep my word to share weal and woe with thee—There is but one
path to safety, I have cut my way through fifty dangers to point it to
thee—up, and instantly follow me!" [38]
"Alone," answered Rebecca, "I will not follow thee. If thou wert born of
woman—if thou hast but a touch of human charity in thee—if thy heart
be not hard as thy breastplate—save my aged father—save this wounded
knight!"
"A knight," answered the Templar, with his characteristic calmness, "a
knight, Rebecca, must encounter his fate, whether it meet him in the
shape of sword or flame—and who recks how or where a Jew meets with
his?"
"Savage warrior," said Rebecca, "rather will I perish in the flames than
accept safety from thee!"
"Thou shalt not choose, Rebecca—once didst thou foil me, but never
mortal did so twice."
So saying, he seized on the terrified maiden, who filled the air with
her shrieks, and bore her out of the room in his arms in spite of her
cries, and without regarding the menaces and defiance which Ivanhoe
thundered against him. "Hound of the Temple—stain to thine Order—set
free the damsel! Traitor of Bois-Guilbert, it is Ivanhoe commands
thee!—Villain, I will have thy heart's blood!"
"I had not found thee, Wilfred," said the Black Knight, who at that
instant entered the apartment, "but for thy shouts."
"If thou be'st true knight," said Wilfred, "think not of me—pursue yon
ravisher—save the Lady Rowena—look to the noble Cedric!"
"In their turn," answered he of the Fetterlock, "but thine is first."
And seizing upon Ivanhoe, he bore him off with as much ease as the
Templar had carried off Rebecca, rushed with him to the postern, and
having there delivered his burden to the care of two yeomen, he again
entered the castle to assist in the rescue of the other prisoners.
One turret was now in bright flames, which flashed out furiously from
window and shot-hole. But in other parts, the great thickness of the
walls and the vaulted roofs of the apartments, resisted the progress
of the flames, and there the rage of man still triumphed, as the scarce
more dreadful element held mastery elsewhere; for the besiegers pursued
the defenders of the castle from chamber to chamber, and satiated in
their blood the vengeance which had long animated them against the
soldiers of the tyrant Front-de-Boeuf. Most of the garrison resisted to
the uttermost—few of them asked quarter—none received it. The air was
filled with groans and clashing of arms—the floors were slippery with
the blood of despairing and expiring wretches.
Through this scene of confusion, Cedric rushed in quest of Rowena, while
the faithful Gurth, following him closely through the "melee", neglected
his own safety while he strove to avert the blows that were aimed at
his master. The noble Saxon was so fortunate as to reach his ward's
apartment just as she had abandoned all hope of safety, and, with a
crucifix clasped in agony to her ***, sat in expectation of instant
death. He committed her to the charge of Gurth, to be conducted in
safety to the barbican, the road to which was now cleared of the enemy,
and not yet interrupted by the flames. This accomplished, the loyal
Cedric hastened in quest of his friend Athelstane, determined, at every
risk to himself, to save that last scion of Saxon royalty. But ere
Cedric penetrated as far as the old hall in which he had himself been
a prisoner, the inventive genius of Wamba had procured liberation for
himself and his companion in adversity.
When the noise of the conflict announced that it was at the hottest, the
Jester began to shout, with the utmost power of his lungs, "Saint George
and the dragon!—Bonny Saint George for merry England!—The castle is
won!" And these sounds he rendered yet more fearful, by banging against
each other two or three pieces of rusty armour which lay scattered
around the hall.
A guard, which had been stationed in the outer, or anteroom, and
whose spirits were already in a state of alarm, took fright at Wamba's
clamour, and, leaving the door open behind them, ran to tell the Templar
that foemen had entered the old hall. Meantime the prisoners found no
difficulty in making their escape into the anteroom, and from thence
into the court of the castle, which was now the last scene of contest.
Here sat the fierce Templar, mounted on horseback, surrounded by several
of the garrison both on horse and foot, who had united their strength
to that of this renowned leader, in order to secure the last chance
of safety and retreat which remained to them. The drawbridge had been
lowered by his orders, but the passage was beset; for the archers, who
had hitherto only annoyed the castle on that side by their missiles, no
sooner saw the flames breaking out, and the bridge lowered, than they
thronged to the entrance, as well to prevent the escape of the garrison,
as to secure their own share of *** ere the castle should be burnt
down. On the other hand, a party of the besiegers who had entered by
the postern were now issuing out into the court-yard, and attacking with
fury the remnant of the defenders who were thus assaulted on both sides
at once.
Animated, however, by despair, and supported by the example of their
indomitable leader, the remaining soldiers of the castle fought with
the utmost valour; and, being well-armed, succeeded more than once in
driving back the assailants, though much inferior in numbers. Rebecca,
placed on horseback before one of the Templar's Saracen slaves, was in
the midst of the little party; and Bois-Guilbert, notwithstanding the
confusion of the bloody fray, showed every attention to her safety.
Repeatedly he was by her side, and, neglecting his own defence, held
before her the fence of his triangular steel-plated shield; and anon
starting from his position by her, he cried his war-cry, dashed forward,
struck to earth the most forward of the assailants, and was on the same
instant once more at her bridle rein.
Athelstane, who, as the reader knows, was slothful, but not cowardly,
beheld the female form whom the Templar protected thus sedulously, and
doubted not that it was Rowena whom the knight was carrying off, in
despite of all resistance which could be offered.
"By the soul of Saint Edward," he said, "I will rescue her from yonder
over-proud knight, and he shall die by my hand!"
"Think what you do!" cried Wamba; "hasty hand catches frog for fish—by
my bauble, yonder is none of my Lady Rowena—see but her long dark
locks!—Nay, an ye will not know black from white, ye may be leader, but
I will be no follower—no bones of mine shall be broken unless I know
for whom.—And you without armour too!—Bethink you, silk bonnet never
kept out steel blade.—Nay, then, if wilful will to water, wilful must
drench.—'Deus vobiscum', most doughty Athelstane!"—he concluded,
loosening the hold which he had hitherto kept upon the Saxon's tunic.
To *** a mace from the pavement, on which it lay beside one whose
dying grasp had just relinquished it—to rush on the Templar's band, and
to strike in quick succession to the right and left, levelling a warrior
at each blow, was, for Athelstane's great strength, now animated with
unusual fury, but the work of a single moment; he was soon within two
yards of Bois-Guilbert, whom he defied in his loudest tone.
"Turn, false-hearted Templar! let go her whom thou art unworthy to
touch—turn, limb of a hand of murdering and hypocritical robbers!"
"Dog!" said the Templar, grinding his teeth, "I will teach thee to
blaspheme the holy Order of the Temple of Zion;" and with these words,
half-wheeling his steed, he made a demi-courbette towards the Saxon, and
rising in the stirrups, so as to take full advantage of the descent of
the horse, he discharged a fearful blow upon the head of Athelstane.
Well said Wamba, that silken bonnet keeps out no steel blade. So
trenchant was the Templar's weapon, that it shore asunder, as it had
been a willow twig, the tough and plaited handle of the mace, which the
ill-fated Saxon reared to parry the blow, and, descending on his head,
levelled him with the earth.
"'Ha! Beau-seant!'" exclaimed Bois-Guilbert, "thus be it to the
maligners of the Temple-knights!" Taking advantage of the dismay which
was spread by the fall of Athelstane, and calling aloud, "Those who
would save themselves, follow me!" he pushed across the drawbridge,
dispersing the archers who would have intercepted them. He was followed
by his Saracens, and some five or six men-at-arms, who had mounted their
horses. The Templar's retreat was rendered perilous by the numbers of
arrows shot off at him and his party; but this did not prevent him from
galloping round to the barbican, of which, according to his previous
plan, he supposed it possible De Bracy might have been in possession.
"De Bracy! De Bracy!" he shouted, "art thou there?"
"I am here," replied De Bracy, "but I am a prisoner."
"Can I rescue thee?" cried Bois-Guilbert.
"No," replied De Bracy; "I have rendered me, rescue or no rescue. I will
be true prisoner. Save thyself—there are hawks abroad—put the seas
betwixt you and England—I dare not say more."
"Well," answered the Templar, "an thou wilt tarry there, remember I
have redeemed word and glove. Be the hawks where they will, methinks
the walls of the Preceptory of Templestowe will be cover sufficient, and
thither will I, like heron to her haunt."
Having thus spoken, he galloped off with his followers.
Those of the castle who had not gotten to horse, still continued
to fight desperately with the besiegers, after the departure of the
Templar, but rather in despair of quarter than that they entertained any
hope of escape. The fire was spreading rapidly through all parts of the
castle, when Ulrica, who had first kindled it, appeared on a turret, in
the guise of one of the ancient furies, yelling forth a war-song, such
as was of yore raised on the field of battle by the scalds of the
yet heathen Saxons. Her long dishevelled grey hair flew back from her
uncovered head; the inebriating delight of gratified vengeance contended
in her eyes with the fire of insanity; and she brandished the distaff
which she held in her hand, as if she had been one of the Fatal Sisters,
who spin and abridge the thread of human life. Tradition has preserved
some wild strophes of the barbarous hymn which she chanted wildly amid
that scene of fire and of slaughter:—
1. Whet the bright steel,
Sons of the White Dragon! Kindle the torch,
Daughter of Hengist! The steel glimmers not for the carving of
the banquet, It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed;
The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber, It steams and glitters blue with sulphur.
Whet the steel, the raven croaks! Light the torch, Zernebock is yelling!
Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon! Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist!
2. The black cloud is low over the thane's castle
The eagle screams—he rides on its ***. Scream not, grey rider of the sable cloud,
Thy banquet is prepared! The maidens of Valhalla look forth,
The race of Hengist will send them guests. Shake your black tresses, maidens of Valhalla!
And strike your loud timbrels for joy! Many a haughty step bends to your halls,
Many a helmed head.
3. Dark sits the evening upon the thanes castle,
The black clouds gather round; Soon shall they be red as the blood of the
valiant! The destroyer of forests shall shake his red
crest against them.
He, the bright consumer of palaces, Broad waves he his blazing banner,
Red, wide and dusky, Over the strife of the valiant:
His joy is in the clashing swords and broken bucklers;
He loves to lick the hissing blood as it bursts warm from the
wound!
4. All must perish!
The sword cleaveth the helmet; The strong armour is pierced by the lance;
Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes, Engines break down the fences of the battle.
All must perish! The race of Hengist is gone—
The name of Horsa is no more! Shrink not then from your doom, sons of the
sword! Let your blades drink blood like wine;
Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter, By the light of the blazing halls!
Strong be your swords while your blood is warm,
And spare neither for pity nor fear, For vengeance hath but an hour;
Strong hate itself shall expire I also must perish! [39]
The towering flames had now surmounted every obstruction, and rose to
the evening skies one huge and burning beacon, seen far and wide through
the adjacent country. Tower after tower crashed down, with blazing roof
and rafter; and the combatants were driven from the court-yard. The
vanquished, of whom very few remained, scattered and escaped into the
neighbouring wood. The victors, assembling in large bands, gazed with
wonder, not unmixed with fear, upon the flames, in which their own ranks
and arms glanced dusky red. The maniac figure of the Saxon Ulrica was
for a long time visible on the lofty stand she had chosen, tossing
her arms abroad with wild exultation, as if she reined empress of the
conflagration which she had raised. At length, with a terrific crash,
the whole turret gave way, and she perished in the flames which had
consumed her tyrant. An awful pause of horror silenced each murmur of
the armed spectators, who, for the space of several minutes, stirred not
a finger, save to sign the cross. The voice of Locksley was then heard,
"Shout, yeomen!—the den of tyrants is no more! Let each bring his
spoil to our chosen place of rendezvous at the Trysting-tree in the
Harthill-walk; for there at break of day will we make just partition
among our own bands, together with our worthy allies in this great deed
of vengeance."
CHAPTER XXXII.
Trust me each state must have its policies: Kingdoms have edicts, cities have their charters;
Even the wild outlaw, in his forest-walk, Keeps yet some touch of civil discipline;
For not since Adam wore his verdant apron, Hath man with man in social union dwelt,
But laws were made to draw that union closer. —Old Play
The daylight had dawned upon the glades of the oak forest. The green
boughs glittered with all their pearls of dew. The hind led her fawn
from the covert of high fern to the more open walks of the greenwood,
and no huntsman was there to watch or intercept the stately hart, as he
paced at the head of the antler'd herd.
The outlaws were all assembled around the Trysting-tree in the
Harthill-walk, where they had spent the night in refreshing themselves
after the fatigues of the siege, some with wine, some with slumber, many
with hearing and recounting the events of the day, and computing the
heaps of plunder which their success had placed at the disposal of their
Chief.
The spoils were indeed very large; for, notwithstanding that much was
consumed, a great deal of plate, rich armour, and splendid clothing,
had been secured by the exertions of the dauntless outlaws, who could be
appalled by no danger when such rewards were in view. Yet so strict were
the laws of their society, that no one ventured to appropriate any
part of the ***, which was brought into one common mass, to be at the
disposal of their leader.
The place of rendezvous was an aged oak; not however the same to which
Locksley had conducted Gurth and Wamba in the earlier part of the story,
but one which was the centre of a silvan amphitheatre, within half a
mile of the demolished castle of Torquilstone. Here Locksley assumed his
seat—a throne of turf erected under the twisted branches of the huge
oak, and the silvan followers were gathered around him. He assigned to
the Black Knight a seat at his right hand, and to Cedric a place upon
his left.
"Pardon my freedom, noble sirs," he said, "but in these glades I am
monarch—they are my kingdom; and these my wild subjects would reck but
little of my power, were I, within my own dominions, to yield place to
mortal man.—Now, sirs, who hath seen our chaplain? where is our curtal
Friar? A mass amongst Christian men best begins a busy morning."—No one
had seen the Clerk of Copmanhurst. "Over gods forbode!" said the outlaw
chief, "I trust the jolly priest hath but abidden by the wine-pot a
thought too late. Who saw him since the castle was ta'en?"
"I," quoth the Miller, "marked him busy about the door of a cellar,
swearing by each saint in the calendar he would taste the smack of
Front-de-Boeuf's Gascoigne wine."
"Now, the saints, as many as there be of them," said the Captain,
"forefend, lest he has drunk too deep of the wine-butts, and perished by
the fall of the castle!—Away, Miller!—take with you enow of men,
seek the place where you last saw him—throw water from the moat on the
scorching ruins—I will have them removed stone by stone ere I lose my
curtal Friar."
The numbers who hastened to execute this duty, considering that an
interesting division of spoil was about to take place, showed how much
the troop had at heart the safety of their spiritual father.
"Meanwhile, let us proceed," said Locksley; "for when this bold deed
shall be sounded abroad, the bands of De Bracy, of Malvoisin, and other
allies of Front-de-Boeuf, will be in motion against us, and it were well
for our safety that we retreat from the vicinity.—Noble Cedric," he
said, turning to the Saxon, "that spoil is divided into two portions; do
thou make choice of that which best suits thee, to recompense thy people
who were partakers with us in this adventure."
"Good yeoman," said Cedric, "my heart is oppressed with sadness. The
noble Athelstane of Coningsburgh is no more—the last sprout of
the sainted Confessor! Hopes have perished with him which can never
return!—A sparkle hath been quenched by his blood, which no human
breath can again rekindle! My people, save the few who are now with me,
do but tarry my presence to transport his honoured remains to their last
mansion. The Lady Rowena is desirous to return to Rotherwood, and must
be escorted by a sufficient force. I should, therefore, ere now, have
left this place; and I waited—not to share the ***, for, so help me
God and Saint Withold! as neither I nor any of mine will touch the value
of a liard,—I waited but to render my thanks to thee and to thy bold
yeomen, for the life and honour ye have saved."
"Nay, but," said the chief Outlaw, "we did but half the work at
most—take of the spoil what may reward your own neighbours and
followers."
"I am rich enough to reward them from mine own wealth," answered Cedric.
"And some," said Wamba, "have been wise enough to reward themselves;
they do not march off empty-handed altogether. We do not all wear
motley."
"They are welcome," said Locksley; "our laws bind none but ourselves."
"But, thou, my poor knave," said Cedric, turning about and embracing
his Jester, "how shall I reward thee, who feared not to give thy body
to chains and death instead of mine!—All forsook me, when the poor fool
was faithful!"
A tear stood in the eye of the rough Thane as he spoke—a mark of
feeling which even the death of Athelstane had not extracted; but there
was something in the half-instinctive attachment of his clown, that
waked his nature more keenly than even grief itself.
"Nay," said the Jester, extricating himself from master's caress, "if
you pay my service with the water of your eye, the Jester must weep
for company, and then what becomes of his vocation?—But, uncle, if you
would indeed pleasure me, I pray you to pardon my playfellow Gurth, who
stole a week from your service to bestow it on your son."
"Pardon him!" exclaimed Cedric; "I will both pardon and reward
him.—Kneel down, Gurth."—The swineherd was in an instant at his
master's feet—"THEOW and ESNE [40] art thou no longer," said Cedric
touching him with a wand; "FOLKFREE and SACLESS [41] art thou in town
and from town, in the forest as in the field. A hide of land I give to
thee in my steads of Walbrugham, from me and mine to thee and thine aye
and for ever; and God's malison on his head who this gainsays!"
No longer a serf, but a freeman and a landholder, Gurth sprung upon his
feet, and twice bounded aloft to almost his own height from the ground.
"A smith and a file," he cried, "to do away the collar from the neck
of a freeman!—Noble master! doubled is my strength by your gift, and
doubly will I fight for you!—There is a free spirit in my breast—I am
a man changed to myself and all around.—Ha, Fangs!" he continued,—for
that faithful cur, seeing his master thus transported, began to jump
upon him, to express his sympathy,—"knowest thou thy master still?"
"Ay," said Wamba, "Fangs and I still know thee, Gurth, though we must
needs abide by the collar; it is only thou art likely to forget both us
and thyself."
"I shall forget myself indeed ere I forget thee, true comrade," said
Gurth; "and were freedom fit for thee, Wamba, the master would not let
thee want it."
"Nay," said Wamba, "never think I envy thee, brother Gurth; the serf
sits by the hall-fire when the freeman must forth to the field of
battle—And what saith Oldhelm of Malmsbury—Better a fool at a feast
than a wise man at a fray."
The *** of horses was now heard, and the Lady Rowena appeared,
surrounded by several riders, and a much stronger party of footmen, who
joyfully shook their pikes and clashed their brown-bills for joy of her
freedom. She herself, richly attired, and mounted on a dark chestnut
palfrey, had recovered all the dignity of her manner, and only an
unwonted degree of paleness showed the sufferings she had undergone. Her
lovely brow, though sorrowful, bore on it a cast of reviving hope
for the future, as well as of grateful thankfulness for the past
deliverance—She knew that Ivanhoe was safe, and she knew that
Athelstane was dead. The former assurance filled her with the most
sincere delight; and if she did not absolutely rejoice at the latter,
she might be pardoned for feeling the full advantage of being freed
from further persecution on the only subject in which she had ever been
contradicted by her guardian Cedric.
As Rowena bent her steed towards Locksley's seat, that bold yeoman, with
all his followers, rose to receive her, as if by a general instinct of
courtesy. The blood rose to her cheeks, as, courteously waving her hand,
and bending so low that her beautiful and loose tresses were for an
instant mixed with the flowing mane of her palfrey, she expressed in
few but apt words her obligations and her gratitude to Locksley and her
other deliverers.—"God bless you, brave men," she concluded, "God and
Our Lady bless you and requite you for gallantly perilling yourselves
in the cause of the oppressed!—If any of you should hunger, remember
Rowena has food—if you should thirst, she has many a butt of wine and
brown ale—and if the Normans drive ye from these walks, Rowena has
forests of her own, where her gallant deliverers may range at full
freedom, and never ranger ask whose arrow hath struck down the deer."
"Thanks, gentle lady," said Locksley; "thanks from my company and
myself. But, to have saved you requites itself. We who walk the
greenwood do many a wild deed, and the Lady Rowena's deliverance may be
received as an atonement."
Again bowing from her palfrey, Rowena turned to depart; but pausing a
moment, while Cedric, who was to attend her, was also taking his leave,
she found herself unexpectedly close by the prisoner De Bracy. He stood
under a tree in deep meditation, his arms crossed upon his breast,
and Rowena was in hopes she might pass him unobserved. He looked up,
however, and, when aware of her presence, a deep flush of shame suffused
his handsome countenance. He stood a moment most irresolute; then,
stepping forward, took her palfrey by the rein, and bent his knee before
her.
"Will the Lady Rowena deign to cast an eye—on a captive knight—on a
dishonoured soldier?"
"Sir Knight," answered Rowena, "in enterprises such as yours, the real
dishonour lies not in failure, but in success."
"Conquest, lady, should soften the heart," answered De Bracy; "let me
but know that the Lady Rowena forgives the violence occasioned by an
ill-fated passion, and she shall soon learn that De Bracy knows how to
serve her in nobler ways."
"I forgive you, Sir Knight," said Rowena, "as a Christian."
"That means," said Wamba, "that she does not forgive him at all."
"But I can never forgive the misery and desolation your madness has
occasioned," continued Rowena.
"Unloose your hold on the lady's rein," said Cedric, coming up. "By the
bright sun above us, but it were shame, I would pin thee to the earth
with my javelin—but be well assured, thou shalt smart, Maurice de
Bracy, for thy share in this foul deed."
"He threatens safely who threatens a prisoner," said De Bracy; "but when
had a Saxon any touch of courtesy?"
Then retiring two steps backward, he permitted the lady to move on.
Cedric, ere they departed, expressed his peculiar gratitude to the Black
Champion, and earnestly entreated him to accompany him to Rotherwood.
"I know," he said, "that ye errant knights desire to carry your fortunes
on the point of your lance, and reck not of land or goods; but war is
a changeful mistress, and a home is sometimes desirable even to the
champion whose trade is wandering. Thou hast earned one in the halls
of Rotherwood, noble knight. Cedric has wealth enough to repair the
injuries of fortune, and all he has is his deliverer's—Come, therefore,
to Rotherwood, not as a guest, but as a son or brother."
"Cedric has already made me rich," said the Knight,—"he has taught me
the value of Saxon virtue. To Rotherwood will I come, brave Saxon, and
that speedily; but, as now, pressing matters of moment detain me from
your halls. Peradventure when I come hither, I will ask such a boon as
will put even thy generosity to the test."
"It is granted ere spoken out," said Cedric, striking his ready hand
into the gauntleted palm of the Black Knight,—"it is granted already,
were it to affect half my fortune."
"Gage not thy promise so lightly," said the Knight of the Fetterlock;
"yet well I hope to gain the boon I shall ask. Meanwhile, adieu."
"I have but to say," added the Saxon, "that, during the funeral rites
of the noble Athelstane, I shall be an inhabitant of the halls of his
castle of Coningsburgh—They will be open to all who choose to partake
of the funeral banqueting; and, I speak in name of the noble Edith,
mother of the fallen prince, they will never be shut against him who
laboured so bravely, though unsuccessfully, to save Athelstane from
Norman chains and Norman steel."
"Ay, ay," said Wamba, who had resumed his attendance on his master,
"rare feeding there will be—pity that the noble Athelstane cannot
banquet at his own funeral.—But he," continued the Jester, lifting up
his eyes gravely, "is supping in Paradise, and doubtless does honour to
the cheer."
"Peace, and move on," said Cedric, his anger at this untimely jest being
checked by the recollection of Wamba's recent services. Rowena waved a
graceful adieu to him of the Fetterlock—the Saxon bade God speed him,
and on they moved through a wide glade of the forest.
They had scarce departed, ere a sudden procession moved from under the
greenwood branches, swept slowly round the silvan amphitheatre, and
took the same direction with Rowena and her followers. The priests of
a neighbouring convent, in expectation of the ample donation, or
"soul-scat", which Cedric had propined, attended upon the car in which
the body of Athelstane was laid, and sang hymns as it was sadly
and slowly borne on the shoulders of his vassals to his castle of
Coningsburgh, to be there deposited in the grave of Hengist, from whom
the deceased derived his long descent. Many of his vassals had assembled
at the news of his death, and followed the bier with all the external
marks, at least, of dejection and sorrow. Again the outlaws arose, and
paid the same rude and spontaneous homage to death, which they had
so lately rendered to beauty—the slow chant and mournful step of the
priests brought back to their remembrance such of their comrades as had
fallen in the yesterday's array. But such recollections dwell not long
with those who lead a life of danger and enterprise, and ere the sound
of the death-hymn had died on the wind, the outlaws were again busied in
the distribution of their spoil.
"Valiant knight," said Locksley to the Black Champion, "without whose
good heart and mighty arm our enterprise must altogether have failed,
will it please you to take from that mass of spoil whatever may best
serve to pleasure you, and to remind you of this my Trysting-tree?"
"I accept the offer," said the Knight, "as frankly as it is given; and I
ask permission to dispose of Sir Maurice de Bracy at my own pleasure."
"He is thine already," said Locksley, "and well for him! else the
tyrant had graced the highest bough of this oak, with as many of his
Free-Companions as we could gather, hanging thick as acorns around
him.—But he is thy prisoner, and he is safe, though he had slain my
father."
"De Bracy," said the Knight, "thou art free—depart. He whose prisoner
thou art scorns to take mean revenge for what is past. But beware of
the future, lest a worse thing befall thee.—Maurice de Bracy, I say
BEWARE!"
De Bracy bowed low and in silence, and was about to withdraw, when the
yeomen burst at once into a shout of execration and derision. The proud
knight instantly stopped, turned back, folded his arms, drew up his form
to its full height, and exclaimed, "Peace, ye yelping curs! who open
upon a cry which ye followed not when the stag was at bay—De Bracy
scorns your censure as he would disdain your applause. To your brakes
and caves, ye outlawed thieves! and be silent when aught knightly or
noble is but spoken within a league of your fox-earths."
This ill-timed defiance might have procured for De Bracy a volley of
arrows, but for the hasty and imperative interference of the outlaw
Chief. Meanwhile the knight caught a horse by the rein, for several
which had been taken in the stables of Front-de-Boeuf stood accoutred
around, and were a valuable part of the ***. He threw himself upon the
saddle, and galloped off through the wood.
When the bustle occasioned by this incident was somewhat composed, the
chief Outlaw took from his neck the rich horn and baldric which he had
recently gained at the strife of archery near Ashby.
"Noble knight." he said to him of the Fetterlock, "if you disdain not to
grace by your acceptance a bugle which an English yeoman has once worn,
this I will pray you to keep as a memorial of your gallant bearing—and
if ye have aught to do, and, as happeneth oft to a gallant knight, ye
chance to be hard bested in any forest between Trent and Tees, wind
three mots [42] upon the horn thus, 'Wa-sa-hoa!' and it may well chance
ye shall find helpers and rescue."
He then gave breath to the bugle, and winded once and again the call
which he described, until the knight had caught the notes.
"Gramercy for the gift, bold yeoman," said the Knight; "and better help
than thine and thy rangers would I never seek, were it at my utmost
need." And then in his turn he winded the call till all the greenwood
rang.
"Well blown and clearly," said the yeoman; "beshrew me an thou knowest
not as much of woodcraft as of war!—thou hast been a striker of deer in
thy day, I warrant.—Comrades, mark these three mots—it is the call of
the Knight of the Fetterlock; and he who hears it, and hastens not to
serve him at his need, I will have him scourged out of our band with his
own bowstring."
"Long live our leader!" shouted the yeomen, "and long live the Black
Knight of the Fetterlock!—May he soon use our service, to prove how
readily it will be paid."
Locksley now proceeded to the distribution of the spoil, which he
performed with the most laudable impartiality. A tenth part of the whole
was set apart for the church, and for pious uses; a portion was next
allotted to a sort of public treasury; a part was assigned to the widows
and children of those who had fallen, or to be expended in masses for
the souls of such as had left no surviving family. The rest was divided
amongst the outlaws, according to their rank and merit, and the judgment
of the Chief, on all such doubtful questions as occurred, was delivered
with great shrewdness, and received with absolute submission. The
Black Knight was not a little surprised to find that men, in a state so
lawless, were nevertheless among themselves so regularly and equitably
governed, and all that he observed added to his opinion of the justice
and judgment of their leader.
When each had taken his own proportion of the ***, and while the
treasurer, accompanied by four tall yeomen, was transporting that
belonging to the state to some place of concealment or of security, the
portion devoted to the church still remained unappropriated.
"I would," said the leader, "we could hear tidings of our joyous
chaplain—he was never wont to be absent when meat was to be blessed, or
spoil to be parted; and it is his duty to take care of these the tithes
of our successful enterprise. It may be the office has helped to cover
some of his canonical irregularities. Also, I have a holy brother of his
a prisoner at no great distance, and I would fain have the Friar to help
me to deal with him in due sort—I greatly misdoubt the safety of the
bluff priest."
"I were right sorry for that," said the Knight of the Fetterlock, "for I
stand indebted to him for the joyous hospitality of a merry night in his
cell. Let us to the ruins of the castle; it may be we shall there learn
some tidings of him."
While they thus spoke, a loud shout among the yeomen announced the
arrival of him for whom they feared, as they learned from the stentorian
voice of the Friar himself, long before they saw his burly person.
"Make room, my merry-men!" he exclaimed; "room for your godly father
and his prisoner—Cry welcome once more.—I come, noble leader, like an
eagle with my prey in my clutch."—And making his way through the ring,
amidst the laughter of all around, he appeared in majestic triumph, his
huge partisan in one hand, and in the other a halter, one end of which
was fastened to the neck of the unfortunate Isaac of York, who, bent
down by sorrow and terror, was dragged on by the victorious priest, who
shouted aloud, "Where is Allan-a-Dale, to chronicle me in a ballad, or
if it were but a lay?—By Saint Hermangild, the jingling crowder is ever
out of the way where there is an apt theme for exalting valour!"
"Curtal Priest," said the Captain, "thou hast been at a wet mass this
morning, as early as it is. In the name of Saint Nicholas, whom hast
thou got here?"
"A captive to my sword and to my lance, noble Captain," replied the
Clerk of Copmanhurst; "to my bow and to my halberd, I should rather
say; and yet I have redeemed him by my divinity from a worse captivity.
Speak, Jew—have I not ransomed thee from Sathanas?—have I not taught
thee thy 'credo', thy 'pater', and thine 'Ave Maria'?—Did I not spend
the whole night in drinking to thee, and in expounding of mysteries?"
"For the love of God!" *** the poor Jew, "will no one take me out
of the keeping of this mad—I mean this holy man?"
"How's this, Jew?" said the Friar, with a menacing aspect; "dost thou
recant, Jew?—Bethink thee, if thou dost relapse into thine infidelity,
though thou are not so tender as a suckling pig—I would I had one
to break my fast upon—thou art not too tough to be roasted! Be
conformable, Isaac, and repeat the words after me. 'Ave Maria'!—"
"Nay, we will have no profanation, mad Priest," said Locksley; "let us
rather hear where you found this prisoner of thine."
"By Saint Dunstan," said the Friar, "I found him where I sought for
better ware! I did step into the cellarage to see what might be rescued
there; for though a cup of burnt wine, with spice, be an evening's
drought for an emperor, it were waste, methought, to let so much good
liquor be mulled at once; and I had caught up one runlet of sack, and
was coming to call more aid among these lazy knaves, who are ever to
seek when a good deed is to be done, when I was avised of a strong
door—Aha! thought I, here is the choicest juice of all in this secret
crypt; and the knave butler, being disturbed in his vocation, hath left
the key in the door—In therefore I went, and found just nought besides
a commodity of rusted chains and this dog of a Jew, who presently
rendered himself my prisoner, rescue or no rescue. I did but refresh
myself after the fatigue of the action, with the unbeliever, with one
humming cup of sack, and was proceeding to lead forth my captive,
when, crash after crash, as with wild thunder-dint and levin-fire, down
toppled the masonry of an outer tower, (marry beshrew their hands that
built it not the firmer!) and blocked up the passage. The roar of one
falling tower followed another—I gave up thought of life; and deeming
it a dishonour to one of my profession to pass out of this world in
company with a Jew, I heaved up my halberd to beat his brains out; but
I took pity on his grey hairs, and judged it better to lay down the
partisan, and take up my spiritual weapon for his conversion. And truly,
by the blessing of Saint Dunstan, the seed has been sown in good soil;
only that, with speaking to him of mysteries through the whole night,
and being in a manner fasting, (for the few droughts of sack which I
sharpened my wits with were not worth marking,) my head is well-nigh
dizzied, I trow.—But I was clean exhausted.—Gilbert and Wibbald know
in what state they found me—quite and clean exhausted."
"We can bear witness," said Gilbert; "for when we had cleared away the
ruin, and by Saint Dunstan's help lighted upon the dungeon stair, we
found the runlet of sack half empty, the Jew half dead, and the Friar
more than half—exhausted, as he calls it."
"Ye be knaves! ye lie!" retorted the offended Friar; "it was you and
your gormandizing companions that drank up the sack, and called it your
morning draught—I am a pagan, an I kept it not for the Captain's own
throat. But what recks it? The Jew is converted, and understands all I
have told him, very nearly, if not altogether, as well as myself."
"Jew," said the Captain, "is this true? hast thou renounced thine
unbelief?"
"May I so find mercy in your eyes," said the Jew, "as I know not one
word which the reverend prelate spake to me all this fearful night.
Alas! I was so distraught with agony, and fear, and grief, that had
our holy father Abraham come to preach to me, he had found but a deaf
listener."
"Thou liest, Jew, and thou knowest thou dost." said the Friar; "I will
remind thee of but one word of our conference—thou didst promise to
give all thy substance to our holy Order."
"So help me the Promise, fair sirs," said Isaac, even more alarmed than
before, "as no such sounds ever crossed my lips! Alas! I am an aged
beggar'd man—I fear me a childless—have ruth on me, and let me go!"
"Nay," said the Friar, "if thou dost retract vows made in favour of holy
Church, thou must do penance."
Accordingly, he raised his halberd, and would have laid the staff of
it lustily on the Jew's shoulders, had not the Black Knight stopped the
blow, and thereby transferred the Holy Clerk's resentment to himself.
"By Saint Thomas of Kent," said he, "an I buckle to my gear, I will
teach thee, sir lazy lover, to mell with thine own matters, maugre thine
iron case there!"
"Nay, be not wroth with me," said the Knight; "thou knowest I am thy
sworn friend and comrade."
"I know no such thing," answered the Friar; "and defy thee for a
meddling coxcomb!"
"Nay, but," said the Knight, who seemed to take a pleasure in provoking
his quondam host, "hast thou forgotten how, that for my sake (for I say
nothing of the temptation of the flagon and the pasty) thou didst break
thy vow of fast and vigil?"
"Truly, friend," said the Friar, clenching his huge fist, "I will bestow
a buffet on thee."
"I accept of no such presents," said the Knight; "I am content to take
thy cuff [421] as a loan, but I will repay thee with usury as deep as ever thy prisoner
there exacted in his traffic."
"I will prove that presently," said the Friar.
"Hola!" cried the Captain, "what art thou after, mad Friar? brawling
beneath our Trysting-tree?"
"No brawling," said the Knight, "it is but a friendly interchange of
courtesy.—Friar, strike an thou darest—I will stand thy blow, if thou
wilt stand mine."
"Thou hast the advantage with that iron pot on thy head," said the
churchman; "but have at thee—Down thou goest, an thou wert Goliath of
Gath in his brazen helmet."
The Friar bared his brawny arm up to the elbow, and putting his full
strength to the blow, gave the Knight a buffet that might have felled an
ox. But his adversary stood firm as a rock. A loud shout was uttered by
all the yeomen around; for the Clerk's cuff was proverbial amongst them,
and there were few who, in jest or earnest, had not had the occasion to
know its vigour.
"Now, Priest," said, the Knight, pulling off his gauntlet, "if I had
vantage on my head, I will have none on my hand—stand fast as a true
man."
"'Genam meam dedi vapulatori'—I have given my cheek to the smiter,"
said the Priest; "an thou canst stir me from the spot, fellow, I will
freely bestow on thee the Jew's ransom."
So spoke the burly Priest, assuming, on his part, high defiance. But
who may resist his fate? The buffet of the Knight was given with such
strength and good-will, that the Friar rolled head over heels upon
the plain, to the great amazement of all the spectators. But he arose
neither angry nor crestfallen.
"Brother," said he to the Knight, "thou shouldst have used thy strength
with more discretion. I had mumbled but a lame mass an thou hadst
broken my jaw, for the piper plays ill that wants the nether chops.
Nevertheless, there is my hand, in friendly witness, that I will
exchange no more cuffs with thee, having been a loser by the barter. End
now all unkindness. Let us put the Jew to ransom, since the leopard will
not change his spots, and a Jew he will continue to be."
"The Priest," said Clement, "is not half so confident of the Jew's
conversion, since he received that buffet on the ear."
"Go to, knave, what pratest thou of conversions?—what, is there no
respect?—all masters and no men?—I tell thee, fellow, I was somewhat
totty when I received the good knight's blow, or I had kept my ground
under it. But an thou gibest more of it, thou shalt learn I can give as
well as take."
"Peace all!" said the Captain. "And thou, Jew, think of thy ransom;
thou needest not to be told that thy race are held to be accursed in all
Christian communities, and trust me that we cannot endure thy presence
among us. Think, therefore, of an offer, while I examine a prisoner of
another cast."
"Were many of Front-de-Boeuf's men taken?" demanded the Black Knight.
"None of note enough to be put to ransom," answered the Captain; "a
set of hilding fellows there were, whom we dismissed to find them a new
master—enough had been done for revenge and profit; the bunch of them
were not worth a cardecu. The prisoner I speak of is better ***—a
jolly monk riding to visit his leman, an I may judge by his horse-gear
and wearing apparel.—Here cometh the worthy prelate, as pert as a
pyet." And, between two yeomen, was brought before the silvan throne of
the outlaw Chief, our old friend, Prior Aymer of Jorvaulx.
End of Chapter XXXII �