All this while the King was hastily clothing himself, and, with the last word, snatched his sword from the pillar of the tent, and without any other weapon, or calling any attendance, he rushed out of his pavilion. Conrade, holding up his hands as if in astonishment, seemed willing to enter into conversation with De Vaux; but Sir Thomas pushed rudely past him, and calling to one of the royal equerries, said hastily, “Fly to Lord Salisbury’s quarters, and let him get his men together and follow me instantly to Saint George’s Mount. Tell him the King’s fever has left his blood and settled in his brain.”
Imperfectly heard, and still more imperfectly comprehended, by the startled attendant whom De Vaux addressed thus hastily, the equerry and his fellow-servants of the royal chamber rushed hastily into the tents of the neighbouring nobility, and quickly spread an alarm, as general as the cause seemed vague, through the whole British forces. The English soldiers, waked in alarm from that noonday rest which the heat of the climate had taught them to enjoy as a luxury, hastily asked each other the cause of the tumult, and without waiting an answer, supplied by the force of their own fancy the want of information. Some said the Saracens were in the camp, some that the King’s life was attempted, some that he had died of the fever the preceding night, many that he was assassinated by the Duke of Austria. The nobles and officers, at an equal loss with the common men to ascertain the real cause of the disorder, laboured only to get their followers under arms and under authority, lest their rashness should occasion some great misfortune to the Crusading army. The English trumpets sounded loud, shrill, and continuously. The alarm-cry of “Bows and bills, bows and bills!” was heard from quarter to quarter, again and again shouted, and again and again answered by the presence of the ready warriors, and their national invocation, “Saint George for merry England!”
The alarm went through the nearest quarter of the camp, and men of all the various nations assembled, where, perhaps, every people in Christendom had their representatives, flew to arms, and drew together under circumstances of general confusion, of which they knew neither the cause nor the object. It was, however, lucky, amid a scene so threatening, that the Earl of Salisbury, while he hurried after De Vaux’s summons with a few only of the readiest English men-at-arms, directed the rest of the English host to be drawn up and kept under arms, to advance to Richard’s succour if necessity should require, but in fit array and under due command, and not with the tumultuary haste which their own alarm and zeal for the King’s safety might have dictated.
In the meanwhile, without regarding for one instant the shouts, the cries, the tumult which began to thicken around him, Richard, with his dress in the last disorder, and his sheathed blade under his arm, pursued his way with the utmost speed, followed only by De Vaux and one or two household servants, to Saint George’s Mount.
He outsped even the alarm which his impetuosity only had excited, and passed the quarter of his own gallant troops of Normandy, Poitou, Gascony, and Anjou before the disturbance had reached them, although the noise accompanying the German revel had induced many of the soldiery to get on foot to listen. The handful of Scots were also quartered in the vicinity, nor had they been disturbed by the uproar. But the King’s person and his haste were both remarked by the Knight of the Leopard, who, aware that danger must be afoot, and hastening to share in it, snatched his shield and sword, and united himself to De Vaux, who with some difficulty kept pace with his impatient and fiery master. De Vaux answered a look of curiosity, which the Scottish knight directed towards him, with a shrug of his broad shoulders, and they continued, side by side, to pursue Richard’s steps.
The King was soon at the foot of Saint George’s Mount, the sides as well as platform of which were now surrounded and crowded, partly by those belonging to the Duke of Austria’s retinue, who were celebrating, with shouts of jubilee, the act which they considered as an assertion of national honour; partly by bystanders of different nations, whom dislike to the English, or mere curiosity, had assembled together to witness the end of these extraordinary proceedings. Through this disorderly troop Richard burst his way, like a goodly ship under full sail, which cleaves her forcible passage through the rolling billows, and heeds not that they unite after her passage and roar upon her stern.
The summit of the eminence was a small level space, on which were pitched the rival banners, surrounded still by the Archduke’s friends and retinue. In the midst of the circle was Leopold himself, still contemplating with self-satisfaction the deed he had done, and still listening to the shouts of applause which his partisans bestowed with no sparing breath. While he was in this state of self-gratulation, Richard burst into the circle, attended, indeed, only by two men, but in his own headlong energies an irresistible host.
“Who has dared,” he said, laying his hands upon the Austrian standard, and speaking in a voice like the sound which precedes an earthquake–“Who has dared to place this paltry rag beside the banner of England?”
The Archduke wanted not personal courage, and it was impossible he could hear this question without reply. Yet so much was he troubled and surprised by the unexpected arrival of Richard, and affected by the general awe inspired by his ardent and unyielding character, that the demand was twice repeated, in a tone which seemed to challenge heaven and earth, ere the Archduke replied, with such firmness as he could command, “It was I, Leopold of Austria.”
“Then shall Leopold of Austria,” replied Richard, “presentry see the rate at which his banner and his pretensions are held by Richard of England.”
So saying, he pulled up the standard-spear, splintered it to pieces, threw the banner itself on the ground, and placed his foot upon it.
“Thus,” said he, “I trample on the banner of Austria. Is there a knight among your Teutonic chivalry dare impeach my deed?”
There was a momentary silence; but there are no braver men than the Germans.
“I,” and “I,” and “I,” was heard from several knights of the Duke”s followers; and he himself added his voice to those which accepted the King of England’s defiance.
“Why do we dally thus?” said the Earl Wallenrode, a gigantic warrior from the frontiers of Hungary. “Brethren and noble gentlemen, this man’s foot is on the honour of your country–let us rescue it from violation, and down with the pride of England!”
So saying, he drew his sword, and struck at the King a blow which might have proved fatal, had not the Scot intercepted and caught it upon his shield.
“I have sworn,” said King Richard–and his voice was heard above all the tumult, which now waxed wild and loud–“never to strike one whose shoulder bears the cross; therefore live, Wallenrode –but live to remember Richard of England.”
As he spoke, he grasped the tall Hungarian round the waist, and, unmatched in wrestling, as in other military exercises, hurled him backwards with such violence that the mass flew as if discharged from a military engine, not only through the ring of spectators who witnessed the extraordinary scene, but over the edge of the mount itself, down the steep side of which Wallenrode rolled headlong, until, pitching at length upon his shoulder, he dislocated the bone, and lay like one dead. This almost supernatural display of strength did not encourage either the Duke or any of his followers to renew a personal contest so inauspiciously commenced. Those who stood farthest back did, indeed, clash their swords, and cry out, “Cut the island mastiff to pieces!” but those who were nearer veiled, perhaps, their personal fears under an affected regard for order, and cried, for the most part, “Peace! Peace! the peace of the Cross–the peace of Holy Church and our Father the Pope!”
These various cries of the assailants, contradicting each other, showed their irresolution; while Richard, his foot still on the archducal banner, glared round him with an eye that seemed to seek an enemy, and from which the angry nobles shrunk appalled, as from the threatened grasp of a lion. De Vaux and the Knight of the Leopard kept their places beside him; and though the swords which they held were still sheathed, it was plain that they were prompt to protect Richard’s person to the very last, and their size and remarkable strength plainly showed the defence would be a desperate one.
Salisbury and his attendants were also now drawing near, with bills and partisans brandished, and bows already bended.
At this moment King Philip of France, attended by one or two of his nobles, came on the platform to inquire the cause of the disturbance, and made gestures of surprise at finding the King of England raised from his sick-bed, and confronting their common ally, the Duke of Austria, in such a menacing and insulting posture. Richard himself blushed at being discovered by Philip, whose sagacity he respected as much as he disliked his person, in an attitude neither becoming his character as a monarch, nor as a Crusader; and it was observed that he withdrew his foot, as if accidentally, from the dishonoured banner, and exchanged his look of violent emotion for one of affected composure and indifference. Leopold also struggled to attain some degree of calmness, mortified as he was by having been seen by Philip in the act of passively submitting to the insults of the fiery King of England.
Possessed of many of those royal qualities for which he was termed by his subjects the August, Philip might be termed the Ulysses, as Richard was indisputably the Achilles, of the Crusade. The King of France was sagacious, wise, deliberate in council, steady and calm in action, seeing clearly, and steadily pursuing, the measures most for the interest of his kingdom –dignified and royal in his deportment, brave in person, but a politician rather than a warrior. The Crusade would have been no choice of his own; but the spirit was contagious, and the expedition was enforced upon him by the church, and by the unanimous wish of his nobility. In any other situation, or in a milder age, his character might have stood higher than that of the adventurous Coeur de Lion. But in the Crusade, itself an undertaking wholly irrational, sound reason was the quality of all others least estimated, and the chivalric valour which both the age and the enterprise demanded was considered as debased if mingled with the least touch of discretion. So that the merit of Philip, compared with that of his haughty rival, showed like the clear but minute flame of a lamp placed near the glare of a huge, blazing torch, which, not possessing half the utility, makes ten times more impression on the eye. Philip felt his inferiority in public opinion with the pain natural to a high-spirited prince; and it cannot be wondered at if he took such opportunities as offered for placing his own character in more advantageous contrast with that of his rival. The present seemed one of those occasions in which prudence and calmness might reasonably expect to triumph over obstinacy and impetuous violence.
“What means this unseemly broil betwixt the sworn brethren of the Cross–the royal Majesty of England and the princely Duke Leopold? How is it possible that those who are the chiefs and pillars of this holy expedition–“
“A truce with thy remonstrance, France,” said Richard, enraged inwardly at finding himself placed on a sort of equality with Leopold, yet not knowing how to resent it. “This duke, or prince, or pillar, if you will, hath been insolent, and I have chastised him–that is all. Here is a coil, forsooth, because of spurning a hound!”
“Majesty of France,” said the Duke, “I appeal to you and every sovereign prince against the foul indignity which I have sustained. This King of England hath pulled down my banner-torn and trampled on it.”
“Because he had the audacity to plant it beside mine,” said Richard.
“My rank as thine equal entitled me,” replied the Duke, emboldened by the presence of Philip.
“Assert such equality for thy person,” said King Richard, “and, by Saint George, I will treat thy person as I did thy broidered kerchief there, fit but for the meanest use to which kerchief may be put.”
“Nay, but patience, brother of England,” said Philip, “and I will presently show Austria that he is wrong in this matter.–Do not think, noble Duke,” he continued, “that, in permitting the standard of England to occupy the highest point in our camp, we, the independent sovereigns of the Crusade, acknowledge any inferiority to the royal Richard. It were inconsistent to think so, since even the Oriflamme itself–the great banner of France, to which the royal Richard himself, in respect of his French possessions, is but a vassal–holds for the present an inferior place to the Lions of England. But as sworn brethren of the Cross, military pilgrims, who, laying aside the pomp and pride of this world, are hewing with our swords the way to the Holy Sepulchre, I myself, and the other princes, have renounced to King Richard, from respect to his high renown and great feats of arms, that precedence which elsewhere, and upon other motives, would not have been yielded. I am satisfied that, when your royal grace of Austria shall have considered this, you will express sorrow for having placed your banner on this spot, and that the royal Majesty of England will then give satisfaction for the insult he has offered.”
The SPRUCH-SPRECHER and the jester had both retired to a safe distance when matters seemed coming to blows; but returned when words, their own commodity, seemed again about to become the order of the day.
The man of proverbs was so delighted with Philip’s politic speech that he clashed his baton at the conclusion, by way of emphasis, and forgot the presence in which he was, so far as to say aloud that he himself had never said a wiser thing in his life.
“It may be so,” whispered Jonas Schwanker, “but we shall be whipped if you speak so loud.”
The Duke answered sullenly that he would refer his quarrel to the General Council of the Crusade–a motion which Philip highly applauded, as qualified to take away a scandal most harmful to Christendom.
Richard, retaining the same careless attitude, listened to Philip until his oratory seemed exhausted, and then said aloud, “I am drowsy–this fever hangs about me still. Brother of France, thou art acquainted with my humour, and that I have at all times but few words to spare. Know, therefore, at once, I will submit a matter touching the honour of England neither to Prince, Pope, nor Council. Here stands my banner–whatsoever pennon shall be reared within three butts’ length of it–ay, were it the Oriflamme, of which you were, I think, but now speaking–shall be treated as that dishonoured rag; nor will I yield other satisfaction than that which these poor limbs can render in the lists to any bold challenge–ay, were it against five champions instead of one.”
“Now,” said the jester, whispering his companion, “that is as complete a piece of folly as if I myself had said it; but yet, I think, there may be in this matter a greater fool than Richard yet.”
“And who may that be?” asked the man of wisdom.
“Philip,” said the jester, “or our own Royal Duke, should either accept the challenge. But oh, most sage SPRUCH-SPECHER, what excellent kings wouldst thou and I have made, since those on whose heads these crowns have fallen can play the proverb-monger and the fool as completely as ourselves!”
While these worthies plied their offices apart, Philip answered calmly to the almost injurious defiance of Richard, “I came not hither to awaken fresh quarrels, contrary to the oath we have sworn, and the holy cause in which we have engaged. I part from my brother of England as brothers should part, and the only strife between the Lions of England and the Lilies of France shall be which shall be carried deepest into the ranks of the infidels.”
“It is a bargain, my royal brother,” said Richard, stretching out his hand with all the frankness which belonged to his rash but generous disposition; “and soon may we have the opportunity to try this gallant and fraternal wager.”
“Let this noble Duke also partake in the friendship of this happy moment,” said Philip; and the Duke approached half-sullenly, half-willing to enter into some accommodation.
“I think not of fools, nor of their folly,” said Richard carelessly; and the Archduke, turning his back on him, withdrew from the ground.
Richard looked after him as he retired.
“There is a sort of glow-worm courage,” he said, “that shows only by night. I must not leave this banner unguarded in darkness; by daylight the look of the Lions will alone defend it. Here, Thomas of Gilsland, I give thee the charge of the standard–watch over the honour of England.”
“Her safety is yet more dear to me,” said De Vaux, “and the life of Richard is the safety of England. I must have your Highness back to your tent, and that without further tarriance.”
“Thou art a rough and peremptory nurse, De Vaux,” said the king, smiling; and then added, addressing Sir Kenneth, “Valiant Scot, I owe thee a boon, and I will pay it richly. There stands the banner of England! Watch it as novice does his armour on the night before he is dubbed. Stir not from it three spears’ length, and defend it with thy body against injury or insult. Sound thy bugle if thou art assailed by more than three at once. Dost thou undertake the charge?”
“Willingly,” said Kenneth; “and will discharge it upon penalty of my head. I will but arm me, and return hither instantly.”
The Kings of France and England then took formal leave of each other, hiding, under an appearance of courtesy, the grounds of complaint which either had against the other–Richard against Philip, for what he deemed an officious interference betwixt him and Austria, and Philip against Coeur de Lion, for the disrespectful manner in which his mediation had been received. Those whom this disturbance had assembled now drew off in different directions, leaving the contested mount in the same solitude which had subsisted till interrupted by the Austrian bravado. Men judged of the events of the day according to their partialities, and while the English charged the Austrian with having afforded the first ground of quarrel, those of other nations concurred in casting the greater blame upon the insular haughtiness and assuming character of Richard.
“Thou seest,” said the Marquis of Montserrat to the Grand Master of the Templars, “that subtle courses are more effective than violence. I have unloosed the bonds which held together this bunch of sceptres and lances–thou wilt see them shortly fall asunder.”
“I would have called thy plan a good one,” said the Templar, “had there been but one man of courage among yonder cold-blooded Austrians to sever the bonds of which you speak with his sword. A knot that is unloosed may again be fastened, but not so the cord which has been cut to pieces.”
CHAPTER XII.
‘Tis woman that seduces all mankind. GAY.
In the days of chivalry, a dangerous post or a perilous adventure was a reward frequently assigned to military bravery as a compensation for its former trials; just as, in ascending a precipice, the surmounting one crag only lifts the climber to points yet more dangerous.
It was midnight, and the moon rode clear and high in heaven, when Kenneth of Scotland stood upon his watch on Saint George’s Mount, beside the banner of England, a solitary sentinel, to protect the emblem of that nation against the insults which might be meditated among the thousands whom Richard’s pride had made his enemies. High thoughts rolled, one after each other, upon the mind of the warrior. It seemed to him as if he had gained some favour in the eyes of the chivalrous monarch, who till now had not seemed to distinguish him among the crowds of brave men whom his renown had assembled under his banner, and Sir Kenneth little recked that the display of royal regard consisted in placing him upon a post so perilous. The devotion of his ambitious and high-placed affection inflamed his military enthusiasm. Hopeless as
that attachment was in almost any conceivable circumstances, those which had lately occurred had, in some degree, diminished the distance between Edith and himself. He upon whom Richard had conferred the distinction of guarding his banner was no longer an adventurer of slight note, but placed within the regard of a princess, although he was as far as ever from her level. An unknown and obscure fate could not now be his. If he was surprised and slain on the post which had been assigned him, his death–and he resolved it should be glorious–must deserve the praises as well as call down the vengeance of Coeur de Lion, and be followed by the regrets, and even the tears, of the high-born beauties of the English Court. He had now no longer reason to fear that he should die as a fool dieth.
Sir Kenneth had full leisure to enjoy these and similar high-souled thoughts, fostered by that wild spirit of chivalry, which,
amid its most extravagant and fantastic flights, was still pure from all selfish alloy–generous, devoted, and perhaps only thus far censurable, that it proposed objects and courses of action inconsistent with the frailties and imperfections of man. All nature around him slept in calm moon-shine or in deep shadow. The long rows of tents and pavilions, glimmering or darkening as they lay in the moonlight or in the shade, were still and silent as the streets of a deserted city. Beside the banner-staff lay the large staghound already mentioned, the sole companion of Kenneth’s watch, on whose vigilance he trusted for early warning of the approach of any hostile footstep. The noble animal seemed to understand the purpose of their watch; for he looked from time to time at the rich folds of the heavy pennon, and, when the cry of the sentinels came from the distant lines and defences of the camp, he answered them with one deep and reiterated bark, as if to affirm that he too was vigilant in his duty. From time to time, also, he lowered his lofty head, and wagged his tail, as his master passed and repassed him in the short turns which he took upon his post; or, when the knight stood silent and abstracted leaning on his lance, and looking up towards heaven, his faithful attendant ventured sometimes, in the phrase of romance, “to disturb his thoughts,” and awaken him from his reverie, by thrusting his large rough snout into the knight’s gauntleted hand, to solicit a transitory caress.
Thus passed two hours of the knight’s watch without anything remarkable occurring. At length, and upon a sudden, the gallant staghound bayed furiously, and seemed about to dash forward where the shadow lay the darkest, yet waited, as if in the slips, till he should know the pleasure of his master.
“Who goes there?” said Sir Kenneth, aware that there was something creeping forward on the shadowy side of the mount.
“In the name of Merlin and Maugis,” answered a hoarse, disagreeable voice, “tie up your fourfooted demon there, or I come not at you.”
“And who art thou that would approach my post?” said Sir Kenneth, bending his eyes as keenly as he could on some object, which he could just observe at the bottom of the ascent, without being able to distinguish its form. “Beware–I am here for death and life.”
“Take up thy long-fanged Sathanas,” said the voice, “or I will conjure him with a bolt from my arblast.”
At the same time was heard the sound of a spring or check, as when a crossbow is bent.
“Unbend thy arblast, and come into the moonlight,” said the Scot, “or, by Saint Andrew, I will pin thee to the earth, be what or whom thou wilt!”
As he spoke he poised his long lance by the middle, and, fixing his eye upon the object, which seemed to move, he brandished the weapon, as if meditating to cast it from his hand–a use of the weapon sometimes, though rarely, resorted to when a missile was necessary. But Sir Kenneth was ashamed of his purpose, and grounded his weapon, when there stepped from the shadow into the moonlight, like an actor entering upon the stage, a stunted, decrepit creature, whom, by his fantastic dress and deformity, he recognized, even at some distance, for the male of the two dwarfs whom he had seen in the chapel at Engaddi. Recollecting, at the same moment, the other and far different visions of that extraordinary night, he gave his dog a signal, which he instantly understood, and, returning to the standard, laid himself down beside it with a stifled growl.
The little, distorted miniature of humanity, assured of his safety from an enemy so formidable, came panting up the ascent, which the shortness of his legs rendered laborious, and, when he arrived on the platform at the top, shifted to his left hand the little crossbow, which was just such a toy as children at that period were permitted to shoot small birds with, and, assuming an attitude of great dignity, gracefully extended his right hand to Sir Kenneth, in an attitude as if he expected he would salute it. But such a result not following, he demanded, in a sharp and angry tone of voice, “Soldier, wherefore renderest thou not to Nectabanus the homage due to his dignity? Or is it possible that thou canst have forgotten him?”
“Great Nectabanus,” answered the knight, willing to soothe the creature’s humour, “that were difficult for any one who has ever looked upon thee. Pardon me, however, that, being a soldier upon my post, with my lance in my hand, I may not give to one of thy puissance the advantage of coming within my guard, or of mastering my weapon. Suffice it that I reverence thy dignity, and submit myself to thee as humbly as a man-at-arms in my place may.”
“It shall suffice,” said Nectabanus, “so that you presently attend me to the presence of those who have sent me hither to summon you.”
“Great sir,” replied the knight, “neither in this can I gratify thee, for my orders are to abide by this banner till daybreak –so I pray you to hold me excused in that matter also.”
So saying, he resumed his walk upon the platform; but the dwarf did not suffer him so easily to escape from his importunity.
“Look you,” he said, placing himself before Sir Kenneth, so as to interrupt his way, “either obey me, Sir Knight, as in duty bound, or I will lay the command upon thee, in the name of one whose beauty could call down the genii from their sphere, and whose grandeur could command the immortal race when they had descended.”
A wild and improbable conjecture arose in the knight’s mind, but he repelled it. It was impossible, he thought, that the lady of his love should have sent him such a message by such a messenger; yet his voice trembled as he said, “Go to, Nectabanus. Tell me at once, and as a true man, whether this sublime lady of whom thou speakest be other than the houri with whose assistance I beheld thee sweeping the chapel at Engaddi?”
“How! presumptuous Knight,” replied the dwarf, “think’st thou the mistress of our own royal affections, the sharer of our greatness, and the partner of our comeliness, would demean herself by laying charge on such a vassal as thou? No; highly as thou art honoured, thou hast not yet deserved the notice of Queen Guenevra, the lovely bride of Arthur, from whose high seat even princes seem but pigmies. But look thou here, and as thou knowest or disownest this token, so obey or refuse her commands who hath deigned to impose them on thee.”
So saying, he placed in the knight’s hand a ruby ring, which, even in the moonlight, he had no difficulty to recognize as that which usually graced the finger of the high-born lady to whose service he had devoted himself. Could he have doubted the truth of the token, he would have been convinced by the small knot of carnation-coloured ribbon which was fastened to the ring. This was his lady’s favourite colour, and more than once had he himself, assuming it for that of his own liveries, caused the carnation to triumph over all other hues in the lists and in the battle.
Sir Kenneth was struck nearly mute by seeing such a token in such hands.
“In the name of all that is sacred, from whom didst thou receive this witness?” said the knight. “Bring, if thou canst, thy wavering understanding to a right settlement for a minute or two, and tell me the person by whom thou art sent, and the real purpose of thy message, and take heed what thou sayest, for this is no subject for buffoonery.”
“Fond and foolish Knight,” said the dwarf, “wouldst thou know more of this matter than that thou art honoured with commands from a princess, delivered to thee by a king? We list not to parley with thee further than to command thee, in the name and by the power of that ring, to follow us to her who is the owner of the ring. Every minute that thou tarriest is a crime against thy allegiance.”
“Good Nectabanus, bethink thyself,” said the knight. “Can my lady know where and upon what duty I am this night engaged? Is she aware that my life–pshaw, why should I speak of life–but that my honour depends on my guarding this banner till daybreak; and can it be her wish that I should leave it even to pay homage to her? It is impossible–the princess is pleased to be merry with her servant in sending him such a message; and I must think so the rather that she hath chosen such a messenger.”
“Oh, keep your belief,” said Nectabanus, turning round as if to leave the platform; “it is little to me whether you be traitor or true man to this royal lady–so fare thee well.”
“Stay, stay–I entreat you stay,” said Sir Kenneth. “Answer me but one question: is the lady who sent thee near to this place?”
“What signifies it?” said the dwarf. “Ought fidelity to reckon furlongs, or miles, or leagues–like the poor courier, who is paid for his labour by the distance which he traverses? Nevertheless, thou soul of suspicion, I tell thee, the fair owner of the ring now sent to so unworthy a vassal, in whom there is neither truth nor courage, is not more distant from this place than this arblast can send a bolt.”
The knight gazed again on that ring, as if to ascertain that there was no possible falsehood in the token. “Tell me,” he said to the dwarf, “is my presence required for any length of time?”
“Time!” answered Nectabanus, in his flighty manner; “what call you time? I see it not–I feel it not–it is but a shadowy name –a succession of breathings measured forth by night by the clank of a bell, by day by a shadow crossing along a dial-stone. Knowest thou not a true knight’s time should only be reckoned by the deeds that he performs in behalf of God and his lady?”
“The words of truth, though in the mouth of folly,” said the knight. “And doth my lady really summon me to some deed of action, in her name and for her sake?–and may it not be postponed for even the few hours till daybreak?”
“She requires thy presence instantly,” said the dwarf, “and without the loss of so much time as would be told by ten grains of the sandglass. Hearken, thou cold-blooded and suspicious knight, these are her very words–Tell him that the hand which dropped roses can bestow laurels.”
This allusion to their meeting in the chapel of Engaddi sent a thousand recollections through Sir Kenneth’s brain, and convinced him that the message delivered by the dwarf was genuine. The rosebuds, withered as they were, were still treasured under his cuirass, and nearest to his heart. He paused, and could not resolve to forego an opportunity, the only one which might ever offer, to gain grace in her eyes whom he had installed as sovereign of his affections. The dwarf, in the meantime, augmented his confusion by insisting either that he must return the ring or instantly attend him.
“Hold, hold, yet a moment hold,” said the knight, and proceeded to mutter to himself, “Am I either the subject or slave of King Richard, more than as a free knight sworn to the service of the Crusade? And whom have I come hither to honour with lance and sword? Our holy cause and my transcendent lady!”
“The ring! the ring!” exclaimed the dwarf impatiently; “false and slothful knight, return the ring, which thou art unworthy to touch or to look upon.”
“A moment, a moment, good Nectabanus,” said Sir Kenneth; “disturb not my thoughts.–What if the Saracens were just now to attack our lines? Should I stay here like a sworn vassal of England, watching that her king’s pride suffered no humiliation; or should I speed to the breach, and fight for the Cross? To the breach, assuredly; and next to the cause of God come the commands of my liege lady. And yet, Coeur de Lion’s behest–my own promise! Nectabanus, I conjure thee once more to say, are you to conduct me far from hence?”
“But to yonder pavilion; and, since you must needs know,” replied Nectabanus, “the moon is glimmering on the gilded ball which crowns its roof, and which is worth a king’s ransom.”
“I can return in an instant,” said the knight, shutting his eyes desperately to all further consequences, “I can hear from thence the bay of my dog if any one approaches the standard. I will throw myself at my lady’s feet, and pray her leave to return to conclude my watch.–Here, Roswal” (calling his hound, and throwing down his mantle by the side of the standard-spear), “watch thou here, and let no one approach.”
The majestic dog looked in his master’s face, as if to be sure that he understood his charge, then sat down beside the mantle, with ears erect and head raised, like a sentinel, understanding perfectly the purpose for which he was stationed there.
“Come now, good Nectabanus,” said the knight, “let us hasten to obey the commands thou hast brought.”
“Haste he that will,” said the dwarf sullenly; “thou hast not been in haste to obey my summons, nor can I walk fast enough to follow your long strides–you do not walk like a man, but bound like an ostrich in the desert.”
There were but two ways of conquering the obstinacy of Nectabanus, who, as he spoke, diminished his walk into a snail’s pace. For bribes Sir Kenneth had no means–for soothing no time; so in his impatience he snatched the dwarf up from the ground, and bearing him along, notwithstanding his entreaties and his fear, reached nearly to the pavilion pointed out as that of the Queen. In approaching it, however, the Scot observed there was a small guard of soldiers sitting on the ground, who had been concealed from him by the intervening tents. Wondering that the clash of his own armour had not yet attracted their attention, and supposing that his motions might, on the present occasion, require to be conducted with secrecy, he placed the little panting guide upon the ground to recover his breath, and point out what was next to be done. Nectabanus was both frightened and angry; but he had felt himself as completely in the power of the robust knight as an owl in the claws of an eagle, and therefore cared not to provoke him to any further display of his strength.
He made no complaints, therefore, of the usage he had received; but, turning amongst the labyrinth of tents, he led the knight in silence to the opposite side of the pavilion, which thus screened them from the observation of the warders, who seemed either too negligent or too sleepy to discharge their duty with much accuracy. Arrived there, the dwarf raised the under part of the canvas from the ground, and made signs to Sir Kenneth that he should introduce himself to the inside of the tent, by creeping under it. The knight hesitated. There seemed an indecorum in thus privately introducing himself into a pavilion pitched, doubtless, for the accommodation of noble ladies; but he recalled to remembrance the assured tokens which the dwarf had exhibited, and concluded that it was not for him to dispute his lady’s pleasure.
He stooped accordingly, crept beneath the canvas enclosure of the tent, and heard the dwarf whisper from without, “Remain here until I call thee.”
CHAPTER XIII.
You talk of Gaiety and Innocence!
The moment when the fatal fruit was eaten, They parted ne’er to meet again; and Malice Has ever since been playmate to light Gaiety, From the first moment when the smiling infant Destroys the flower or butterfly he toys with, To the last chuckle of the dying miser,
Who on his deathbed laughs his last to hear His wealthy neighbour has become a bankrupt. OLD PLAY.
Sir Kenneth was left for some minutes alone and in darkness. Here was another interruption which must prolong his absence from his post, and he began almost to repent the facility with which he had been induced to quit it. But to return without seeing the Lady Edith was now not to be thought of. He had committed a breach of military discipline, and was determined at least to prove the reality of the seductive expectations which had tempted him to do so. Meanwhile his situation was unpleasant. There was no light to show him into what sort of apartment he had been led –the Lady Edith was in immediate attendance on the Queen of England–and the discovery of his having introduced himself thus furtively into the royal pavilion might, were it discovered; lead to much and dangerous suspicion. While he gave way to these unpleasant reflections, and began almost to wish that he could achieve his retreat unobserved, he heard a noise of female voices, laughing, whispering, and speaking, in an adjoining apartment, from which, as the sounds gave him reason to judge, he could only be separated by a canvas partition. Lamps were burning, as he might perceive by the shadowy light which extended itself even to his side of the veil which divided the tent, and he could see shades of several figures sitting and moving in the adjoining apartment. It cannot be termed discourtesy in Sir Kenneth that, situated as he was, he overheard a conversation in which he found himself deeply interested.
“Call her–call her, for Our Lady’s sake,” said the voice of one of these laughing invisibles. “Nectabanus, thou shalt be made ambassador to Prester John’s court, to show them how wisely thou canst discharge thee of a mission.”
The shrill tone of the dwarf was heard, yet so much subdued that Sir Kenneth could not understand what he said, except that he spoke something of the means of merriment given to the guard.
“But how shall we rid us of the spirit which Nectabanus hath raised, my maidens?”
“Hear me, royal madam,” said another voice. “If the sage and princely Nectabanus be not over-jealous of his most transcendent bride and empress, let us send her to get us rid of this insolent knight-errant, who can be so easily persuaded that high-born dames may need the use of his insolent and overweening valour.”
“It were but justice, methinks,” replied another, “that the Princess Guenever should dismiss, by her courtesy, him whom her husband’s wisdom has been able to entice hither.”
Struck to the heart with shame and resentment at what he had heard, Sir Kenneth was about to attempt his escape from the tent at all hazards, when what followed arrested his purpose.
“Nay, truly,” said the first speaker, “our cousin Edith must first learn how this vaunted wight hath conducted himself, and we must reserve the power of giving her ocular proof that he hath failed in his duty. It may be a lesson will do good upon her; for, credit me, Calista, I have sometimes thought she has let this Northern adventurer sit nearer her heart than prudence would sanction.”
One of the other voices was then heard to mutter something of the Lady Edith’s prudence and wisdom.
“Prudence, wench!” was the reply. “It is mere pride, and the desire to be thought more rigid than any of us. Nay, I will not quit my advantage. You know well that when she has us at fault no one can, in a civil way, lay your error before you more precisely than can my Lady Edith. But here she comes.”
A figure, as if entering the apartment, cast upon the partition a shade, which glided along slowly until it mixed with those which already clouded it. Despite of the bitter disappointment which he had experienced–despite the insult and injury with which it seemed he had been visited by the malice, or, at best, by the idle humour of Queen Berengaria (for he already concluded that she who spoke loudest, and in a commanding tone, was the wife of Richard), the knight felt something so soothing to his feelings in learning that Edith had been no partner to the fraud practised on him, and so interesting to his curiosity in the scene which was about to take place, that, instead of prosecuting his more prudent purpose of an instant retreat, he looked anxiously, on the contrary, for some rent or crevice by means of which be might be made eye as well as ear witness to what was to go forward.
“Surely,” said he to himself, “the Queen, who hath been pleased for an idle frolic to endanger my reputation, and perhaps my life, cannot complain if I avail myself of the chance which fortune seems willing to afford me to obtain knowledge of her further intentions.”
It seemed, in the meanwhile, as if Edith were waiting for the commands of the Queen, and as if the other were reluctant to speak for fear of being unable to command her laughter and that of her companions; for Sir Kenneth could only distinguish a sound as of suppressed tittering and merriment.
“Your Majesty,” said Edith at last, “seems in a merry mood, though, methinks, the hour of night prompts a sleepy one. I was well disposed bedward when I had your Majesty’s commands to attend you.”
“I will not long delay you, cousin, from your repose,” said the Queen, “though I fear you will sleep less soundly when I tell you your wager is lost.”
“Nay, royal madam,” said Edith, “this, surely, is dwelling on a jest which has rather been worn out, I laid no wager, however it was your Majesty’s pleasure to suppose, or to insist, that I did so.”
“Nay, now, despite our pilgrimage, Satan is strong with you, my gentle cousin, and prompts thee to leasing. Can you deny that you gaged your ruby ring against my golden bracelet that yonder Knight of the Libbard, or how call you him, could not be seduced from his post?”
“Your Majesty is too great for me to gainsay you,” replied Edith, “but these ladies can, if they will, bear me witness that it was your Highness who proposed such a wager, and took the ring from my finger, even while I was declaring that I did not think it maidenly to gage anything on such a subject.”
“Nay, but, my Lady Edith,” said another voice, “you must needs grant, under your favour, that you expressed yourself very confident of the valour of that same Knight of the Leopard.”
“And if I did, minion,” said Edith angrily, “is that a good reason why thou shouldst put in thy word to flatter her Majesty’s humour? I spoke of that knight but as all men speak who have seen him in the field, and had no more interest in defending than thou in detracting from him. In a camp, what can women speak of save soldiers and deeds of arms?”
“The noble Lady Edith,” said a third voice, “hath never forgiven Calista and me, since we told your Majesty that she dropped two rosebuds in the chapel.”
“If your Majesty,” said Edith, in a tone which Sir Kenneth could judge to be that of respectful remonstrance, “have no other commands for me than to hear the gibes of your waiting-women, I must crave your permission to withdraw.”
“Silence, Florise,” said the Queen, “and let not our indulgence lead you to forget the difference betwixt yourself and the kinswoman of England.–But you, my dear cousin,” she continued, resuming her tone of raillery, “how can you, who are so good-natured, begrudge us poor wretches a few minutes’ laughing, when
we have had so many days devoted to weeping and gnashing of teeth?”
“Great be your mirth, royal lady,” said Edith; “yet would I be content not to smile for the rest of my life, rather than–“
She stopped, apparently out of respect; but Sir Kenneth could hear that she was in much agitation.
“Forgive me,” said Berengaria, a thoughtless but good-humoured princess of the House of Navarre; “but what is the great offence, after all? A young knight has been wiled hither–has stolen, or has been stolen, from his post, which no one will disturb in his absence–for the sake of a fair lady; for, to do your champion justice, sweet one, the wisdom of Nectabanus could conjure him hither in no name but yours.”
“Gracious Heaven! your Majesty does not say so?” said Edith, in a voice of alarm quite different from the agitation she had previously evinced,–“you cannot say so consistently with respect for your own honour and for mine, your husband’s kinswoman! Say you were jesting with me, my royal mistress, and forgive me that I could, even for a moment, think it possible you could be in earnest!”
“The Lady Edith,” said the Queen, in a displeased tone of voice, “regrets the ring we have won of her. We will restore the pledge to you, gentle cousin; only you must not grudge us in turn a little triumph over the wisdom which has been so often spread over us, as a banner over a host.”
“A triumph!” exclaimed Edith indignantly–“a triumph! The triumph will be with the infidel, when he hears that the Queen of England can make the reputation of her husband’s kinswoman the subject of a light frolic.”
“You are angry, fair cousin, at losing your favourite ring,” said the Queen. “Come, since you grudge to pay your wager, we will renounce our right; it was your name and that pledge brought him hither, and we care not for the bait after the fish is caught.”
“Madam,” replied Edith impatiently, “you know well that your Grace could not wish for anything of mine but it becomes instantly yours. But I would give a bushel of rubies ere ring or name of mine had been used to bring a brave man into a fault, and perhaps to disgrace and punishment.”
“Oh, it is for the safety of our true knight that we fear!” said the Queen. “You rate our power too low, fair cousin, when you speak of a life being lost for a frolic of ours. O Lady Edith, others have influence on the iron breasts of warriors as well as you–the heart even of a lion is made of flesh, not of stone; and, believe me, I have interest enough with Richard to save this knight, in whose fate Lady Edith is so deeply concerned, from the penalty of disobeying his royal commands.”
“For the love of the blessed Cross, most royal lady,” said Edith –and Sir Kenneth, with feelings which it were hard to unravel, heard her prostrate herself at the Queen’s feet–“for the love of our blessed Lady, and of every holy saint in the calendar, beware what you do! You know not King Richard–you have been but shortly wedded to him. Your breath might as well combat the west wind when it is wildest, as your words persuade my royal kinsman to pardon a military offence. Oh, for God’s sake, dismiss this gentleman, if indeed you have lured him hither! I could almost be content to rest with the shame of having invited him, did I know that he was returned again where his duty calls him!”
“Arise, cousin, arise,” said Queen Berengaria, “and be assured all will be better than you think. Rise, dear Edith. I am sorry I have played my foolery with a knight in whom you take such deep interest. Nay, wring not thy hands; I will believe thou carest not for him–believe anything rather than see thee look so wretchedly miserable. I tell thee I will take the blame on myself with King Richard in behalf of thy fair Northern friend –thine acquaintance, I would say, since thou own’st him not as a friend. Nay, look not so reproachfully. We will send Nectabanus to dismiss this Knight of the Standard to his post; and we ourselves will grace him on some future day, to make amends for his wild-goose chase. He is, I warrant, but lying perdu in some neighbouring tent.”
“By my crown of lilies, and my sceptre of a specially good water-reed,” said Nectabanus, “your Majesty is mistaken, He is nearer
at hand than you wot–he lieth ensconced there behind that canvas partition.”
“And within hearing of each word we have said!” exclaimed the Queen, in her turn violently surprised and agitated. “Out, monster of folly and malignity!”
As she uttered these words, Nectabanus fled from the pavilion with a yell of such a nature as leaves it still doubtful whether Berengaria had confined her rebuke to words, or added some more emphatic expression of her displeasure.
“What can now be done?” said the Queen to Edith, in a whisper of undisguised uneasiness.
“That which must,” said Edith firmly. “We must see this gentleman and place ourselves in his mercy.”
So saying, she began hastily to undo a curtain, which at one place covered an entrance or communication.
“For Heaven’s sake, forbear–consider,” said the Queen–“my apartment–our dress–the hour–my honour!”
But ere she could detail her remonstrances, the curtain fell, and there was no division any longer betwixt the armed knight and the party of ladies. The warmth of an Eastern night occasioned the undress of Queen Berengaria and her household to be rather more simple and unstudied than their station, and the presence of a male spectator of rank, required. This the Queen remembered, and with a loud shriek fled from the apartment where Sir Kenneth was disclosed to view in a compartment of the ample pavilion, now no longer separated from that in which they stood. The grief and agitation of the Lady Edith, as well as the deep interest she felt in a hasty explanation with the Scottish knight, perhaps occasioned her forgetting that her locks were more dishevelled and her person less heedfully covered than was the wont of high-born damsels, in an age which was not, after all, the most
prudish or scrupulous period of the ancient time. A thin, loose garment of pink-coloured silk made the principal part of her vestments, with Oriental slippers, into which she had hastily thrust her bare feet, and a scarf hurriedly and loosely thrown about her shoulders. Her head had no other covering than the veil of rich and dishevelled locks falling round it on every side, that half hid a countenance which a mingled sense of modesty and of resentment, and other deep and agitated feelings, had covered with crimson.
But although Edith felt her situation with all that delicacy which is her sex’s greatest charm, it did not seem that for a moment she placed her own bashfulness in comparison with the duty which, as she thought, she owed to him who had been led into error and danger on her account. She drew, indeed, her scarf more closely over her neck and bosom, and she hastily laid from her hand a lamp which shed too much lustre over her figure; but, while Sir Kenneth stood motionless on the same spot in which he was first discovered, she rather stepped towards than retired from him, as she exclaimed, “Hasten to your post, valiant knight!–you are deceived in being trained hither–ask no questions.”
“I need ask none,” said the knight, sinking upon one knee, with the reverential devotion of a saint at the altar, and bending his eyes on the ground, lest his looks should increase the lady’s embarrassment.
“Have you heard all?” said Edith impatiently. “Gracious saints! then wherefore wait you here, when each minute that passes is loaded with dishonour!”
“I have heard that I am dishonoured, lady, and I have heard it from you,” answered Kenneth. “What reck I how soon punishment follows? I have but one petition to you; and then I seek, among the sabres of the infidels, whether dishonour may not be washed out with blood.”
“Do not so, neither,” said the lady. “Be wise–dally not here; all may yet be well, if you will but use dispatch.”
“I wait but for your forgiveness,” said the knight, still kneeling, “for my presumption in believing that my poor services could have been required or valued by you.”
“I do forgive you–oh, I have nothing to forgive! have been the means of injuring you. But oh, begone! I will forgive–I will value you–that is, as I value every brave Crusader–if you will but begone!”
“Receive, first, this precious yet fatal pledge,” said the knight, tendering the ring to Edith, who now showed gestures of impatience.
“Oh, no, no ” she said, declining to receive it. “Keep it–keep it as a mark of my regard–my regret, I would say. Oh, begone, if not for your own sake, for mine!”
Almost recompensed for the loss even of honour, which her voice had denounced to him, by the interest which she seemed to testify in his safety, Sir Kenneth rose from his knee, and, casting a momentary glance on Edith, bowed low, and seemed about to withdraw. At the same instant, that maidenly bashfulness, which the energy of Edith’s feelings had till then triumphed over, became conqueror in its turn, and she hastened from the apartment, extinguishing her lamp as she went, and leaving, in Sir Kenneth’s thoughts, both mental and natural gloom behind her.
She must be obeyed, was the first distinct idea which waked him from his reverie, and he hastened to the place by which he had entered the pavilion. To pass under the canvas in the manner he had entered required time and attention, and he made a readier aperture by slitting the canvas wall with his poniard. When in the free air, he felt rather stupefied and overpowered by a conflict of sensations, than able to ascertain what was the real import of the whole. He was obliged to spur himself to action by recollecting that the commands of the Lady Edith had required haste. Even then, engaged as he was amongst tent-ropes and tents, he was compelled to move with caution until he should regain the path or avenue, aside from which the dwarf had led him, in order to escape the observation of the guards before the Queen’s pavilion; and he was obliged also to move slowly, and with precaution, to avoid giving an alarm, either by falling or by the clashing of his armour. A thin cloud had obscured the moon, too, at the very instant of his leaving the tent, and Sir Kenneth had to struggle with this inconvenience at a moment when the dizziness of his head and the fullness of his heart scarce left him powers of intelligence sufficient to direct his motions.
But at once sounds came upon his ear which instantly recalled him to the full energy of his faculties. These proceeded from the Mount of Saint George. He heard first a single, fierce, angry, and savage bark, which was immediately followed by a yell of agony. No deer ever bounded with a wilder start at the voice of Roswal than did Sir Kenneth at what he feared was the death-cry of that noble hound, from whom no ordinary injury could have extracted even the slightest acknowledgment of pain. He surmounted the space which divided him from the avenue, and, having attained it, began to run towards the mount, although loaded with his mail, faster than most men could have accompanied him even if unarmed, relaxed not his pace for the steep sides of the artificial mound, and in a few minutes stood on the platform upon its summit.
The moon broke forth at this moment, and showed him that the Standard of England was vanished, that the spear on which it had floated lay broken on the ground, and beside it was his faithful hound, apparently in the agonies of death.
CHAPTER XIV.
All my long arrear of honour lost,
Heap’d up in youth, and hoarded up for age. Hath Honour’s fountain then suck’d up the stream? He hath–and hooting boys may barefoot pass, And gather pebbles from the naked ford! DON SEBASTIAN.
After a torrent of afflicting sensations, by which he was at first almost stunned and confounded, Sir Kenneth’s first thought was to look for the authors of this violation of the English banner; but in no direction could he see traces of them. His next, which to some persons, but scarce to any who have made intimate acquaintances among the canine race, may appear strange, was to examine the condition of his faithful Roswal, mortally wounded, as it seemed, in discharging the duty which his master had been seduced to abandon. He caressed the dying animal, who, faithful to the last, seemed to forget his own pain in the satisfaction he received from his master’s presence, and continued wagging his tail and licking his hand, even while by low moanings he expressed that his agony was increased by the attempts which Sir Kenneth made to withdraw from the wound the fragment of the lance or javelin with which it had been inflicted; then redoubled his feeble endearments, as if fearing he had offended his master by showing a sense of the pain to which his interference had subjected him. There was something in the display of the dying creature’s attachment which mixed as a bitter ingredient with the sense of disgrace and desolation by which Sir Kenneth was oppressed. His only friend seemed removed from him, just when he had incurred the contempt and hatred of all besides. The knight’s strength of mind gave way to a burst of agonized distress, and he groaned and wept aloud.
While he thus indulged his grief, a clear and solemn voice, close beside him, pronounced these words in the sonorous tone of the readers of the mosque, and in the lingua franca mutually understood by Christians and Saracens:–
“Adversity is like the period of the former and of the latter rain–cold, comfortless, unfriendly to man and to animal; yet from that season have their birth the flower and the fruit, the date, the rose, and the pomegranate.”
Sir Kenneth of the Leopard turned towards the speaker, and beheld the Arabian physician, who, approaching unheard, had seated himself a little behind him cross-legged, and uttered with gravity, yet not without a tone of sympathy, the moral sentences of consolation with which the Koran and its commentators supplied
him; for, in the East, wisdom is held to consist less in a display of the sage’s own inventive talents, than in his ready memory and happy application of and reference to “that which is written.”
Ashamed at being surprised in a womanlike expression of sorrow, Sir Kenneth dashed his tears indignantly aside, and again busied himself with his dying favourite.
“The poet hath said,” continued the Arab, without noticing the knight’s averted looks and sullen deportment, “the ox for the field, and the camel for the desert. Were not the hand of the leech fitter than that of the soldier to cure wounds, though less able to inflict them?”
“This patient, Hakim, is beyond thy help,” said Sir Kenneth; “and, besides, he is, by thy law, an unclean animal.”
“Where Allah hath deigned to bestow life, and a sense of pain and pleasure,” said the physician, “it were sinful pride should the sage, whom He has enlightened, refuse to prolong existence or assuage agony. To the sage, the cure of a miserable groom, of a poor dog and of a conquering monarch, are events of little distinction. Let me examine this wounded animal.”
Sir Kenneth acceded in silence, and the physician inspected and handled Roswal’s wound with as much care and attention as if he had been a human being. He then took forth a case of instruments, and, by the judicious and skilful application of pincers, withdrew from the wounded shoulder the fragment of the weapon, and stopped with styptics and bandages the effusion of blood which followed; the creature all the while suffering him patiently to perform these kind offices, as if he had been aware of his kind intentions.
“The animal may be cured,” said El Hakim, addressing himself to Sir Kenneth, “if you will permit me to carry him to my tent, and treat him with the care which the nobleness of his nature deserves. For know, that thy servant Adonbec is no less skilful in the race and pedigree and distinctions of good dogs and of noble steeds than in the diseases which afflict the human race.”
“Take him with you,” said the knight. “I bestow him on you freely, if he recovers. I owe thee a reward for attendance on my squire, and have nothing else to pay it with. For myself, I will never again wind bugle or halloo to hound!”
The Arabian made no reply, but gave a signal with a clapping of his hands, which was instantly answered by the appearance of two black slaves. He gave them his orders in Arabic, received the answer that “to hear was to obey,” when, taking the animal in their arms, they removed him, without much resistance on his part; for though his eyes turned to his master, he was too weak to struggle.
“Fare thee well, Roswal, then,” said Sir Kenneth–“fare thee well, my last and only friend–thou art too noble a possession to be retained by one such as I must in future call myself!–I would,” he said, as the slaves retired, “that, dying as he is, I could exchange conditions with that noble animal!”
“It is written,” answered the Arabian, although the exclamation had not been addressed to him, “that all creatures are fashioned for the service of man; and the master of the earth speaketh folly when he would exchange, in his impatience, his hopes here and to come for the servile condition of an inferior being.”
“A dog who dies in discharging his duty,” said the knight sternly, “is better than a man who survives the desertion of it. Leave me, Hakim; thou hast, on this side of miracle, the most wonderful science which man ever possessed, but the wounds of the spirit are beyond thy power.”
“Not if the patient will explain his calamity, and be guided by the physician,” said Adonbec el Hakim.
“Know, then,” said Sir Kenneth, “since thou art so importunate, that last night the Banner of England was displayed from this mound–I was its appointed guardian–morning is now breaking– there lies the broken banner-spear, the standard itself is lost, and here sit I a living man!”
“How!” said El Hakim, examining him; “thy armour is whole–there is no blood on thy weapons, and report speaks thee one unlikely to return thus from fight. Thou hast been trained from thy post –ay, trained by the rosy cheek and black eye of one of those houris, to whom you Nazarenes vow rather such service as is due to Allah, than such love as may lawfully be rendered to forms of clay like our own. It has been thus assuredly; for so hath man ever fallen, even since the days of Sultan Adam.”
“And if it were so, physician,” said Sir Kenneth sullenly, “what remedy?”
“Knowledge is the parent of power,” said El Hakim, “as valour supplies strength. Listen to me. Man is not as a tree, bound to one spot of earth; nor is he framed to cling to one bare rock, like the scarce animated shell-fish. Thine own Christian writings command thee, when persecuted in one city, to flee to another; and we Moslem also know that Mohammed, the Prophet of Allah, driven forth from the holy city of Mecca, found his refuge and his helpmates at Medina.”
“And what does this concern me?” said the Scot.
“Much,” answered the physician. “Even the sage flies the tempest which he cannot control. Use thy speed, therefore, and fly from the vengeance of Richard to the shadow of Saladin’s victorious banner.”
“I might indeed hide my dishonour,” said Sir Kenneth ironically, “in a camp of infidel heathens, where the very phrase is unknown. But had I not better partake more fully in their reproach? Does not thy advice stretch so far as to recommend me to take the turban? Methinks I want but apostasy to consummate my infamy.”
“Blaspheme not, Nazarene,” said the physician sternly. “Saladin makes no converts to the law of the Prophet, save those on whom its precepts shall work conviction. Open thine eyes to the light, and the great Soldan, whose liberality is as boundless as his power, may bestow on thee a kingdom; remain blinded if thou will, and, being one whose second life is doomed to misery, Saladin will yet, for this span of present time, make thee rich and happy. But fear not that thy brows shall be bound with the turban, save at thine own free choice.”
“My choice were rather,” said the knight, “that my writhen features should blacken, as they are like to do, in this evening’s setting sun.”
“Yet thou art not wise, Nazarene,” said El Hakim, “to reject this fair offer; for I have power with Saladin, and can raise thee high in his grace. Look you, my son–this Crusade, as you call your wild enterprise, is like a large dromond [The largest sort of vessels then known were termed dromond’s, or dromedaries.] parting asunder in the waves. Thou thyself hast borne terms of truce from the kings and princes, whose force is here assembled, to the mighty Soldan, and knewest not, perchance, the full tenor of thine own errand.”
“I knew not, and I care not,” said the knight impatiently. “What avails it to me that I have been of late the envoy of princes, when, ere night, I shall be a gibbeted and dishonoured corpse?”
“Nay, I speak that it may not be so with thee,” said the physician. “Saladin is courted on all sides. The combined princes of this league formed against him have made such proposals of composition and peace, as, in other circumstances, it might have become his honour to have granted to them. Others have made private offers, on their own separate account, to disjoin their forces from the camp of the Kings of Frangistan, and even to lend their arms to the defence of the standard of the Prophet. But Saladin will not be served by such treacherous and interested defection. The king of kings will treat only with the Lion King. Saladin will hold treaty with none but the Melech Ric, and with him he will treat like a prince, or fight like a champion. To Richard he will yield such conditions of his free liberality as the swords of all Europe could never compel from him by force or terror. He will permit a free pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and all the places where the Nazarenes list to worship; nay, he will so far share even his empire with his brother Richard, that he will allow Christian garrisons in the six strongest cities of Palestine, and one in Jerusalem itself, and suffer them to be under the immediate command of the officers of Richard, who, he consents, shall bear the name of King Guardian of Jerusalem. Yet further, strange and incredible as you may think it, know, Sir Knight–for to your honour I can commit even that almost incredible secret–know that Saladin will put a sacred seal on this happy union betwixt the bravest and noblest of Frangistan and Asia, by raising to the rank of his royal spouse a Christian damsel, allied in blood to King Richard, and known by the name of the Lady Edith of Plantagenet.” [This may appear so extraordinary and improbable a proposition that it is necessary to say such a one was actually made. The historians, however, substitute the widowed Queen of Naples, sister of Richard, for the bride, and Saladin’s brother for the bridegroom. They appear to have been ignorant of the existence of Edith of Plantagenet.–See MILL’S History of the Crusades, vol. ii., p. 61.]
“Ha!–sayest thou?” exclaimed Sir Kenneth, who, listening with indifference and apathy to the preceding part of El Hakim’s speech, was touched by this last communication, as the thrill of a nerve, unexpectedly jarred, will awaken the sensation of agony, even in the torpor of palsy. Then, moderating his tone, by dint of much effort he restrained his indignation, and, veiling it under the appearance of contemptuous doubt, he prosecuted the conversation, in order to get as much knowledge as possible of the plot, as he deemed it, against the honour and happiness of her whom he loved not the less that his passion had ruined, apparently, his fortunes, at once, and his honour.–“And what Christian,” he said, With tolerable calmness, “would sanction a union so unnatural as that of a Christian maiden with an unbelieving Saracen?”
“Thou art but an ignorant, bigoted Nazarene,” said the Hakim. “Seest thou not how the Mohammedan princes daily intermarry with the noble Nazarene maidens in Spain, without scandal either to Moor or Christian? And the noble Soldan will, in his full confidence in the blood of Richard, permit the English maid the freedom which your Frankish manners have assigned to women. He will allow her the free exercise of her religion, seeing that, in very truth, it signifies but little to which faith females are addicted; and he will assign her such place and rank over all the women of his zenana, that she shall be in every respect his sole and absolute queen.”
“What!” said Sir Kenneth, “darest thou think, Moslem, that Richard would give his kinswoman–a high-born and virtuous princess–to be, at best, the foremost concubine in the haram of a misbeliever? Know, Hakim, the meanest free Christian noble would scorn, on his child’s behalf, such splendid ignominy.”
“Thou errest,” said the Hakim. “Philip of France, and Henry of Champagne, and others of Richard’s principal allies, have heard the proposal without starting, and have promised, as far as they may, to forward an alliance that may end these wasteful wars; and the wise arch-priest of Tyre hath undertaken to break the proposal to Richard, not doubting that he shall be able to bring the plan to good issue. The Soldan’s wisdom hath as yet kept his proposition secret from others, such as he of Montserrat, and the Master of the Templars, because he knows they seek to thrive by Richard’s death or disgrace, not by his life or honour. Up, therefore, Sir Knight, and to horse. I will give thee a scroll which shall advance thee highly with the Soldan; and deem not that you are leaving your country, or her cause, or her religion, since the interest of the two monarchs will speedily be the same. To Saladin thy counsel will be most acceptable, since thou canst make him aware of much concerning the marriages of the Christians, the treatment of their wives, and other points of their laws and usages, which, in the course of such treaty, it much concerns him that he should know. The right hand of the Soldan grasps the treasures of the East, and it is the fountain or generosity. Or, if thou desirest it, Saladin, when allied with England, can have but little difficulty to obtain from Richard, not only thy pardon and restoration to favour, but an honourable command in the troops which may be left of the King of England’s host, to maintain their joint government in Palestine. Up, then, and mount–there lies a plain path before thee.”
“Hakim,” said the Scottish knight, “thou art a man of peace; also thou hast saved the life of Richard of England–and, moreover, of my own poor esquire, Strauchan. I have, therefore, heard to an end a matter which, being propounded by another Moslem than thyself, I would have cut short with a blow of my dagger! Hakim, in return for thy kindness, I advise thee to see that the Saracen who shall propose to Richard a union betwixt the blood of Plantagenet and that of his accursed race do put on a helmet which is capable to endure such a blow of a battle-axe as that which struck down the gate of Acre. Certes, he will be otherwise placed beyond the reach even of thy skill.”
“Thou art, then, wilfully determined not to fly to the Saracen host?” said the physician. “Yet, remember, thou stayest to certain destruction; and the writings of thy law, as well as ours, prohibit man from breaking into the tabernacle of his own life.”
“God forbid!” replied the Scot, crossing himself; “but we are also forbidden to avoid the punishment which our crimes have deserved. And since so poor are thy thoughts of fidelity, Hakim, it grudges me that I have bestowed my good hound on thee, for, should he live, he will have a master ignorant of his value.”
“A gift that is begrudged is already recalled,” said El Hakim; “only we physicians are sworn not to send away a patient uncured. If the dog recover, he is once more yours.”
“Go to, Hakim,” answered Sir Kenneth; “men speak not of hawk and hound when there is but an hour of day-breaking betwixt them and death. Leave me to recollect my sins, and reconcile myself to Heaven.”
“I leave thee in thine obstinacy,” said the physician; “the mist hides the precipice from those who are doomed to fall over it.”
He withdrew slowly, turning from time to time his head, as if to observe whether the devoted knight might not recall him either by word or signal. At last his turbaned figure was lost among the labyrinth of tents which lay extended beneath, whitening in the pale light of the dawning, before which the moonbeam had now faded away.
But although the physician Adonbec’s words had not made that impression upon Kenneth which the sage desired, they had inspired the Scot with a motive for desiring life, which, dishonoured as he conceived himself to be, he was before willing to part from as from a sullied vestment no longer becoming his wear. Much that had passed betwixt himself and the hermit, besides what he had observed between the anchorite and Sheerkohf (or Ilderim), he now recalled to recollection, and tended to confirm what the Hakim had told him of the secret article of the treaty.
“The reverend impostor!” he exclaimed to himself; “the hoary hypocrite! He spoke of the unbelieving husband converted by the believing wife; and what do I know but that the traitor exhibited to the Saracen, accursed of God, the beauties of Edith Plantagenet, that the hound might judge if the princely Christian lady were fit to be admitted into the haram of a misbeliever? If I had yonder infidel Ilderim, or whatsoever he is called, again in the gripe with which I once held him fast as ever hound held hare, never again should HE at least come on errand disgraceful to the honour of Christian king or noble and virtuous maiden. But I–my hours are fast dwindling into minutes–yet, while I have life and breath, something must be done, and speedily.”
He paused for a few minutes, threw from him his helmet, then strode down the hill, and took the road to King Richard’s pavilion.
CHAPTER XV.
The feather’d songster, chanticleer,
Had wound his bugle-horn,
And told the early villager
The coming of the morn.
King Edward saw the ruddy streaks
Of light eclipse the grey,
And heard the raven’s croaking throat Proclaim the fated day.
“Thou’rt right,” he said, “for, by the God That sits enthron’d on high,
Charles Baldwin, and his fellows twain, This day shall surely die.” CHATTERTON.
On the evening on which Sir Kenneth assumed his post, Richard, after the stormy event which disturbed its tranquillity, had retired to rest in the plenitude of confidence inspired by his unbounded courage and the superiority which he had displayed in carrying the point he aimed at in presence of the whole Christian host and its leaders, many of whom, he was aware, regarded in their secret souls the disgrace of the Austrian Duke as a triumph over themselves; so that his pride felt gratified, that in prostrating one enemy he had mortified a hundred.
Another monarch would have doubled his guards on the evening after such a scene, and kept at least a part of his troops under arms. But Coeur de Lion dismissed, upon the occasion, even his ordinary watch, and assigned to his soldiers a donative of wine to celebrate his recovery, and to drink to the Banner of Saint George; and his quarter of the camp would have assumed a character totally devoid of vigilance and military preparation, but that Sir Thomas de Vaux, the Earl of Salisbury, and other nobles, took precautions to preserve order and discipline among the revellers.
The physician attended the King from his retiring to bed till midnight was past, and twice administered medicine to him during that period, always previously observing the quarter of heaven occupied by the full moon, whose influences he declared to be most sovereign, or most baleful, to the effect of his drugs. It was three hours after midnight ere El Hakim withdrew from the royal tent, to one which had been pitched for himself and his retinue. In his way thither he visited the tent of Sir Kenneth of the Leopard, in order to see the condition of his first patient in the Christian camp, old Strauchan, as the knight’s esquire was named. Inquiring there for Sir Kenneth himself, El Hakim learned on what duty he was employed, and probably this information led him to Saint George’s Mount, where he found him whom he sought in the disastrous circumstances alluded to in the last chapter.
It was about the hour of sunrise, when a slow, armed tread was heard approaching the King’s pavilion; and ere De Vaux, who slumbered beside his master’s bed as lightly as ever sleep sat upon the eyes of a watch-dog, had time to do more than arise and say, “Who comes?” the Knight of the Leopard entered the tent, with a deep and devoted gloom seated upon his manly features.
“Whence this bold intrusion, Sir Knight?” said De Vaux sternly, yet in a tone which respected his master’s slumbers.
“Hold! De Vaux,” said Richard, awaking on the instant; “Sir Kenneth cometh like a good soldier to render an account of his guard. To such the general’s tent is ever accessible.” Then rising from his slumbering posture, and leaning on his elbow, he fixed his large bright eye upon the warrior–“Speak, Sir Scot; thou comest to tell me of a vigilant, safe, and honourable watch, dost thou not? The rustling of the folds of the Banner of England were enough to guard it, even without the body of such a knight as men hold thee.”
“As men will hold me no more,” said Sir Kenneth. “My watch hath neither been vigilant, safe, nor honourable. The Banner of England has been carried off.”
“And thou alive to tell it!” said Richard, in a tone of derisive incredulity. “Away, it cannot be. There is not even a scratch on thy face. Why dost thou stand thus mute? Speak the truth –it is ill jesting with a king; yet I will forgive thee if thou hast lied.”
“Lied, Sir King!” returned the unfortunate knight, with fierce emphasis, and one glance of fire from his eye, bright and transient as the flash from the cold and stony flint. “But this also must be endured. I have spoken the truth.”
“By God and by Saint George!” said the King, bursting into fury, which, however, he instantly checked. “De Vaux, go view the spot. This fever has disturbed his brain. This cannot be. The man’s courage is proof. It CANNOT be! Go speedily–or send, if thou wilt not go.”
The King was interrupted by Sir Henry Neville, who came, breathless, to say that the banner was gone, and the knight who guarded it overpowered, and most probably murdered, as there was a pool of blood where the banner-spear lay shivered.
“But whom do I see here?” said Neville, his eyes suddenly resting upon Sir Kenneth.
“A traitor,” said the King, starting to his feet, and seizing the curtal-axe, which was ever near his bed–“a traitor! whom thou shalt see die a traitor’s death.” And he drew back the weapon as in act to strike.
Colourless, but firm as a marble statue, the Scot stood before him, with his bare head uncovered by any protection, his eyes cast down to the earth, his lips scarcely moving, yet muttering probably in prayer. Opposite to him, and within the due reach for a blow, stood King Richard, his large person wrapt in the folds of his camiscia, or ample gown of linen, except where the violence of his action had flung the covering from his right arm, shoulder, and a part of his breast, leaving to view a specimen of a frame which might have merited his Saxon predecessor’s epithet of Ironside. He stood for an instant, prompt to strike; then sinking the head of the weapon towards the ground, he exclaimed, “But there was blood, Neville–there was blood upon the place. Hark thee, Sir Scot–brave thou wert once, for I have seen thee fight. Say thou hast slain two of the thieves in defence of the Standard–say but one–say thou hast struck but a good blow in our behalf, and get thee out of the camp with thy life and thy infamy!”
“You have called me liar, my Lord King,” replied Kenneth firmly; “and therein, at least, you have done me wrong. Know that there was no blood shed in defence of the Standard save that of a poor hound, which, more faithful than his master, defended the charge which he deserted.”
“Now, by Saint George!” said Richard, again heaving up his arm. But De Vaux threw himself between the King and the object of his vengeance, and spoke with the blunt truth of his character, “My liege, this must not be–here, nor by your hand. It is enough of folly for one night and day to have entrusted your banner to a Scot. Said I not they were ever fair and false?” [Such were the terms in which the English used to speak of their poor northern neighbours, forgetting that their own encroachments upon the independence of Scotland obliged the weaker nation to defend themselves by policy as well as force. The disgrace must be divided between Edward I. and Edward III., who enforced their domination over a free country, and the Scots, who were compelled to take compulsory oaths, without any purpose of keeping them.]
“Thou didst, De Vaux; thou wast right, and I confess it,” said Richard. “I should have known him better–I should have remembered how the fox William deceived me touching this Crusade.”
“My lord,” said Sir Kenneth, “William of Scotland never deceived; but circumstances prevented his bringing his forces.”
“Peace, shameless!” said the King; “thou sulliest the name of a prince, even by speaking it.–And yet, De Vaux, it is strange,” he added, “to see the bearing of the man. Coward or traitor he must be, yet he abode the blow of Richard Plantagenet as our arm had been raised to lay knighthood on his shoulder. Had he shown the slightest sign of fear, had but a joint trembled or an eyelid quivered, I had shattered his head like a crystal goblet. But I cannot strike where there is neither fear nor resistance.”
There was a pause.
“My lord,” said Kenneth–
“Ha!” replied Richard, interrupting him, “hast thou found thy speech? Ask grace from Heaven, but none from me; for England is dishonoured through thy fault, and wert thou mine own and only brother, there is no pardon for thy fault.”
“I speak not to demand grace of mortal man,” said the Scot; “it is in your Grace’s pleasure to give or refuse me time for Christian shrift–if man denies it, may God grant me the absolution which I would otherwise ask of His church! But whether I die on the instant, or half an hour hence, I equally beseech your Grace for one moment’s opportunity to speak that to your royal person which highly concerns your fame as a Christian king.”
“Say on,” said the King, making no doubt that he was about to hear some confession concerning the loss of the Banner.
“What I have to speak,” said Sir Kenneth, “touches the royalty of England, and must be said to no ears but thine own.”
“Begone with yourselves, sirs,” said the King to Neville and De Vaux.
The first obeyed, but the latter would not stir from the King’s presence.
“If you said I was in the right,” replied De Vaux to his sovereign, “I will be treated as one should be who hath been found to be right–that is, I will have my own will. I leave you not with this false Scot.”
“How! De Vaux,” said Richard angrily, and stamping slightly, “darest thou not venture our person with one traitor?”
“It is in vain you frown and stamp, my lord,” said De Vaux; “I venture not a sick man with a sound one, a naked man with one armed in proof.”
“It matters not,” said the Scottish knight; “I seek no excuse to put off time. I will speak in presence of the Lord of Gilsland. He is good lord and true.”
“But half an hour since,” said De Vaux, with a groan, implying a mixture of sorrow and vexation, “and I had said as much for thee!”
“There is treason around you, King of England,” continued Sir Kenneth.
“It may well be as thou sayest,” replied Richard; “I have a pregnant example.”
“Treason that will injure thee more deeply than the loss of a hundred banners in a pitched field. The–the–” Sir Kenneth hesitated, and at length continued, in a lower tone, “The Lady Edith–“
“Ha!” said the King, drawing himself suddenly into a state of haughty attention, and fixing his eye firmly on the supposed criminal; “what of her? what of her? What has she to do with this matter?”
“My lord,” said the Scot, “there is a scheme on foot to disgrace your royal lineage, by bestowing the hand of the Lady Edith on the Saracen Soldan, and thereby to purchase a peace most dishonourable to Christendom, by an alliance most shameful to England.”
This communication had precisely the contrary effect from that which Sir Kenneth expected. Richard Plantagenet was one of those who, in Iago’s words, would not serve God because it was the devil who bade him; advice or information often affected him less according to its real import, than through the tinge which it took from the supposed character and views of those by whom it was communicated. Unfortunately, the mention of his relative’s name renewed his recollection of what he had considered as extreme presumption in the Knight of the Leopard, even when he stood high in the roll of chivalry, but which, in his present condition, appeared an insult sufficient to drive the fiery monarch into a frenzy of passion.
“Silence,” he said, “infamous and audacious! By Heaven, I will have thy tongue torn out with hot pincers, for mentioning the very name of a noble Christian damsel! Know, degenerate traitor, that I was already aware to what height thou hadst dared to raise thine eyes, and endured it, though it were insolence, even when thou hadst cheated us–for thou art all a deceit–into holding thee as of some name and fame. But now, with lips blistered with the confession of thine own dishonour–that thou shouldst NOW dare to name our noble kinswoman as one in whose fate thou hast part or interest! What is it to thee if she marry Saracen or Christian? What is it to thee if, in a camp where princes turn cowards by day and robbers by night–where brave knights turn to paltry deserters and traitors–what is it, I say, to thee, or any one, if I should please to ally myself to truth and to valour, in the person of Saladin?”
“Little to me, indeed, to whom all the world will soon be as nothing,” answered Sir Kenneth boldly; “but were I now stretched on the rack, I would tell thee that what I have said is much to thine own conscience and thine own fame. I tell thee, Sir King, that if thou dost but in thought entertain the purpose of wedding thy kinswoman, the Lady Edith–“
“Name her not–and for an instant think not of her,” said the King, again straining the curtal-axe in his gripe, until the muscles started above his brawny arm, like cordage formed by the ivy around the limb of an oak.
“Not name–not think of her!” answered Sir Kenneth, his spirits, stunned as they were by self-depression, beginning to recover their elasticity from this species of controversy. “Now, by the Cross, on which I place my hope, her name shall be the last word in my mouth, her image the last thought in my mind. Try thy boasted strength on this bare brow, and see if thou canst prevent my purpose.”
“He will drive me mad!” said Richard, who, in his despite, was once more staggered in his purpose by the dauntless determination of the criminal.
Ere Thomas of Gilsland could reply, some bustle was heard without, and the arrival of the Queen was announced from the outer part of the pavilion.
“Detain her–detain her, Neville,” cried the King; “this is no sight for women.–Fie, that I have suffered such a paltry traitor to chafe me thus!–Away with him, De Vaux,” he whispered, “through the back entrance of our tent; coop him up close, and answer for his safe custody with your life. And hark ye–he is presently to die–let him have a ghostly father–we would not kill soul and body. And stay–hark thee–we will not have him dishonoured–he shall die knightlike, in his belt and spurs; for if his treachery be as black as hell, his boldness may match that of the devil himself.”
De Vaux, right glad, if the truth may be guessed, that the scene ended without Richard’s descending to the unkingly act of himself slaying an unresisting prisoner, made haste to remove Sir Kenneth by a private issue to a separate tent, where he was disarmed, and put in fetters for security. De Vaux looked on with a steady and melancholy attention, while the provost’s officers, to whom Sir Kenneth was now committed, took these severe precautions.
When they were ended, he said solemnly to the unhappy criminal, “It is King Richard’s pleasure that you die undegraded–without mutilation of your body, or shame to your arms–and that your head be severed from the trunk by the sword of the executioner.”
“It is kind,” said the knight, in a low and rather submissive tone of voice, as one who received an unexpected favour; “my family will not then hear the worst of the tale. Oh, my father –my father!”
This muttered invocation did not escape the blunt but kindly-natured Englishman, and he brushed the back of his large hand
over his rough features ere he could proceed.
“It is Richard of England’s further pleasure,” he said at length, “that you have speech with a holy man; and I have met on the passage hither with a Carmelite friar, who may fit you for your passage. He waits without, until you are in a frame of mind to receive him.”
“Let it be instantly,” said the knight. “In this also Richard is kind. I cannot be more fit to see the good father at any time than now; for life and I have taken farewell, as two travellers who have arrived at the crossway, where their roads separate.”
“It is well,” said De Vaux slowly and solemnly; “for it irks me somewhat to say that which sums my message. It is King Richard’s pleasure that you prepare for instant death.”
“God’s pleasure and the King’s be done,” replied the knight patiently. “I neither contest the justice of the sentence, nor desire delay of the execution.”
De Vaux began to leave the tent, but very slowly–paused at the door, and looked back at the Scot, from whose aspect thoughts of the world seemed banished, as if he was composing himself into deep devotion. The feelings of the stout English baron were in general none of the most acute, and yet, on the present occasion, his sympathy overpowered him in an unusual manner. He came hastily back to the bundle of reeds on which the captive lay, took one of his fettered hands, and said, with as much softness as his rough voice was capable of expressing, “Sir Kenneth, thou art yet young–thou hast a father. My Ralph, whom I left training his little galloway nag on the banks of the Irthing, may one day attain thy years, and, but for last night, would to God I saw his youth bear such promise as thine! Can nothing be said or done in thy behalf?”
“Nothing,” was the melancholy answer. “I have deserted my charge–the banner entrusted to me is lost. When the headsman and block are prepared, the head and trunk are ready to part company.”
“Nay, then, God have mercy!” said De Vaux. “Yet would I rather than my best horse I had taken that watch myself. There is mystery in it, young man, as a plain man may descry, though he cannot see through it. Cowardice? Pshaw! No coward ever fought as I have seen thee do. Treachery? I cannot think traitors die in their treason so calmly. Thou hast been trained from thy post by some deep guile–some well-devised stratagem–the cry of some distressed maiden has caught thine ear, or the laughful look of some merry one has taken thine eye. Never blush for it; we have all been led aside by such gear. Come, I pray thee, make a clean conscience of it to me, instead of the priest. Richard is merciful when his mood is abated. Hast thou nothing to entrust to me?”
The unfortunate knight turned his face from the kind warrior, and answered, “NOTHING.”
And De Vaux, who had exhausted his topics of persuasion, arose and left the tent, with folded arms, and in melancholy deeper than he thought the occasion merited–even angry with himself to find that so simple a matter as the death of a Scottish man could affect him so nearly.
“Yet,” as he said to himself, “though the rough-footed knaves be our enemies in Cumberland, in Palestine one almost considers them as brethren.”
CHAPTER XVI.
‘Tis not her sense, for sure in that
There’s nothing more than common;
And all her wit is only chat,
Like any other woman. SONG.
The high-born Berengaria, daughter of Sanchez, King of Navarre, and the Queen-Consort of the heroic Richard, was accounted one of the most beautiful women of the period. Her form was slight, though exquisitely moulded. She was graced with a complexion not common in her country, a profusion of fair hair, and features so extremely juvenile as to make her look several years younger than she really was, though in reality she was not above one-and-twenty. Perhaps it was under the consciousness of this extremely
juvenile appearance that she affected, or at least practised, a little childish petulance and wilfulness of manner, not unbefitting, she might suppose, a youthful bride, whose rank and age gave her a right to have her fantasies indulged and attended to. She was by nature perfectly good-humoured, and if her due share of admiration and homage (in her opinion a very large one) was duly resigned to her, no one could possess better temper or a more friendly disposition; but then, like all despots, the more power that was voluntarily yielded to her, the more she desired to extend her sway. Sometimes, even when all her ambition was gratified, she chose to be a little out of health, and a little out of spirits; and physicians had to toil their wits to invent names for imaginary maladies, while her ladies racked their imagination for new games, new head-gear, and new court-scandal, to pass away those unpleasant hours, during which their own situation was scarce to be greatly envied. Their most frequent resource for diverting this malady was some trick or piece of mischief practised upon each other; and the good Queen, in the buoyancy of her reviving spirits, was, to speak truth, rather too indifferent whether the frolics thus practised were entirely befitting her own dignity, or whether the pain which those suffered upon whom they were inflicted was not beyond the proportion of pleasure which she herself derived from them. She was confident in her husband’s favour, in her high rank, and in her supposed power to make good whatever such pranks might cost others. In a word, she gambolled with the freedom of a young lioness, who is unconscious of the weight of her own paws when laid on those whom she sports with.
The Queen Berengaria loved her husband passionately, but she feared the loftiness and roughness of his character; and as she felt herself not to be his match in intellect, was not much pleased to see that he would often talk with Edith Plantagenet in preference to herself, simply because he found more amusement in her conversation, a more comprehensive understanding, and a more noble cast of thoughts and sentiments, than his beautiful consort exhibited. Berengaria did not hate Edith on this account, far less meditate her any harm; for, allowing for some selfishness, her character was, on the whole, innocent and generous. But the ladies of her train, sharpsighted in such matters, had for some time discovered that a poignant jest at the expense of the Lady Edith was a specific for relieving her Grace of England’s low spirits, and the discovery saved their imagination much toil.
There was something ungenerous in this, because the Lady Edith was understood to be an orphan; and though she was called Plantagenet, and the fair Maid of Anjou, and admitted by Richard to certain privileges only granted to the royal family, and held her place in the circle accordingly, yet few knew, and none acquainted with the Court of England ventured to ask, in what exact degree of relationship she stood to Coeur de Lion. She had come with Eleanor, the celebrated Queen Mother of England, and joined Richard at Messina, as one of the ladies destined to attend on Berengaria, whose nuptials then approached. Richard treated his kinswoman with much respectful observance, and the Queen made her her most constant attendant, and, even in despite of the petty jealousy which we have observed, treated her, generally, with suitable respect.
The ladies of the household had, for a long time, no further advantage over Edith than might be afforded by an opportunity of censuring a less artfully disposed head attire or an unbecoming robe; for the lady was judged to be inferior in these mysteries. The silent devotion of the Scottish knight did not, indeed, pass unnoticed; his liveries, his cognizances, his feats of arms, his mottoes and devices, were nearly watched, and occasionally made the subject of a passing jest. But then came the pilgrimage of the Queen and her ladies to Engaddi, a journey which the Queen had undertaken under a vow for the recovery of her husband’s health, and which she had been encouraged to carry into effect by the Archbishop of Tyre for a political purpose. It was then, and in the chapel at that holy place, connected from above with a Carmelite nunnery, from beneath with the cell of the anchorite, that one of the Queen’s attendants remarked that secret sign of intelligence which Edith had made to her lover, and failed not instantly to communicate it to her Majesty. The Queen returned from her pilgrimage enriched with this admirable recipe against dullness or ennui; and her train was at the same time augmented by a present of two wretched dwarfs from the dethroned Queen of Jerusalem, as deformed and as crazy (the excellence of that unhappy species) as any Queen could have desired. One of Berengaria’s idle amusements had been to try the effect of the sudden appearance of such ghastly and fantastic forms on the nerves of the Knight when left alone in the chapel; but the jest had been lost by the composure of the Scot and the interference of the anchorite. She had now tried another, of which the consequences promised to be more serious.
The ladies again met after Sir Kenneth had retired from the tent, and the Queen, at first little moved by Edith’s angry expostulations, only replied to her by upbraiding her prudery, and by indulging her wit at the expense of the garb, nation, and, above all the poverty of the Knight of the Leopard, in which she displayed a good deal of playful malice, mingled with some humour, until Edith was compelled to carry her anxiety to her separate apartment. But when, in the morning, a female whom Edith had entrusted to make inquiry brought word that the Standard was missing, and its champion vanished, she burst into the Queen’s apartment, and implored her to rise and proceed to the King’s tent without delay, and use her powerful mediation to prevent the evil consequences of her jest.
The Queen, frightened in her turn, cast, as is usual, the blame of her own folly on those around her, and endeavoured to comfort Edith’s grief, and appease her displeasure, by a thousand inconsistent arguments. She was sure no harm had chanced–the knight was sleeping, she fancied, after his night-watch. What though, for fear of the King’s displeasure, he had deserted with the Standard–it was but a piece of silk, and he but a needy adventurer; or if he was put under warding for a time, she would soon get the King to pardon him–it was but waiting to let Richard’s mood pass away.
Thus she continued talking thick and fast, and heaping together all sorts of inconsistencies, with the vain expectation of persuading both Edith and herself that no harm could come of a frolic which in her heart she now bitterly repented. But while Edith in vain strove to intercept this torrent of idle talk, she caught the eye of one of the ladies who entered the Queen’s apartment. There was death in her look of affright and horror, and Edith, at the first glance of her countenance, had sunk at once on the earth, had not strong necessity and her own elevation of character enabled her to maintain at least external composure.