Ivanhoe: A Romance
of ten devils, keeps Gurth so long afield? I suppose we shall have an
evil account of the herd; he was wont to be a faithful and cautious
drudge, and I had destined him for something better; perchance I might
even have made him one of my warders.” 11
Oswald the cupbearer modestly suggested, “that it was scarce an hour
since the tolling of the curfew;” an ill-chosen apology, since it
turned upon a topic so harsh to Saxon ears.
“The foul fiend,” exclaimed Cedric, “take the curfew-bell, and the
tyrannical bastard by whom it was devised, and the heartless slave who
names it with a Saxon tongue to a Saxon ear! The curfew!” he added,
pausing, “ay, the curfew; which compels true men to extinguish their
lights, that thieves and robbers may work their deeds in darkness!—Ay,
the curfew;—Reginald Front-de-Bœuf and Philip de Malvoisin know the use
of the curfew as well as William the Bastard himself, or e’er a Norman
adventurer that fought at Hastings. I shall hear, I guess, that my
property has been swept off to save from starving the hungry banditti,
whom they cannot support but by theft and robbery. My faithful slave is
murdered, and my goods are taken for a prey—and Wamba—where is Wamba?
Said not some one he had gone forth with Gurth?”
Oswald replied in the affirmative.
“Ay? why this is better and better! he is carried off too, the Saxon
fool, to serve the Norman lord. Fools are we all indeed that serve
them, and fitter subjects for their scorn and laughter, than if we were
born with but half our wits. But I will be avenged,” he added, starting
from his chair in impatience at the supposed injury, and catching hold
of his boar-spear; “I will go with my complaint to the great council; I
have friends, I have followers—man to man will I appeal the Norman to
the lists; let him come in his plate and his mail, and all that can
render cowardice bold; I have sent such a javelin as this through a
stronger fence than three of their war shields!—Haply they think me
old; but they shall find, alone and childless as I am, the blood of
Hereward is in the veins of Cedric.—Ah, Wilfred, Wilfred!” he exclaimed
in a lower tone, “couldst thou have ruled thine unreasonable passion,
thy father had not been left in his age like the solitary oak that
throws out its shattered and unprotected branches against the full
sweep of the tempest!” The reflection seemed to conjure into sadness
his irritated feelings. Replacing his javelin, he resumed his seat,
bent his looks downward, and appeared to be absorbed in melancholy
reflection.
From his musing, Cedric was suddenly awakened by the blast of a horn,
which was replied to by the clamorous yells and barking of all the dogs
in the hall, and some twenty or thirty which were quartered in other
parts of the building. It cost some exercise of the white truncheon,
well seconded by the exertions of the domestics, to silence this canine
clamour.
“To the gate, knaves!” said the Saxon, hastily, as soon as the tumult
was so much appeased that the dependants could hear his voice. “See
what tidings that horn tells us of—to announce, I ween, some hership 12
and robbery which has been done upon my lands.”
Returning in less than three minutes, a warder announced “that the
Prior Aymer of Jorvaulx, and the good knight Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
commander of the valiant and venerable order of Knights Templars, with
a small retinue, requested hospitality and lodging for the night, being
on their way to a tournament which was to be held not far from
Ashby-de-la-Zouche, on the second day from the present.”
“Aymer, the Prior Aymer? Brian de Bois-Guilbert?”—muttered Cedric;
“Normans both;—but Norman or Saxon, the hospitality of Rotherwood must
not be impeached; they are welcome, since they have chosen to halt—more
welcome would they have been to have ridden further on their way—But it
were unworthy to murmur for a night’s lodging and a night’s food; in
the quality of guests, at least, even Normans must suppress their
insolence.—Go, Hundebert,” he added, to a sort of major-domo who stood
behind him with a white wand; “take six of the attendants, and
introduce the strangers to the guests’ lodging. Look after their horses
and mules, and see their train lack nothing. Let them have change of
vestments if they require it, and fire, and water to wash, and wine and
ale; and bid the cooks add what they hastily can to our evening meal;
and let it be put on the board when those strangers are ready to share
it. Say to them, Hundebert, that Cedric would himself bid them welcome,
but he is under a vow never to step more than three steps from the dais
of his own hall to meet any who shares not the blood of Saxon royalty.
Begone! see them carefully tended; let them not say in their pride, the
Saxon churl has shown at once his poverty and his avarice.”
The major-domo departed with several attendants, to execute his
master’s commands.
“The Prior Aymer!” repeated Cedric, looking to Oswald, “the brother, if
I mistake not, of Giles de Mauleverer, now lord of Middleham?”
Oswald made a respectful sign of assent. “His brother sits in the seat,
and usurps the patrimony, of a better race, the race of Ulfgar of
Middleham; but what Norman lord doth not the same? This Prior is, they
say, a free and jovial priest, who loves the wine-cup and the
bugle-horn better than bell and book: Good; let him come, he shall be
welcome. How named ye the Templar?”
“Brian de Bois-Guilbert.”
“Bois-Guilbert,” said Cedric, still in the musing, half-arguing tone,
which the habit of living among dependants had accustomed him to
employ, and which resembled a man who talks to himself rather than to
those around him—“Bois-Guilbert? that name has been spread wide both
for good and evil. They say he is valiant as the bravest of his order;
but stained with their usual vices, pride, arrogance, cruelty, and
voluptuousness; a hard-hearted man, who knows neither fear of earth,
nor awe of heaven. So say the few warriors who have returned from
Palestine.—Well; it is but for one night; he shall be welcome
too.—Oswald, broach the oldest wine-cask; place the best mead, the
mightiest ale, the richest morat, the most sparkling cider, the most
odoriferous pigments, upon the board; fill the largest horns 13
—Templars and Abbots love good wines and good measure.—Elgitha, let thy
Lady Rowena, know we shall not this night expect her in the hall,
unless such be her especial pleasure.”
“But it will be her especial pleasure,” answered Elgitha, with great
readiness, “for she is ever desirous to hear the latest news from
Palestine.”
Cedric darted at the forward damsel a glance of hasty resentment; but
Rowena, and whatever belonged to her, were privileged and secure from
his anger. He only replied, “Silence, maiden; thy tongue outruns thy
discretion. Say my message to thy mistress, and let her do her
pleasure. Here, at least, the descendant of Alfred still reigns a
princess.” Elgitha left the apartment.
“Palestine!” repeated the Saxon; “Palestine! how many ears are turned
to the tales which dissolute crusaders, or hypocritical pilgrims, bring
from that fatal land! I too might ask—I too might enquire—I too might
listen with a beating heart to fables which the wily strollers devise
to cheat us into hospitality—but no—The son who has disobeyed me is no
longer mine; nor will I concern myself more for his fate than for that
of the most worthless among the millions that ever shaped the cross on
their shoulder, rushed into excess and blood-guiltiness, and called it
an accomplishment of the will of God.”
He knit his brows, and fixed his eyes for an instant on the ground; as
he raised them, the folding doors at the bottom of the hall were cast
wide, and, preceded by the major-domo with his wand, and four domestics
bearing blazing torches, the guests of the evening entered the
apartment.
CHAPTER IV
With sheep and shaggy goats the porkers bled,
And the proud steer was on the marble spread;
With fire prepared, they deal the morsels round,
Wine rosy bright the brimming goblets crown’d.
Disposed apart, Ulysses shares the treat;
A trivet table and ignobler seat,
The Prince assigns—
ODYSSEY, _Book_ XXI.
The Prior Aymer had taken the opportunity afforded him, of changing his
riding robe for one of yet more costly materials, over which he wore a
cope curiously embroidered. Besides the massive golden signet ring,
which marked his ecclesiastical dignity, his fingers, though contrary
to the canon, were loaded with precious gems; his sandals were of the
finest leather which was imported from Spain; his beard trimmed to as
small dimensions as his order would possibly permit, and his shaven
crown concealed by a scarlet cap richly embroidered.
The appearance of the Knight Templar was also changed; and, though less
studiously bedecked with ornament, his dress was as rich, and his
appearance far more commanding, than that of his companion. He had
exchanged his shirt of mail for an under tunic of dark purple silk,
garnished with furs, over which flowed his long robe of spotless white,
in ample folds. The eight-pointed cross of his order was cut on the
shoulder of his mantle in black velvet. The high cap no longer invested
his brows, which were only shaded by short and thick curled hair of a
raven blackness, corresponding to his unusually swart complexion.
Nothing could be more gracefully majestic than his step and manner, had
they not been marked by a predominant air of haughtiness, easily
acquired by the exercise of unresisted authority.
These two dignified persons were followed by their respective
attendants, and at a more humble distance by their guide, whose figure
had nothing more remarkable than it derived from the usual weeds of a
pilgrim. A cloak or mantle of coarse black serge, enveloped his whole
body. It was in shape something like the cloak of a modern hussar,
having similar flaps for covering the arms, and was called a
“Sclaveyn”, or “Sclavonian”. Coarse sandals, bound with thongs, on his
bare feet; a broad and shadowy hat, with cockle-shells stitched on its
brim, and a long staff shod with iron, to the upper end of which was
attached a branch of palm, completed the palmer’s attire. He followed
modestly the last of the train which entered the hall, and, observing
that the lower table scarce afforded room sufficient for the domestics
of Cedric and the retinue of his guests, he withdrew to a settle placed
beside and almost under one of the large chimneys, and seemed to employ
himself in drying his garments, until the retreat of some one should
make room at the board, or the hospitality of the steward should supply
him with refreshments in the place he had chosen apart.
Cedric rose to receive his guests with an air of dignified hospitality,
and, descending from the dais, or elevated part of his hall, made three
steps towards them, and then awaited their approach.
“I grieve,” he said, “reverend Prior, that my vow binds me to advance
no farther upon this floor of my fathers, even to receive such guests
as you, and this valiant Knight of the Holy Temple. But my steward has
expounded to you the cause of my seeming discourtesy. Let me also pray,
that you will excuse my speaking to you in my native language, and that
you will reply in the same if your knowledge of it permits; if not, I
sufficiently understand Norman to follow your meaning.”
“Vows,” said the Abbot, “must be unloosed, worthy Franklin, or permit
me rather to say, worthy Thane, though the title is antiquated. Vows
are the knots which tie us to Heaven—they are the cords which bind the
sacrifice to the horns of the altar,—and are therefore,—as I said
before,—to be unloosened and discharged, unless our holy Mother Church