Ivanhoe: A Romance
which rendered yet darker the swarthy countenance of the Templar. In
the extremity of his resentment and confusion, his quivering fingers
griped towards the handle of his sword, and perhaps only withdrew, from
the consciousness that no act of violence could be safely executed in
that place and presence. Cedric, whose feelings were all of a right
onward and simple kind, and were seldom occupied by more than one
object at once, omitted, in the joyous glee with which he heard of the
glory of his countrymen, to remark the angry confusion of his guest; “I
would give thee this golden bracelet, Pilgrim,” he said, “couldst thou
tell me the names of those knights who upheld so gallantly the renown
of merry England.”
“That will I do blithely,” replied the Pilgrim, “and without guerdon;
my oath, for a time, prohibits me from touching gold.”
“I will wear the bracelet for you, if you will, friend Palmer,” said
Wamba.
“The first in honour as in arms, in renown as in place,” said the
Pilgrim, “was the brave Richard, King of England.”
“I forgive him,” said Cedric; “I forgive him his descent from the
tyrant Duke William.”
“The Earl of Leicester was the second,” continued the Pilgrim; “Sir
Thomas Multon of Gilsland was the third.”
“Of Saxon descent, he at least,” said Cedric, with exultation.
“Sir Foulk Doilly the fourth,” proceeded the Pilgrim.
“Saxon also, at least by the mother’s side,” continued Cedric, who
listened with the utmost eagerness, and forgot, in part at least, his
hatred to the Normans, in the common triumph of the King of England and
his islanders. “And who was the fifth?” he demanded.
“The fifth was Sir Edwin Turneham.”
“Genuine Saxon, by the soul of Hengist!” shouted Cedric—“And the
sixth?” he continued with eagerness—“how name you the sixth?”
“The sixth,” said the Palmer, after a pause, in which he seemed to
recollect himself, “was a young knight of lesser renown and lower rank,
assumed into that honourable company, less to aid their enterprise than
to make up their number—his name dwells not in my memory.”
“Sir Palmer,” said Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert scornfully, “this assumed
forgetfulness, after so much has been remembered, comes too late to
serve your purpose. I will myself tell the name of the knight before
whose lance fortune and my horse’s fault occasioned my falling—it was
the Knight of Ivanhoe; nor was there one of the six that, for his
years, had more renown in arms.—Yet this will I say, and loudly—that
were he in England, and durst repeat, in this week’s tournament, the
challenge of St John-de-Acre, I, mounted and armed as I now am, would
give him every advantage of weapons, and abide the result.”
“Your challenge would soon be answered,” replied the Palmer, “were your
antagonist near you. As the matter is, disturb not the peaceful hall
with vaunts of the issue of the conflict, which you well know cannot
take place. If Ivanhoe ever returns from Palestine, I will be his
surety that he meets you.”
“A goodly security!” said the Knight Templar; “and what do you proffer
as a pledge?”
“This reliquary,” said the Palmer, taking a small ivory box from his
bosom, and crossing himself, “containing a portion of the true cross,
brought from the Monastery of Mount Carmel.”
The Prior of Jorvaulx crossed himself and repeated a pater noster, in
which all devoutly joined, excepting the Jew, the Mahomedans, and the
Templar; the latter of whom, without vailing his bonnet, or testifying
any reverence for the alleged sanctity of the relic, took from his neck
a gold chain, which he flung on the board, saying—“Let Prior Aymer hold
my pledge and that of this nameless vagrant, in token that when the
Knight of Ivanhoe comes within the four seas of Britain, he underlies
the challenge of Brian de Bois-Guilbert, which, if he answer not, I
will proclaim him as a coward on the walls of every Temple Court in
Europe.”
“It will not need,” said the Lady Rowena, breaking silence; “My voice
shall be heard, if no other in this hall is raised in behalf of the
absent Ivanhoe. I affirm he will meet fairly every honourable
challenge. Could my weak warrant add security to the inestimable pledge
of this holy pilgrim, I would pledge name and fame that Ivanhoe gives
this proud knight the meeting he desires.”
A crowd of conflicting emotions seemed to have occupied Cedric, and
kept him silent during this discussion. Gratified pride, resentment,
embarrassment, chased each other over his broad and open brow, like the
shadow of clouds drifting over a harvest-field; while his attendants,
on whom the name of the sixth knight seemed to produce an effect almost
electrical, hung in suspense upon their master’s looks. But when Rowena
spoke, the sound of her voice seemed to startle him from his silence.
“Lady,” said Cedric, “this beseems not; were further pledge necessary,
I myself, offended, and justly offended, as I am, would yet gage my
honour for the honour of Ivanhoe. But the wager of battle is complete,
even according to the fantastic fashions of Norman chivalry—Is it not,
Father Aymer?”
“It is,” replied the Prior; “and the blessed relic and rich chain will
I bestow safely in the treasury of our convent, until the decision of
this warlike challenge.”
Having thus spoken, he crossed himself again and again, and after many
genuflections and muttered prayers, he delivered the reliquary to
Brother Ambrose, his attendant monk, while he himself swept up with
less ceremony, but perhaps with no less internal satisfaction, the
golden chain, and bestowed it in a pouch lined with perfumed leather,
which opened under his arm. “And now, Sir Cedric,” he said, “my ears
are chiming vespers with the strength of your good wine—permit us
another pledge to the welfare of the Lady Rowena, and indulge us with
liberty to pass to our repose.”
“By the rood of Bromholme,” said the Saxon, “you do but small credit to
your fame, Sir Prior! Report speaks you a bonny monk, that would hear
the matin chime ere he quitted his bowl; and, old as I am, I feared to
have shame in encountering you. But, by my faith, a Saxon boy of
twelve, in my time, would not so soon have relinquished his goblet.”
The Prior had his own reasons, however, for persevering in the course
of temperance which he had adopted. He was not only a professional
peacemaker, but from practice a hater of all feuds and brawls. It was
not altogether from a love to his neighbour, or to himself, or from a
mixture of both. On the present occasion, he had an instinctive
apprehension of the fiery temper of the Saxon, and saw the danger that
the reckless and presumptuous spirit, of which his companion had
already given so many proofs, might at length produce some disagreeable
explosion. He therefore gently insinuated the incapacity of the native
of any other country to engage in the genial conflict of the bowl with
the hardy and strong-headed Saxons; something he mentioned, but
slightly, about his own holy character, and ended by pressing his
proposal to depart to repose.
The grace-cup was accordingly served round, and the guests, after
making deep obeisance to their landlord and to the Lady Rowena, arose
and mingled in the hall, while the heads of the family, by separate
doors, retired with their attendants.
“Unbelieving dog,” said the Templar to Isaac the Jew, as he passed him
in the throng, “dost thou bend thy course to the tournament?”
“I do so propose,” replied Isaac, bowing in all humility, “if it please
your reverend valour.”
“Ay,” said the Knight, “to gnaw the bowels of our nobles with usury,
and to gull women and boys with gauds and toys—I warrant thee store of
shekels in thy Jewish scrip.”
“Not a shekel, not a silver penny, not a halfling—so help me the God of
Abraham!” said the Jew, clasping his hands; “I go but to seek the
assistance of some brethren of my tribe to aid me to pay the fine which
the Exchequer of the Jews have imposed upon me—Father Jacob be my
speed! I am an impoverished wretch—the very gaberdine I wear is
borrowed from Reuben of Tadcaster.” 15
The Templar smiled sourly as he replied, “Beshrew thee for a
false-hearted liar!” and passing onward, as if disdaining farther
conference, he communed with his Moslem slaves in a language unknown to
the bystanders. The poor Israelite seemed so staggered by the address
of the military monk, that the Templar had passed on to the extremity
of the hall ere he raised his head from the humble posture which he had
assumed, so far as to be sensible of his departure. And when he did
look around, it was with the astonished air of one at whose feet a
thunderbolt has just burst, and who hears still the astounding report
ringing in his ears.
The Templar and Prior were shortly after marshalled to their sleeping
apartments by the steward and the cupbearer, each attended by two
torchbearers and two servants carrying refreshments, while servants of
inferior condition indicated to their retinue and to the other guests
their respective places of repose.
CHAPTER VI
To buy his favour I extend this friendship:
If he will take it, so; if not, adieu;
And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not.
MERCHANT OF VENICE
As the Palmer, lighted by a domestic with a torch, passed through the
intricate combination of apartments of this large and irregular
mansion, the cupbearer coming behind him whispered in his ear, that if
he had no objection to a cup of good mead in his apartment, there were
many domestics in that family who would gladly hear the news he had
brought from the Holy Land, and particularly that which concerned the
Knight of Ivanhoe. Wamba presently appeared to urge the same request,
observing that a cup after midnight was worth three after curfew.
Without disputing a maxim urged by such grave authority, the Palmer
thanked them for their courtesy, but observed that he had included in
his religious vow, an obligation never to speak in the kitchen on
matters which were prohibited in the hall. “That vow,” said Wamba to
the cupbearer, “would scarce suit a serving-man.”
The cupbearer shrugged up his shoulders in displeasure. “I thought to
have lodged him in the solere chamber,” said he; “but since he is so
unsocial to Christians, e’en let him take the next stall to Isaac the
Jew’s.—Anwold,” said he to the torchbearer, “carry the Pilgrim to the
southern cell.—I give you good-night,” he added, “Sir Palmer, with
small thanks for short courtesy.”
“Good-night, and Our Lady’s benison,” said the Palmer, with composure;
and his guide moved forward.
In a small antechamber, into which several doors opened, and which was
lighted by a small iron lamp, they met a second interruption from the
waiting-maid of Rowena, who, saying in a tone of authority, that her
mistress desired to speak with the Palmer, took the torch from the hand
of Anwold, and, bidding him await her return, made a sign to the Palmer
to follow. Apparently he did not think it proper to decline this
invitation as he had done the former; for, though his gesture indicated
some surprise at the summons, he obeyed it without answer or
remonstrance.
A short passage, and an ascent of seven steps, each of which was
composed of a solid beam of oak, led him to the apartment of the Lady
Rowena, the rude magnificence of which corresponded to the respect
which was paid to her by the lord of the mansion. The walls were
covered with embroidered hangings, on which different-coloured silks,
interwoven with gold and silver threads, had been employed with all the
art of which the age was capable, to represent the sports of hunting
and hawking. The bed was adorned with the same rich tapestry, and
surrounded with curtains dyed with purple. The seats had also their
stained coverings, and one, which was higher than the rest, was