Ivanhoe: A Romance
Knight and his party had lost the day, but for the powerful assistance
of the Knight of the Black Armour, to whom, therefore, he persisted in
awarding the prize.
To the surprise of all present, however, the knight thus preferred was
nowhere to be found. He had left the lists immediately when the
conflict ceased, and had been observed by some spectators to move down
one of the forest glades with the same slow pace and listless and
indifferent manner which had procured him the epithet of the Black
Sluggard. After he had been summoned twice by sound of trumpet, and
proclamation of the heralds, it became necessary to name another to
receive the honours which had been assigned to him. Prince John had now
no further excuse for resisting the claim of the Disinherited Knight,
whom, therefore, he named the champion of the day.
Through a field slippery with blood, and encumbered with broken armour
and the bodies of slain and wounded horses, the marshals of the lists
again conducted the victor to the foot of Prince John’s throne.
“Disinherited Knight,” said Prince John, “since by that title only you
will consent to be known to us, we a second time award to you the
honours of this tournament, and announce to you your right to claim and
receive from the hands of the Queen of Love and Beauty, the Chaplet of
Honour which your valour has justly deserved.” The Knight bowed low and
gracefully, but returned no answer.
While the trumpets sounded, while the heralds strained their voices in
proclaiming honour to the brave and glory to the victor—while ladies
waved their silken kerchiefs and embroidered veils, and while all ranks
joined in a clamorous shout of exultation, the marshals conducted the
Disinherited Knight across the lists to the foot of that throne of
honour which was occupied by the Lady Rowena.
On the lower step of this throne the champion was made to kneel down.
Indeed his whole action since the fight had ended, seemed rather to
have been upon the impulse of those around him than from his own free
will; and it was observed that he tottered as they guided him the
second time across the lists. Rowena, descending from her station with
a graceful and dignified step, was about to place the chaplet which she
held in her hand upon the helmet of the champion, when the marshals
exclaimed with one voice, “It must not be thus—his head must be bare.”
The knight muttered faintly a few words, which were lost in the hollow
of his helmet, but their purport seemed to be a desire that his casque
might not be removed.
Whether from love of form, or from curiosity, the marshals paid no
attention to his expressions of reluctance, but unhelmed him by cutting
the laces of his casque, and undoing the fastening of his gorget. When
the helmet was removed, the well-formed, yet sun-burnt features of a
young man of twenty-five were seen, amidst a profusion of short fair
hair. His countenance was as pale as death, and marked in one or two
places with streaks of blood.
Rowena had no sooner beheld him than she uttered a faint shriek; but at
once summoning up the energy of her disposition, and compelling
herself, as it were, to proceed, while her frame yet trembled with the
violence of sudden emotion, she placed upon the drooping head of the
victor the splendid chaplet which was the destined reward of the day,
and pronounced, in a clear and distinct tone, these words: “I bestow on
thee this chaplet, Sir Knight, as the meed of valour assigned to this
day’s victor:” Here she paused a moment, and then firmly added, “And
upon brows more worthy could a wreath of chivalry never be placed!”
The knight stooped his head, and kissed the hand of the lovely
Sovereign by whom his valour had been rewarded; and then, sinking yet
farther forward, lay prostrate at her feet.
There was a general consternation. Cedric, who had been struck mute by
the sudden appearance of his banished son, now rushed forward, as if to
separate him from Rowena. But this had been already accomplished by the
marshals of the field, who, guessing the cause of Ivanhoe’s swoon, had
hastened to undo his armour, and found that the head of a lance had
penetrated his breastplate, and inflicted a wound in his side.
CHAPTER XIII
“Heroes, approach!” Atrides thus aloud,
“Stand forth distinguish’d from the circling crowd,
Ye who by skill or manly force may claim,
Your rivals to surpass and merit fame.
This cow, worth twenty oxen, is decreed,
For him who farthest sends the winged reed.”
ILIAD
The name of Ivanhoe was no sooner pronounced than it flew from mouth to
mouth, with all the celerity with which eagerness could convey and
curiosity receive it. It was not long ere it reached the circle of the
Prince, whose brow darkened as he heard the news. Looking around him,
however, with an air of scorn, “My Lords,” said he, “and especially
you, Sir Prior, what think ye of the doctrine the learned tell us,
concerning innate attractions and antipathies? Methinks that I felt the
presence of my brother’s minion, even when I least guessed whom yonder
suit of armour enclosed.”
“Front-de-Bœuf must prepare to restore his fief of Ivanhoe,” said De
Bracy, who, having discharged his part honourably in the tournament,
had laid his shield and helmet aside, and again mingled with the
Prince’s retinue.
“Ay,” answered Waldemar Fitzurse, “this gallant is likely to reclaim
the castle and manor which Richard assigned to him, and which your
Highness’s generosity has since given to Front-de-Bœuf.”
“Front-de-Bœuf,” replied John, “is a man more willing to swallow three
manors such as Ivanhoe, than to disgorge one of them. For the rest,
sirs, I hope none here will deny my right to confer the fiefs of the
crown upon the faithful followers who are around me, and ready to
perform the usual military service, in the room of those who have
wandered to foreign Countries, and can neither render homage nor
service when called upon.”
The audience were too much interested in the question not to pronounce
the Prince’s assumed right altogether indubitable. “A generous
Prince!—a most noble Lord, who thus takes upon himself the task of
rewarding his faithful followers!”
Such were the words which burst from the train, expectants all of them
of similar grants at the expense of King Richard’s followers and
favourites, if indeed they had not as yet received such. Prior Aymer
also assented to the general proposition, observing, however, “That the
blessed Jerusalem could not indeed be termed a foreign country. She was
‘communis mater’—the mother of all Christians. But he saw not,” he
declared, “how the Knight of Ivanhoe could plead any advantage from
this, since he” (the Prior) “was assured that the crusaders, under
Richard, had never proceeded much farther than Askalon, which, as all
the world knew, was a town of the Philistines, and entitled to none of
the privileges of the Holy City.”
Waldemar, whose curiosity had led him towards the place where Ivanhoe
had fallen to the ground, now returned. “The gallant,” said he, “is
likely to give your Highness little disturbance, and to leave
Front-de-Bœuf in the quiet possession of his gains—he is severely
wounded.”
“Whatever becomes of him,” said Prince John, “he is victor of the day;
and were he tenfold our enemy, or the devoted friend of our brother,
which is perhaps the same, his wounds must be looked to—our own
physician shall attend him.”
A stern smile curled the Prince’s lip as he spoke. Waldemar Fitzurse
hastened to reply, that Ivanhoe was already removed from the lists, and
in the custody of his friends.
“I was somewhat afflicted,” he said, “to see the grief of the Queen of
Love and Beauty, whose sovereignty of a day this event has changed into
mourning. I am not a man to be moved by a woman’s lament for her lover,
but this same Lady Rowena suppressed her sorrow with such dignity of
manner, that it could only be discovered by her folded hands, and her
tearless eye, which trembled as it remained fixed on the lifeless form
before her.”
“Who is this Lady Rowena,” said Prince John, “of whom we have heard so
much?”
“A Saxon heiress of large possessions,” replied the Prior Aymer; “a
rose of loveliness, and a jewel of wealth; the fairest among a
thousand, a bundle of myrrh, and a cluster of camphire.”
“We shall cheer her sorrows,” said Prince John, “and amend her blood,
by wedding her to a Norman. She seems a minor, and must therefore be at
our royal disposal in marriage.—How sayst thou, De Bracy? What thinkst
thou of gaining fair lands and livings, by wedding a Saxon, after the
fashion of the followers of the Conqueror?”
“If the lands are to my liking, my lord,” answered De Bracy, “it will
be hard to displease me with a bride; and deeply will I hold myself
bound to your highness for a good deed, which will fulfil all promises
made in favour of your servant and vassal.”
“We will not forget it,” said Prince John; “and that we may instantly
go to work, command our seneschal presently to order the attendance of
the Lady Rowena and her company—that is, the rude churl her guardian,
and the Saxon ox whom the Black Knight struck down in the tournament,
upon this evening’s banquet.—De Bigot,” he added to his seneschal,
“thou wilt word this our second summons so courteously, as to gratify
the pride of these Saxons, and make it impossible for them again to
refuse; although, by the bones of Becket, courtesy to them is casting
pearls before swine.”
Prince John had proceeded thus far, and was about to give the signal
for retiring from the lists, when a small billet was put into his hand.
“From whence?” said Prince John, looking at the person by whom it was
delivered.
“From foreign parts, my lord, but from whence I know not” replied his
attendant. “A Frenchman brought it hither, who said, he had ridden
night and day to put it into the hands of your highness.”
The Prince looked narrowly at the superscription, and then at the seal,
placed so as to secure the flex-silk with which the billet was
surrounded, and which bore the impression of three fleurs-de-lis. John
then opened the billet with apparent agitation, which visibly and
greatly increased when he had perused the contents, which were
expressed in these words:
“_Take heed to yourself for the Devil is unchained!_”
The Prince turned as pale as death, looked first on the earth, and then
up to heaven, like a man who has received news that sentence of
execution has been passed upon him. Recovering from the first effects
of his surprise, he took Waldemar Fitzurse and De Bracy aside, and put
the billet into their hands successively. “It means,” he added, in a
faltering voice, “that my brother Richard has obtained his freedom.”
“This may be a false alarm, or a forged letter,” said De Bracy.
“It is France’s own hand and seal,” replied Prince John.
“It is time, then,” said Fitzurse, “to draw our party to a head, either
at York, or some other centrical place. A few days later, and it will
be indeed too late. Your highness must break short this present
mummery.”
“The yeomen and commons,” said De Bracy, “must not be dismissed
discontented, for lack of their share in the sports.”
“The day,” said Waldemar, “is not yet very far spent—let the archers
shoot a few rounds at the target, and the prize be adjudged. This will
be an abundant fulfilment of the Prince’s promises, so far as this herd
of Saxon serfs is concerned.”
“I thank thee, Waldemar,” said the Prince; “thou remindest me, too,
that I have a debt to pay to that insolent peasant who yesterday
insulted our person. Our banquet also shall go forward to-night as we
proposed. Were this my last hour of power, it should be an hour sacred
to revenge and to pleasure—let new cares come with to-morrow’s new