Ivanhoe: A Romance
thou not we are overreached, and that our proposed mode of
communicating with our friends without has been disconcerted by this
same motley gentleman thou art so fond to brother? What views have we
to expect but instant storm?”
“To the battlements then,” said De Bracy; “when didst thou ever see me
the graver for the thoughts of battle? Call the Templar yonder, and let
him fight but half so well for his life as he has done for his
Order—Make thou to the walls thyself with thy huge body—Let me do my
poor endeavour in my own way, and I tell thee the Saxon outlaws may as
well attempt to scale the clouds, as the castle of Torquilstone; or, if
you will treat with the banditti, why not employ the mediation of this
worthy franklin, who seems in such deep contemplation of the
wine-flagon?—Here, Saxon,” he continued, addressing Athelstane, and
handing the cup to him, “rinse thy throat with that noble liquor, and
rouse up thy soul to say what thou wilt do for thy liberty.”
“What a man of mould may,” answered Athelstane, “providing it be what a
man of manhood ought.—Dismiss me free, with my companions, and I will
pay a ransom of a thousand marks.”
“And wilt moreover assure us the retreat of that scum of mankind who
are swarming around the castle, contrary to God’s peace and the
king’s?” said Front-de-Bœuf.
“In so far as I can,” answered Athelstane, “I will withdraw them; and I
fear not but that my father Cedric will do his best to assist me.”
“We are agreed then,” said Front-de-Bœuf—“thou and they are to be set
at freedom, and peace is to be on both sides, for payment of a thousand
marks. It is a trifling ransom, Saxon, and thou wilt owe gratitude to
the moderation which accepts of it in exchange of your persons. But
mark, this extends not to the Jew Isaac.”
“Nor to the Jew Isaac’s daughter,” said the Templar, who had now joined
them.
“Neither,” said Front-de-Bœuf, “belong to this Saxon’s company.”
“I were unworthy to be called Christian, if they did,” replied
Athelstane: “deal with the unbelievers as ye list.”
“Neither does the ransom include the Lady Rowena,” said De Bracy. “It
shall never be said I was scared out of a fair prize without striking a
blow for it.”
“Neither,” said Front-de-Bœuf, “does our treaty refer to this wretched
Jester, whom I retain, that I may make him an example to every knave
who turns jest into earnest.”
“The Lady Rowena,” answered Athelstane, with the most steady
countenance, “is my affianced bride. I will be drawn by wild horses
before I consent to part with her. The slave Wamba has this day saved
the life of my father Cedric—I will lose mine ere a hair of his head be
injured.”
“Thy affianced bride?—The Lady Rowena the affianced bride of a vassal
like thee?” said De Bracy; “Saxon, thou dreamest that the days of thy
seven kingdoms are returned again. I tell thee, the Princes of the
House of Anjou confer not their wards on men of such lineage as thine.”
“My lineage, proud Norman,” replied Athelstane, “is drawn from a source
more pure and ancient than that of a beggarly Frenchman, whose living
is won by selling the blood of the thieves whom he assembles under his
paltry standard. Kings were my ancestors, strong in war and wise in
council, who every day feasted in their hall more hundreds than thou
canst number individual followers; whose names have been sung by
minstrels, and their laws recorded by Wittenagemotes; whose bones were
interred amid the prayers of saints, and over whose tombs minsters have
been builded.”
“Thou hast it, De Bracy,” said Front-de-Bœuf, well pleased with the
rebuff which his companion had received; “the Saxon hath hit thee
fairly.”
“As fairly as a captive can strike,” said De Bracy, with apparent
carelessness; “for he whose hands are tied should have his tongue at
freedom.—But thy glibness of reply, comrade,” rejoined he, speaking to
Athelstane, “will not win the freedom of the Lady Rowena.”
To this Athelstane, who had already made a longer speech than was his
custom to do on any topic, however interesting, returned no answer. The
conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a menial, who announced
that a monk demanded admittance at the postern gate.
“In the name of Saint Bennet, the prince of these bull-beggars,” said
Front-de-Bœuf, “have we a real monk this time, or another impostor?
Search him, slaves—for an ye suffer a second impostor to be palmed upon
you, I will have your eyes torn out, and hot coals put into the
sockets.”
“Let me endure the extremity of your anger, my lord,” said Giles, “if
this be not a real shaveling. Your squire Jocelyn knows him well, and
will vouch him to be brother Ambrose, a monk in attendance upon the
Prior of Jorvaulx.”
“Admit him,” said Front-de-Bœuf; “most likely he brings us news from
his jovial master. Surely the devil keeps holiday, and the priests are
relieved from duty, that they are strolling thus wildly through the
country. Remove these prisoners; and, Saxon, think on what thou hast
heard.”
“I claim,” said Athelstane, “an honourable imprisonment, with due care
of my board and of my couch, as becomes my rank, and as is due to one
who is in treaty for ransom. Moreover, I hold him that deems himself
the best of you, bound to answer to me with his body for this
aggression on my freedom. This defiance hath already been sent to thee
by thy sewer; thou underliest it, and art bound to answer me—There lies
my glove.”
“I answer not the challenge of my prisoner,” said Front-de-Bœuf; “nor
shalt thou, Maurice de Bracy.—Giles,” he continued, “hang the
franklin’s glove upon the tine of yonder branched antlers: there shall
it remain until he is a free man. Should he then presume to demand it,
or to affirm he was unlawfully made my prisoner, by the belt of Saint
Christopher, he will speak to one who hath never refused to meet a foe
on foot or on horseback, alone or with his vassals at his back!”
The Saxon prisoners were accordingly removed, just as they introduced
the monk Ambrose, who appeared to be in great perturbation.
“This is the real ‘Deus vobiscum’,” said Wamba, as he passed the
reverend brother; “the others were but counterfeits.”
“Holy Mother,” said the monk, as he addressed the assembled knights, “I
am at last safe and in Christian keeping!”
“Safe thou art,” replied De Bracy; “and for Christianity, here is the
stout Baron Reginald Front-de-Bœuf, whose utter abomination is a Jew;
and the good Knight Templar, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, whose trade is to
slay Saracens—If these are not good marks of Christianity, I know no
other which they bear about them.”
“Ye are friends and allies of our reverend father in God, Aymer, Prior
of Jorvaulx,” said the monk, without noticing the tone of De Bracy’s
reply; “ye owe him aid both by knightly faith and holy charity; for
what saith the blessed Saint Augustin, in his treatise ‘De Civitate
Dei’—-”
“What saith the devil!” interrupted Front-de-Bœuf; “or rather what dost
thou say, Sir Priest? We have little time to hear texts from the holy
fathers.”
“‘Sancta Maria!’” ejaculated Father Ambrose, “how prompt to ire are
these unhallowed laymen!—But be it known to you, brave knights, that
certain murderous caitiffs, casting behind them fear of God, and
reverence of his church, and not regarding the bull of the holy see,
‘Si quis, suadende Diabolo’—”
“Brother priest,” said the Templar, “all this we know or guess at—tell
us plainly, is thy master, the Prior, made prisoner, and to whom?”
“Surely,” said Ambrose, “he is in the hands of the men of Belial,
infesters of these woods, and contemners of the holy text, ‘Touch not
mine anointed, and do my prophets naught of evil.’”
“Here is a new argument for our swords, sirs,” said Front-de-Bœuf,
turning to his companions; “and so, instead of reaching us any
assistance, the Prior of Jorvaulx requests aid at our hands? a man is
well helped of these lazy churchmen when he hath most to do!—But speak
out, priest, and say at once, what doth thy master expect from us?”
“So please you,” said Ambrose, “violent hands having been imposed on my
reverend superior, contrary to the holy ordinance which I did already
quote, and the men of Belial having rifled his mails and budgets, and
stripped him of two hundred marks of pure refined gold, they do yet
demand of him a large sum beside, ere they will suffer him to depart
from their uncircumcised hands. Wherefore the reverend father in God
prays you, as his dear friends, to rescue him, either by paying down
the ransom at which they hold him, or by force of arms, at your best
discretion.”
“The foul fiend quell the Prior!” said Front-de-Bœuf; “his morning’s
drought has been a deep one. When did thy master hear of a Norman baron
unbuckling his purse to relieve a churchman, whose bags are ten times
as weighty as ours?—And how can we do aught by valour to free him, that
are cooped up here by ten times our number, and expect an assault every
moment?”
“And that was what I was about to tell you,” said the monk, “had your
hastiness allowed me time. But, God help me, I am old, and these foul
onslaughts distract an aged man’s brain. Nevertheless, it is of verity
that they assemble a camp, and raise a bank against the walls of this
castle.”
“To the battlements!” cried De Bracy, “and let us mark what these
knaves do without;” and so saying, he opened a latticed window which
led to a sort of bartisan or projecting balcony, and immediately called
from thence to those in the apartment—“Saint Dennis, but the old monk
hath brought true tidings!—They bring forward mantelets and pavisses,
32 and the archers muster on the skirts of the wood like a dark cloud
before a hailstorm.”
Reginald Front-de-Bœuf also looked out upon the field, and immediately
snatched his bugle; and, after winding a long and loud blast, commanded
his men to their posts on the walls.
“De Bracy, look to the eastern side, where the walls are lowest—Noble
Bois-Guilbert, thy trade hath well taught thee how to attack and
defend, look thou to the western side—I myself will take post at the
barbican. Yet, do not confine your exertions to any one spot, noble
friends!—we must this day be everywhere, and multiply ourselves, were
it possible, so as to carry by our presence succour and relief wherever
the attack is hottest. Our numbers are few, but activity and courage
may supply that defect, since we have only to do with rascal clowns.”
“But, noble knights,” exclaimed Father Ambrose, amidst the bustle and
confusion occasioned by the preparations for defence, “will none of ye
hear the message of the reverend father in God Aymer, Prior of
Jorvaulx?—I beseech thee to hear me, noble Sir Reginald!”
“Go patter thy petitions to heaven,” said the fierce Norman, “for we on
earth have no time to listen to them.—Ho! there, Anselm I see that
seething pitch and oil are ready to pour on the heads of these
audacious traitors—Look that the cross-bowmen lack not bolts. 33—Fling
abroad my banner with the old bull’s head—the knaves shall soon find
with whom they have to do this day!”
“But, noble sir,” continued the monk, persevering in his endeavours to
draw attention, “consider my vow of obedience, and let me discharge
myself of my Superior’s errand.”
“Away with this prating dotard,” said Front-de Bœuf, “lock him up in
the chapel, to tell his beads till the broil be over. It will be a new
thing to the saints in Torquilstone to hear aves and paters; they have
not been so honoured, I trow, since they were cut out of stone.”
“Blaspheme not the holy saints, Sir Reginald,” said De Bracy, “we shall
have need of their aid to-day before yon rascal rout disband.”
“I expect little aid from their hand,” said Front-de-Bœuf, “unless we
were to hurl them from the battlements on the heads of the villains.