Ivanhoe: A Romance
and soon flashed in the waters, extending its length between the castle
and outwork, and forming a slippery and precarious passage for two men
abreast to cross the moat. Well aware of the importance of taking the
foe by surprise, the Black Knight, closely followed by Cedric, threw
himself upon the bridge, and reached the opposite side. Here he began
to thunder with his axe upon the gate of the castle, protected in part
from the shot and stones cast by the defenders by the ruins of the
former drawbridge, which the Templar had demolished in his retreat from
the barbican, leaving the counterpoise still attached to the upper part
of the portal. The followers of the knight had no such shelter; two
were instantly shot with cross-bow bolts, and two more fell into the
moat; the others retreated back into the barbican.
The situation of Cedric and of the Black Knight was now truly
dangerous, and would have been still more so, but for the constancy of
the archers in the barbican, who ceased not to shower their arrows upon
the battlements, distracting the attention of those by whom they were
manned, and thus affording a respite to their two chiefs from the storm
of missiles which must otherwise have overwhelmed them. But their
situation was eminently perilous, and was becoming more so with every
moment.
“Shame on ye all!” cried De Bracy to the soldiers around him; “do ye
call yourselves cross-bowmen, and let these two dogs keep their station
under the walls of the castle?—Heave over the coping stones from the
battlements, an better may not be—Get pick-axe and levers, and down
with that huge pinnacle!” pointing to a heavy piece of stone
carved-work that projected from the parapet.
At this moment the besiegers caught sight of the red flag upon the
angle of the tower which Ulrica had described to Cedric. The stout
yeoman Locksley was the first who was aware of it, as he was hasting to
the outwork, impatient to see the progress of the assault.
“Saint George!” he cried, “Merry Saint George for England!—To the
charge, bold yeomen!—why leave ye the good knight and noble Cedric to
storm the pass alone?—make in, mad priest, show thou canst fight for
thy rosary,—make in, brave yeomen!—the castle is ours, we have friends
within—See yonder flag, it is the appointed signal—Torquilstone is
ours!—Think of honour, think of spoil—One effort, and the place is
ours!”
With that he bent his good bow, and sent a shaft right through the
breast of one of the men-at-arms, who, under De Bracy’s direction, was
loosening a fragment from one of the battlements to precipitate on the
heads of Cedric and the Black Knight. A second soldier caught from the
hands of the dying man the iron crow, with which he heaved at and had
loosened the stone pinnacle, when, receiving an arrow through his
head-piece, he dropped from the battlements into the moat a dead man.
The men-at-arms were daunted, for no armour seemed proof against the
shot of this tremendous archer.
“Do you give ground, base knaves!” said De Bracy; “‘Mount joye Saint
Dennis!’—Give me the lever!”
And, snatching it up, he again assailed the loosened pinnacle, which
was of weight enough, if thrown down, not only to have destroyed the
remnant of the drawbridge, which sheltered the two foremost assailants,
but also to have sunk the rude float of planks over which they had
crossed. All saw the danger, and the boldest, even the stout Friar
himself, avoided setting foot on the raft. Thrice did Locksley bend his
shaft against De Bracy, and thrice did his arrow bound back from the
knight’s armour of proof.
“Curse on thy Spanish steel-coat!” said Locksley, “had English smith
forged it, these arrows had gone through, an as if it had been silk or
sendal.” He then began to call out, “Comrades! friends! noble Cedric!
bear back, and let the ruin fall.”
His warning voice was unheard, for the din which the knight himself
occasioned by his strokes upon the postern would have drowned twenty
war-trumpets. The faithful Gurth indeed sprung forward on the planked
bridge, to warn Cedric of his impending fate, or to share it with him.
But his warning would have come too late; the massive pinnacle already
tottered, and De Bracy, who still heaved at his task, would have
accomplished it, had not the voice of the Templar sounded close in his
ears:—
“All is lost, De Bracy, the castle burns.”
“Thou art mad to say so!” replied the knight.
“It is all in a light flame on the western side. I have striven in vain
to extinguish it.”
With the stern coolness which formed the basis of his character, Brian
de Bois-Guilbert communicated this hideous intelligence, which was not
so calmly received by his astonished comrade.
“Saints of Paradise!” said De Bracy; “what is to be done? I vow to
Saint Nicholas of Limoges a candlestick of pure gold—”
“Spare thy vow,” said the Templar, “and mark me. Lead thy men down, as
if to a sally; throw the postern-gate open—There are but two men who
occupy the float, fling them into the moat, and push across for the
barbican. I will charge from the main gate, and attack the barbican on
the outside; and if we can regain that post, be assured we shall defend
ourselves until we are relieved, or at least till they grant us fair
quarter.”
“It is well thought upon,” said De Bracy; “I will play my part—Templar,
thou wilt not fail me?”
“Hand and glove, I will not!” said Bois-Guilbert. “But haste thee, in
the name of God!”
De Bracy hastily drew his men together, and rushed down to the
postern-gate, which he caused instantly to be thrown open. But scarce
was this done ere the portentous strength of the Black Knight forced
his way inward in despite of De Bracy and his followers. Two of the
foremost instantly fell, and the rest gave way notwithstanding all
their leader’s efforts to stop them.
“Dogs!” said De Bracy, “will ye let TWO men win our only pass for
safety?”
“He is the devil!” said a veteran man-at-arms, bearing back from the
blows of their sable antagonist.
“And if he be the devil,” replied De Bracy, “would you fly from him
into the mouth of hell?—the castle burns behind us, villains!—let
despair give you courage, or let me forward! I will cope with this
champion myself.”
And well and chivalrous did De Bracy that day maintain the fame he had
acquired in the civil wars of that dreadful period. The vaulted passage
to which the postern gave entrance, and in which these two redoubted
champions were now fighting hand to hand, rung with the furious blows
which they dealt each other, De Bracy with his sword, the Black Knight
with his ponderous axe. At length the Norman received a blow, which,
though its force was partly parried by his shield, for otherwise never
more would De Bracy have again moved limb, descended yet with such
violence on his crest, that he measured his length on the paved floor.
“Yield thee, De Bracy,” said the Black Champion, stooping over him, and
holding against the bars of his helmet the fatal poniard with which the
knights dispatched their enemies, (and which was called the dagger of
mercy,)—“yield thee, Maurice de Bracy, rescue or no rescue, or thou art
but a dead man.”
“I will not yield,” replied De Bracy faintly, “to an unknown conqueror.
Tell me thy name, or work thy pleasure on me—it shall never be said
that Maurice de Bracy was prisoner to a nameless churl.”
The Black Knight whispered something into the ear of the vanquished.
“I yield me to be true prisoner, rescue or no rescue,” answered the
Norman, exchanging his tone of stern and determined obstinacy for one
of deep though sullen submission.
“Go to the barbican,” said the victor, in a tone of authority, “and
there wait my further orders.”
“Yet first, let me say,” said De Bracy, “what it imports thee to know.
Wilfred of Ivanhoe is wounded and a prisoner, and will perish in the
burning castle without present help.”
“Wilfred of Ivanhoe!” exclaimed the Black Knight—“prisoner, and
perish!—The life of every man in the castle shall answer it if a hair
of his head be singed—Show me his chamber!”
“Ascend yonder winding stair,” said De Bracy; “it leads to his
apartment—Wilt thou not accept my guidance?” he added, in a submissive
voice.
“No. To the barbican, and there wait my orders. I trust thee not, De
Bracy.”
During this combat and the brief conversation which ensued, Cedric, at
the head of a body of men, among whom the Friar was conspicuous, had
pushed across the bridge as soon as they saw the postern open, and
drove back the dispirited and despairing followers of De Bracy, of whom
some asked quarter, some offered vain resistance, and the greater part
fled towards the court-yard. De Bracy himself arose from the ground,
and cast a sorrowful glance after his conqueror. “He trusts me not!” he
repeated; “but have I deserved his trust?” He then lifted his sword
from the floor, took off his helmet in token of submission, and, going
to the barbican, gave up his sword to Locksley, whom he met by the way.
As the fire augmented, symptoms of it became soon apparent in the
chamber, where Ivanhoe was watched and tended by the Jewess Rebecca. He
had been awakened from his brief slumber by the noise of the battle;
and his attendant, who had, at his anxious desire, again placed herself
at the window to watch and report to him the fate of the attack, was
for some time prevented from observing either, by the increase of the
smouldering and stifling vapour. At length the volumes of smoke which
rolled into the apartment—the cries for water, which were heard even
above the din of the battle made them sensible of the progress of this
new danger.
“The castle burns,” said Rebecca; “it burns!—What can we do to save
ourselves?”
“Fly, Rebecca, and save thine own life,” said Ivanhoe, “for no human
aid can avail me.”
“I will not fly,” answered Rebecca; “we will be saved or perish
together—And yet, great God!—my father, my father—what will be his
fate!”
At this moment the door of the apartment flew open, and the Templar
presented himself,—a ghastly figure, for his gilded armour was broken
and bloody, and the plume was partly shorn away, partly burnt from his
casque. “I have found thee,” said he to Rebecca; “thou shalt prove I
will keep my word to share weal and woe with thee—There is but one path
to safety, I have cut my way through fifty dangers to point it to
thee—up, and instantly follow me!” 38
“Alone,” answered Rebecca, “I will not follow thee. If thou wert born
of woman—if thou hast but a touch of human charity in thee—if thy heart
be not hard as thy breastplate—save my aged father—save this wounded
knight!”
“A knight,” answered the Templar, with his characteristic calmness, “a
knight, Rebecca, must encounter his fate, whether it meet him in the
shape of sword or flame—and who recks how or where a Jew meets with
his?”
“Savage warrior,” said Rebecca, “rather will I perish in the flames
than accept safety from thee!”
“Thou shalt not choose, Rebecca—once didst thou foil me, but never
mortal did so twice.”
So saying, he seized on the terrified maiden, who filled the air with
her shrieks, and bore her out of the room in his arms in spite of her
cries, and without regarding the menaces and defiance which Ivanhoe
thundered against him. “Hound of the Temple—stain to thine Order—set
free the damsel! Traitor of Bois-Guilbert, it is Ivanhoe commands
thee!—Villain, I will have thy heart’s blood!”
“I had not found thee, Wilfred,” said the Black Knight, who at that
instant entered the apartment, “but for thy shouts.”
“If thou be’st true knight,” said Wilfred, “think not of me—pursue yon
ravisher—save the Lady Rowena—look to the noble Cedric!”
“In their turn,” answered he of the Fetterlock, “but thine is first.”