Ivanhoe: A Romance
And seizing upon Ivanhoe, he bore him off with as much ease as the
Templar had carried off Rebecca, rushed with him to the postern, and
having there delivered his burden to the care of two yeomen, he again
entered the castle to assist in the rescue of the other prisoners.
One turret was now in bright flames, which flashed out furiously from
window and shot-hole. But in other parts, the great thickness of the
walls and the vaulted roofs of the apartments, resisted the progress of
the flames, and there the rage of man still triumphed, as the scarce
more dreadful element held mastery elsewhere; for the besiegers pursued
the defenders of the castle from chamber to chamber, and satiated in
their blood the vengeance which had long animated them against the
soldiers of the tyrant Front-de-Bœuf. Most of the garrison resisted to
the uttermost—few of them asked quarter—none received it. The air was
filled with groans and clashing of arms—the floors were slippery with
the blood of despairing and expiring wretches.
Through this scene of confusion, Cedric rushed in quest of Rowena,
while the faithful Gurth, following him closely through the “melee”,
neglected his own safety while he strove to avert the blows that were
aimed at his master. The noble Saxon was so fortunate as to reach his
ward’s apartment just as she had abandoned all hope of safety, and,
with a crucifix clasped in agony to her bosom, sat in expectation of
instant death. He committed her to the charge of Gurth, to be conducted
in safety to the barbican, the road to which was now cleared of the
enemy, and not yet interrupted by the flames. This accomplished, the
loyal Cedric hastened in quest of his friend Athelstane, determined, at
every risk to himself, to save that last scion of Saxon royalty. But
ere Cedric penetrated as far as the old hall in which he had himself
been a prisoner, the inventive genius of Wamba had procured liberation
for himself and his companion in adversity.
When the noise of the conflict announced that it was at the hottest,
the Jester began to shout, with the utmost power of his lungs, “Saint
George and the dragon!—Bonny Saint George for merry England!—The castle
is won!” And these sounds he rendered yet more fearful, by banging
against each other two or three pieces of rusty armour which lay
scattered around the hall.
A guard, which had been stationed in the outer, or anteroom, and whose
spirits were already in a state of alarm, took fright at Wamba’s
clamour, and, leaving the door open behind them, ran to tell the
Templar that foemen had entered the old hall. Meantime the prisoners
found no difficulty in making their escape into the anteroom, and from
thence into the court of the castle, which was now the last scene of
contest. Here sat the fierce Templar, mounted on horseback, surrounded
by several of the garrison both on horse and foot, who had united their
strength to that of this renowned leader, in order to secure the last
chance of safety and retreat which remained to them. The drawbridge had
been lowered by his orders, but the passage was beset; for the archers,
who had hitherto only annoyed the castle on that side by their
missiles, no sooner saw the flames breaking out, and the bridge
lowered, than they thronged to the entrance, as well to prevent the
escape of the garrison, as to secure their own share of booty ere the
castle should be burnt down. On the other hand, a party of the
besiegers who had entered by the postern were now issuing out into the
court-yard, and attacking with fury the remnant of the defenders who
were thus assaulted on both sides at once.
Animated, however, by despair, and supported by the example of their
indomitable leader, the remaining soldiers of the castle fought with
the utmost valour; and, being well-armed, succeeded more than once in
driving back the assailants, though much inferior in numbers. Rebecca,
placed on horseback before one of the Templar’s Saracen slaves, was in
the midst of the little party; and Bois-Guilbert, notwithstanding the
confusion of the bloody fray, showed every attention to her safety.
Repeatedly he was by her side, and, neglecting his own defence, held
before her the fence of his triangular steel-plated shield; and anon
starting from his position by her, he cried his war-cry, dashed
forward, struck to earth the most forward of the assailants, and was on
the same instant once more at her bridle rein.
Athelstane, who, as the reader knows, was slothful, but not cowardly,
beheld the female form whom the Templar protected thus sedulously, and
doubted not that it was Rowena whom the knight was carrying off, in
despite of all resistance which could be offered.
“By the soul of Saint Edward,” he said, “I will rescue her from yonder
over-proud knight, and he shall die by my hand!”
“Think what you do!” cried Wamba; “hasty hand catches frog for fish—by
my bauble, yonder is none of my Lady Rowena—see but her long dark
locks!—Nay, an ye will not know black from white, ye may be leader, but
I will be no follower—no bones of mine shall be broken unless I know
for whom.—And you without armour too!—Bethink you, silk bonnet never
kept out steel blade.—Nay, then, if wilful will to water, wilful must
drench.—‘Deus vobiscum’, most doughty Athelstane!”—he concluded,
loosening the hold which he had hitherto kept upon the Saxon’s tunic.
To snatch a mace from the pavement, on which it lay beside one whose
dying grasp had just relinquished it—to rush on the Templar’s band, and
to strike in quick succession to the right and left, levelling a
warrior at each blow, was, for Athelstane’s great strength, now
animated with unusual fury, but the work of a single moment; he was
soon within two yards of Bois-Guilbert, whom he defied in his loudest
tone.
“Turn, false-hearted Templar! let go her whom thou art unworthy to
touch—turn, limb of a hand of murdering and hypocritical robbers!”
“Dog!” said the Templar, grinding his teeth, “I will teach thee to
blaspheme the holy Order of the Temple of Zion;” and with these words,
half-wheeling his steed, he made a demi-courbette towards the Saxon,
and rising in the stirrups, so as to take full advantage of the descent
of the horse, he discharged a fearful blow upon the head of Athelstane.
Well said Wamba, that silken bonnet keeps out no steel blade. So
trenchant was the Templar’s weapon, that it shore asunder, as it had
been a willow twig, the tough and plaited handle of the mace, which the
ill-fated Saxon reared to parry the blow, and, descending on his head,
levelled him with the earth.
“‘Ha! Beau-seant!’” exclaimed Bois-Guilbert, “thus be it to the
maligners of the Temple-knights!” Taking advantage of the dismay which
was spread by the fall of Athelstane, and calling aloud, “Those who
would save themselves, follow me!” he pushed across the drawbridge,
dispersing the archers who would have intercepted them. He was followed
by his Saracens, and some five or six men-at-arms, who had mounted
their horses. The Templar’s retreat was rendered perilous by the
numbers of arrows shot off at him and his party; but this did not
prevent him from galloping round to the barbican, of which, according
to his previous plan, he supposed it possible De Bracy might have been
in possession.
“De Bracy! De Bracy!” he shouted, “art thou there?”
“I am here,” replied De Bracy, “but I am a prisoner.”
“Can I rescue thee?” cried Bois-Guilbert.
“No,” replied De Bracy; “I have rendered me, rescue or no rescue. I
will be true prisoner. Save thyself—there are hawks abroad—put the seas
betwixt you and England—I dare not say more.”
“Well,” answered the Templar, “an thou wilt tarry there, remember I
have redeemed word and glove. Be the hawks where they will, methinks
the walls of the Preceptory of Templestowe will be cover sufficient,
and thither will I, like heron to her haunt.”
Having thus spoken, he galloped off with his followers.
Those of the castle who had not gotten to horse, still continued to
fight desperately with the besiegers, after the departure of the
Templar, but rather in despair of quarter than that they entertained
any hope of escape. The fire was spreading rapidly through all parts of
the castle, when Ulrica, who had first kindled it, appeared on a
turret, in the guise of one of the ancient furies, yelling forth a
war-song, such as was of yore raised on the field of battle by the
scalds of the yet heathen Saxons. Her long dishevelled grey hair flew
back from her uncovered head; the inebriating delight of gratified
vengeance contended in her eyes with the fire of insanity; and she
brandished the distaff which she held in her hand, as if she had been
one of the Fatal Sisters, who spin and abridge the thread of human
life. Tradition has preserved some wild strophes of the barbarous hymn
which she chanted wildly amid that scene of fire and of slaughter:—
1.
Whet the bright steel,
Sons of the White Dragon!
Kindle the torch,
Daughter of Hengist!
The steel glimmers not for the carving of the banquet,
It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed;
The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber,
It steams and glitters blue with sulphur.
Whet the steel, the raven croaks!
Light the torch, Zernebock is yelling!
Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon!
Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist!
2.
The black cloud is low over the thane’s castle
The eagle screams—he rides on its bosom.
Scream not, grey rider of the sable cloud,
Thy banquet is prepared!
The maidens of Valhalla look forth,
The race of Hengist will send them guests.
Shake your black tresses, maidens of Valhalla!
And strike your loud timbrels for joy!
Many a haughty step bends to your halls,
Many a helmed head.
3.
Dark sits the evening upon the thanes castle,
The black clouds gather round;
Soon shall they be red as the blood of the valiant!
The destroyer of forests shall shake his red crest against
them.
He, the bright consumer of palaces,
Broad waves he his blazing banner,
Red, wide and dusky,
Over the strife of the valiant:
His joy is in the clashing swords and broken bucklers;
He loves to lick the hissing blood as it bursts warm from the
wound!
4.
All must perish!
The sword cleaveth the helmet;
The strong armour is pierced by the lance;
Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes,
Engines break down the fences of the battle.
All must perish!
The race of Hengist is gone—
The name of Horsa is no more!
Shrink not then from your doom, sons of the sword!
Let your blades drink blood like wine;
Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter,
By the light of the blazing halls!
Strong be your swords while your blood is warm,
And spare neither for pity nor fear,
For vengeance hath but an hour;
Strong hate itself shall expire
I also must perish! 39
The towering flames had now surmounted every obstruction, and rose to
the evening skies one huge and burning beacon, seen far and wide
through the adjacent country. Tower after tower crashed down, with
blazing roof and rafter; and the combatants were driven from the
court-yard. The vanquished, of whom very few remained, scattered and
escaped into the neighbouring wood. The victors, assembling in large
bands, gazed with wonder, not unmixed with fear, upon the flames, in
which their own ranks and arms glanced dusky red. The maniac figure of
the Saxon Ulrica was for a long time visible on the lofty stand she had
chosen, tossing her arms abroad with wild exultation, as if she reined
empress of the conflagration which she had raised. At length, with a
terrific crash, the whole turret gave way, and she perished in the
flames which had consumed her tyrant. An awful pause of horror silenced
each murmur of the armed spectators, who, for the space of several
minutes, stirred not a finger, save to sign the cross. The voice of