Ivanhoe: A Romance
by the steel visor. The other two were averted by the gorget, and by
the shield which hung around his neck.
“Thanks, trusty armourers,” said the Knight.—“Wamba, let us close with
them,”—and he rode straight to the thicket. He was met by six or seven
men-at-arms, who ran against him with their lances at full career.
Three of the weapons struck against him, and splintered with as little
effect as if they had been driven against a tower of steel. The Black
Knight’s eyes seemed to flash fire even through the aperture of his
visor. He raised himself in his stirrups with an air of inexpressible
dignity, and exclaimed, “What means this, my masters!”—The men made no
other reply than by drawing their swords and attacking him on every
side, crying, “Die, tyrant!”
“Ha! Saint Edward! Ha! Saint George!” said the Black Knight, striking
down a man at every invocation; “have we traitors here?”
His opponents, desperate as they were, bore back from an arm which
carried death in every blow, and it seemed as if the terror of his
single strength was about to gain the battle against such odds, when a
knight, in blue armour, who had hitherto kept himself behind the other
assailants, spurred forward with his lance, and taking aim, not at the
rider but at the steed, wounded the noble animal mortally.
“That was a felon stroke!” exclaimed the Black Knight, as the steed
fell to the earth, bearing his rider along with him.
And at this moment, Wamba winded the bugle, for the whole had passed so
speedily, that he had not time to do so sooner. The sudden sound made
the murderers bear back once more, and Wamba, though so imperfectly
weaponed, did not hesitate to rush in and assist the Black Knight to
rise.
“Shame on ye, false cowards!” exclaimed he in the blue harness, who
seemed to lead the assailants, “do ye fly from the empty blast of a
horn blown by a Jester?”
Animated by his words, they attacked the Black Knight anew, whose best
refuge was now to place his back against an oak, and defend himself
with his sword. The felon knight, who had taken another spear, watching
the moment when his formidable antagonist was most closely pressed,
galloped against him in hopes to nail him with his lance against the
tree, when his purpose was again intercepted by Wamba. The Jester,
making up by agility the want of strength, and little noticed by the
men-at-arms, who were busied in their more important object, hovered on
the skirts of the fight, and effectually checked the fatal career of
the Blue Knight, by hamstringing his horse with a stroke of his sword.
Horse and man went to the ground; yet the situation of the Knight of
the Fetterlock continued very precarious, as he was pressed close by
several men completely armed, and began to be fatigued by the violent
exertions necessary to defend himself on so many points at nearly the
same moment, when a grey-goose shaft suddenly stretched on the earth
one of the most formidable of his assailants, and a band of yeomen
broke forth from the glade, headed by Locksley and the jovial Friar,
who, taking ready and effectual part in the fray, soon disposed of the
ruffians, all of whom lay on the spot dead or mortally wounded. The
Black Knight thanked his deliverers with a dignity they had not
observed in his former bearing, which hitherto had seemed rather that
of a blunt bold soldier, than of a person of exalted rank.
“It concerns me much,” he said, “even before I express my full
gratitude to my ready friends, to discover, if I may, who have been my
unprovoked enemies.—Open the visor of that Blue Knight, Wamba, who
seems the chief of these villains.”
The Jester instantly made up to the leader of the assassins, who,
bruised by his fall, and entangled under the wounded steed, lay
incapable either of flight or resistance.
“Come, valiant sir,” said Wamba, “I must be your armourer as well as
your equerry—I have dismounted you, and now I will unhelm you.”
So saying, with no very gentle hand he undid the helmet of the Blue
Knight, which, rolling to a distance on the grass, displayed to the
Knight of the Fetterlock grizzled locks, and a countenance he did not
expect to have seen under such circumstances.
“Waldemar Fitzurse!” he said in astonishment; “what could urge one of
thy rank and seeming worth to so foul an undertaking?”
“Richard,” said the captive Knight, looking up to him, “thou knowest
little of mankind, if thou knowest not to what ambition and revenge can
lead every child of Adam.”
“Revenge?” answered the Black Knight; “I never wronged thee—On me thou
hast nought to revenge.”
“My daughter, Richard, whose alliance thou didst scorn—was that no
injury to a Norman, whose blood is noble as thine own?”
“Thy daughter?” replied the Black Knight; “a proper cause of enmity,
and followed up to a bloody issue!—Stand back, my masters, I would
speak to him alone.—And now, Waldemar Fitzurse, say me the
truth—confess who set thee on this traitorous deed.”
“Thy father’s son,” answered Waldemar, “who, in so doing, did but
avenge on thee thy disobedience to thy father.”
Richard’s eyes sparkled with indignation, but his better nature
overcame it. He pressed his hand against his brow, and remained an
instant gazing on the face of the humbled baron, in whose features
pride was contending with shame.
“Thou dost not ask thy life, Waldemar,” said the King.
“He that is in the lion’s clutch,” answered Fitzurse, “knows it were
needless.”
“Take it, then, unasked,” said Richard; “the lion preys not on
prostrate carcasses.—Take thy life, but with this condition, that in
three days thou shalt leave England, and go to hide thine infamy in thy
Norman castle, and that thou wilt never mention the name of John of
Anjou as connected with thy felony. If thou art found on English ground
after the space I have allotted thee, thou diest—or if thou breathest
aught that can attaint the honour of my house, by Saint George! not the
altar itself shall be a sanctuary. I will hang thee out to feed the
ravens, from the very pinnacle of thine own castle.—Let this knight
have a steed, Locksley, for I see your yeomen have caught those which
were running loose, and let him depart unharmed.”
“But that I judge I listen to a voice whose behests must not be
disputed,” answered the yeoman, “I would send a shaft after the
skulking villain that should spare him the labour of a long journey.”
“Thou bearest an English heart, Locksley,” said the Black Knight, “and
well dost judge thou art the more bound to obey my behest—I am Richard
of England!”
At these words, pronounced in a tone of majesty suited to the high
rank, and no less distinguished character of Cœur-de-Lion, the yeomen
at once kneeled down before him, and at the same time tendered their
allegiance, and implored pardon for their offences.
“Rise, my friends,” said Richard, in a gracious tone, looking on them
with a countenance in which his habitual good-humour had already
conquered the blaze of hasty resentment, and whose features retained no
mark of the late desperate conflict, excepting the flush arising from
exertion,—“Arise,” he said, “my friends!—Your misdemeanours, whether in
forest or field, have been atoned by the loyal services you rendered my
distressed subjects before the walls of Torquilstone, and the rescue
you have this day afforded to your sovereign. Arise, my liegemen, and
be good subjects in future.—And thou, brave Locksley—”
“Call me no longer Locksley, my Liege, but know me under the name,
which, I fear, fame hath blown too widely not to have reached even your
royal ears—I am Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest.” 561
“King of Outlaws, and Prince of good fellows!” said the King, “who hath
not heard a name that has been borne as far as Palestine? But be
assured, brave Outlaw, that no deed done in our absence, and in the
turbulent times to which it hath given rise, shall be remembered to thy
disadvantage.”
“True says the proverb,” said Wamba, interposing his word, but with
some abatement of his usual petulance,—
“‘When the cat is away,
The mice will play.’”
“What, Wamba, art thou there?” said Richard; “I have been so long of
hearing thy voice, I thought thou hadst taken flight.”
“I take flight!” said Wamba; “when do you ever find Folly separated
from Valour? There lies the trophy of my sword, that good grey gelding,
whom I heartily wish upon his legs again, conditioning his master lay
there houghed in his place. It is true, I gave a little ground at
first, for a motley jacket does not brook lance-heads, as a steel
doublet will. But if I fought not at sword’s point, you will grant me
that I sounded the onset.”
“And to good purpose, honest Wamba,” replied the King. “Thy good
service shall not be forgotten.”
“‘Confiteor! Confiteor!’”—exclaimed, in a submissive tone, a voice near
the King’s side—“my Latin will carry me no farther—but I confess my
deadly treason, and pray leave to have absolution before I am led to
execution!”
Richard looked around, and beheld the jovial Friar on his knees,
telling his rosary, while his quarter-staff, which had not been idle
during the skirmish, lay on the grass beside him. His countenance was
gathered so as he thought might best express the most profound
contrition, his eyes being turned up, and the corners of his mouth
drawn down, as Wamba expressed it, like the tassels at the mouth of a
purse. Yet this demure affectation of extreme penitence was whimsically
belied by a ludicrous meaning which lurked in his huge features, and
seemed to pronounce his fear and repentance alike hypocritical.
“For what art thou cast down, mad Priest?” said Richard; “art thou
afraid thy diocesan should learn how truly thou dost serve Our Lady and
Saint Dunstan?—Tush, man! fear it not; Richard of England betrays no
secrets that pass over the flagon.”
“Nay, most gracious sovereign,” answered the Hermit, (well known to the
curious in penny-histories of Robin Hood, by the name of Friar Tuck,)
“it is not the crosier I fear, but the sceptre.—Alas! that my
sacrilegious fist should ever have been applied to the ear of the
Lord’s anointed!”
“Ha! ha!” said Richard, “sits the wind there?—In truth I had forgotten
the buffet, though mine ear sung after it for a whole day. But if the
cuff was fairly given, I will be judged by the good men around, if it
was not as well repaid—or, if thou thinkest I still owe thee aught, and
will stand forth for another counterbuff—”
“By no means,” replied Friar Tuck, “I had mine own returned, and with
usury—may your Majesty ever pay your debts as fully!”
“If I could do so with cuffs,” said the King, “my creditors should have
little reason to complain of an empty exchequer.”
“And yet,” said the Friar, resuming his demure hypocritical
countenance, “I know not what penance I ought to perform for that most
sacrilegious blow!—-”
“Speak no more of it, brother,” said the King; “after having stood so
many cuffs from Paynims and misbelievers, I were void of reason to
quarrel with the buffet of a clerk so holy as he of Copmanhurst. Yet,
mine honest Friar, I think it would be best both for the church and
thyself, that I should procure a license to unfrock thee, and retain
thee as a yeoman of our guard, serving in care of our person, as
formerly in attendance upon the altar of Saint Dunstan.”
“My Liege,” said the Friar, “I humbly crave your pardon; and you would
readily grant my excuse, did you but know how the sin of laziness has
beset me. Saint Dunstan—may he be gracious to us!—stands quiet in his
niche, though I should forget my orisons in killing a fat buck—I stay
out of my cell sometimes a night, doing I wot not what—Saint Dunstan
never complains—a quiet master he is, and a peaceful, as ever was made
of wood.—But to be a yeoman in attendance on my sovereign the King—the