Ivanhoe: A Romance
honour is great, doubtless—yet, if I were but to step aside to comfort
a widow in one corner, or to kill a deer in another, it would be,
‘where is the dog Priest?’ says one. ‘Who has seen the accursed Tuck?’
says another. ‘The unfrocked villain destroys more venison than half
the country besides,’ says one keeper; ‘And is hunting after every shy
doe in the country!’ quoth a second.—In fine, good my Liege, I pray you
to leave me as you found me; or, if in aught you desire to extend your
benevolence to me, that I may be considered as the poor Clerk of Saint
Dunstan’s cell in Copmanhurst, to whom any small donation will be most
thankfully acceptable.”
“I understand thee,” said the King, “and the Holy Clerk shall have a
grant of vert and venison in my woods of Warncliffe. Mark, however, I
will but assign thee three bucks every season; but if that do not prove
an apology for thy slaying thirty, I am no Christian knight nor true
king.”
“Your Grace may be well assured,” said the Friar, “that, with the grace
of Saint Dunstan, I shall find the way of multiplying your most
bounteous gift.”
“I nothing doubt it, good brother,” said the King; “and as venison is
but dry food, our cellarer shall have orders to deliver to thee a butt
of sack, a runlet of Malvoisie, and three hogsheads of ale of the first
strike, yearly—If that will not quench thy thirst, thou must come to
court, and become acquainted with my butler.”
“But for Saint Dunstan?” said the Friar—
“A cope, a stole, and an altar-cloth shalt thou also have,” continued
the King, crossing himself—“But we may not turn our game into earnest,
lest God punish us for thinking more on our follies than on his honour
and worship.”
“I will answer for my patron,” said the Priest, joyously.
“Answer for thyself, Friar,” said King Richard, something sternly; but
immediately stretching out his hand to the Hermit, the latter, somewhat
abashed, bent his knee, and saluted it. “Thou dost less honour to my
extended palm than to my clenched fist,” said the Monarch; “thou didst
only kneel to the one, and to the other didst prostrate thyself.”
But the Friar, afraid perhaps of again giving offence by continuing the
conversation in too jocose a style—a false step to be particularly
guarded against by those who converse with monarchs—bowed profoundly,
and fell into the rear.
At the same time, two additional personages appeared on the scene.
CHAPTER XLI
All hail to the lordlings of high degree,
Who live not more happy, though greater than we!
Our pastimes to see,
Under every green tree,
In all the gay woodland, right welcome ye be.
MACDONALD
The new comers were Wilfred of Ivanhoe, on the Prior of Botolph’s
palfrey, and Gurth, who attended him, on the Knight’s own war-horse.
The astonishment of Ivanhoe was beyond bounds, when he saw his master
besprinkled with blood, and six or seven dead bodies lying around in
the little glade in which the battle had taken place. Nor was he less
surprised to see Richard surrounded by so many silvan attendants, the
outlaws, as they seemed to be, of the forest, and a perilous retinue
therefore for a prince. He hesitated whether to address the King as the
Black Knight-errant, or in what other manner to demean himself towards
him. Richard saw his embarrassment.
“Fear not, Wilfred,” he said, “to address Richard Plantagenet as
himself, since thou seest him in the company of true English hearts,
although it may be they have been urged a few steps aside by warm
English blood.”
“Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe,” said the gallant Outlaw, stepping forward,
“my assurances can add nothing to those of our sovereign; yet, let me
say somewhat proudly, that of men who have suffered much, he hath not
truer subjects than those who now stand around him.”
“I cannot doubt it, brave man,” said Wilfred, “since thou art of the
number—But what mean these marks of death and danger? these slain men,
and the bloody armour of my Prince?”
“Treason hath been with us, Ivanhoe,” said the King; “but, thanks to
these brave men, treason hath met its meed—But, now I bethink me, thou
too art a traitor,” said Richard, smiling; “a most disobedient traitor;
for were not our orders positive, that thou shouldst repose thyself at
Saint Botolph’s until thy wound was healed?”
“It is healed,” said Ivanhoe; “it is not of more consequence than the
scratch of a bodkin. But why, oh why, noble Prince, will you thus vex
the hearts of your faithful servants, and expose your life by lonely
journeys and rash adventures, as if it were of no more value than that
of a mere knight-errant, who has no interest on earth but what lance
and sword may procure him?”
“And Richard Plantagenet,” said the King, “desires no more fame than
his good lance and sword may acquire him—and Richard Plantagenet is
prouder of achieving an adventure, with only his good sword, and his
good arm to speed, than if he led to battle a host of an hundred
thousand armed men.”
“But your kingdom, my Liege,” said Ivanhoe, “your kingdom is threatened
with dissolution and civil war—your subjects menaced with every species
of evil, if deprived of their sovereign in some of those dangers which
it is your daily pleasure to incur, and from which you have but this
moment narrowly escaped.”
“Ho! ho! my kingdom and my subjects?” answered Richard, impatiently; “I
tell thee, Sir Wilfred, the best of them are most willing to repay my
follies in kind—For example, my very faithful servant, Wilfred of
Ivanhoe, will not obey my positive commands, and yet reads his king a
homily, because he does not walk exactly by his advice. Which of us has
most reason to upbraid the other?—Yet forgive me, my faithful Wilfred.
The time I have spent, and am yet to spend in concealment, is, as I
explained to thee at Saint Botolph’s, necessary to give my friends and
faithful nobles time to assemble their forces, that when Richard’s
return is announced, he should be at the head of such a force as
enemies shall tremble to face, and thus subdue the meditated treason,
without even unsheathing a sword. Estoteville and Bohun will not be
strong enough to move forward to York for twenty-four hours. I must
have news of Salisbury from the south; and of Beauchamp, in
Warwickshire; and of Multon and Percy in the north. The Chancellor must
make sure of London. Too sudden an appearance would subject me to
dangers, other than my lance and sword, though backed by the bow of
bold Robin, or the quarter-staff of Friar Tuck, and the horn of the
sage Wamba, may be able to rescue me from.”
Wilfred bowed in submission, well knowing how vain it was to contend
with the wild spirit of chivalry which so often impelled his master
upon dangers which he might easily have avoided, or rather, which it
was unpardonable in him to have sought out. The young knight sighed,
therefore, and held his peace; while Richard, rejoiced at having
silenced his counsellor, though his heart acknowledged the justice of
the charge he had brought against him, went on in conversation with
Robin Hood.—“King of Outlaws,” he said, “have you no refreshment to
offer to your brother sovereign? for these dead knaves have found me
both in exercise and appetite.”
“In troth,” replied the Outlaw, “for I scorn to lie to your Grace, our
larder is chiefly supplied with—” He stopped, and was somewhat
embarrassed.
“With venison, I suppose?” said Richard, gaily; “better food at need
there can be none—and truly, if a king will not remain at home and slay
his own game, methinks he should not brawl too loud if he finds it
killed to his hand.”
“If your Grace, then,” said Robin, “will again honour with your
presence one of Robin Hood’s places of rendezvous, the venison shall
not be lacking; and a stoup of ale, and it may be a cup of reasonably
good wine, to relish it withal.”
The Outlaw accordingly led the way, followed by the buxom Monarch, more
happy, probably, in this chance meeting with Robin Hood and his
foresters, than he would have been in again assuming his royal state,
and presiding over a splendid circle of peers and nobles. Novelty in
society and adventure were the zest of life to Richard Cœur-de-Lion,
and it had its highest relish when enhanced by dangers encountered and
surmounted. In the lion-hearted King, the brilliant, but useless
character, of a knight of romance, was in a great measure realized and
revived; and the personal glory which he acquired by his own deeds of
arms, was far more dear to his excited imagination, than that which a
course of policy and wisdom would have spread around his government.
Accordingly, his reign was like the course of a brilliant and rapid
meteor, which shoots along the face of Heaven, shedding around an
unnecessary and portentous light, which is instantly swallowed up by
universal darkness; his feats of chivalry furnishing themes for bards
and minstrels, but affording none of those solid benefits to his
country on which history loves to pause, and hold up as an example to
posterity. But in his present company Richard showed to the greatest
imaginable advantage. He was gay, good-humoured, and fond of manhood in
every rank of life.
Beneath a huge oak-tree the silvan repast was hastily prepared for the
King of England, surrounded by men outlaws to his government, but who
now formed his court and his guard. As the flagon went round, the rough
foresters soon lost their awe for the presence of Majesty. The song and
the jest were exchanged—the stories of former deeds were told with
advantage; and at length, and while boasting of their successful
infraction of the laws, no one recollected they were speaking in
presence of their natural guardian. The merry King, nothing heeding his
dignity any more than his company, laughed, quaffed, and jested among
the jolly band. The natural and rough sense of Robin Hood led him to be
desirous that the scene should be closed ere any thing should occur to
disturb its harmony, the more especially that he observed Ivanhoe’s
brow clouded with anxiety. “We are honoured,” he said to Ivanhoe,
apart, “by the presence of our gallant Sovereign; yet I would not that
he dallied with time, which the circumstances of his kingdom may render
precious.”
“It is well and wisely spoken, brave Robin Hood,” said Wilfred, apart;
“and know, moreover, that they who jest with Majesty even in its gayest
mood are but toying with the lion’s whelp, which, on slight
provocation, uses both fangs and claws.”
“You have touched the very cause of my fear,” said the Outlaw; “my men
are rough by practice and nature, the King is hasty as well as
good-humoured; nor know I how soon cause of offence may arise, or how
warmly it may be received—it is time this revel were broken off.”
“It must be by your management then, gallant yeoman,” said Ivanhoe;
“for each hint I have essayed to give him serves only to induce him to
prolong it.”
“Must I so soon risk the pardon and favour of my Sovereign?” said Robin
Hood, pausing for all instant; “but by Saint Christopher, it shall be
so. I were undeserving his grace did I not peril it for his good.—Here,
Scathlock, get thee behind yonder thicket, and wind me a Norman blast
on thy bugle, and without an instant’s delay on peril of your life.”
Scathlock obeyed his captain, and in less than five minutes the
revellers were startled by the sound of his horn.
“It is the bugle of Malvoisin,” said the Miller, starting to his feet,
and seizing his bow. The Friar dropped the flagon, and grasped his
quarter-staff. Wamba stopt short in the midst of a jest, and betook
himself to sword and target. All the others stood to their weapons.
Men of their precarious course of life change readily from the banquet
to the battle; and, to Richard, the exchange seemed but a succession of