Ivanhoe: A Romance
apartments in the tower which consist in all of four stories, is given
by stairs which are carried up through the external buttresses.
By this difficult and complicated entrance, the good King Richard,
followed by his faithful Ivanhoe, was ushered into the round apartment
which occupies the whole of the third story from the ground. Wilfred,
by the difficulties of the ascent, gained time to muffle his face in
his mantle, as it had been held expedient that he should not present
himself to his father until the King should give him the signal.
There were assembled in this apartment, around a large oaken table,
about a dozen of the most distinguished representatives of the Saxon
families in the adjacent counties. They were all old, or, at least,
elderly men; for the younger race, to the great displeasure of the
seniors, had, like Ivanhoe, broken down many of the barriers which
separated for half a century the Norman victors from the vanquished
Saxons. The downcast and sorrowful looks of these venerable men, their
silence and their mournful posture, formed a strong contrast to the
levity of the revellers on the outside of the castle. Their grey locks
and long full beards, together with their antique tunics and loose
black mantles, suited well with the singular and rude apartment in
which they were seated, and gave the appearance of a band of ancient
worshippers of Woden, recalled to life to mourn over the decay of their
national glory.
Cedric, seated in equal rank among his countrymen, seemed yet, by
common consent, to act as chief of the assembly. Upon the entrance of
Richard (only known to him as the valorous Knight of the Fetterlock) he
arose gravely, and gave him welcome by the ordinary salutation, “Waes
hael”, raising at the same time a goblet to his head. The King, no
stranger to the customs of his English subjects, returned the greeting
with the appropriate words, “Drinc hael”, and partook of a cup which
was handed to him by the sewer. The same courtesy was offered to
Ivanhoe, who pledged his father in silence, supplying the usual speech
by an inclination of his head, lest his voice should have been
recognised.
When this introductory ceremony was performed, Cedric arose, and,
extending his hand to Richard, conducted him into a small and very rude
chapel, which was excavated, as it were, out of one of the external
buttresses. As there was no opening, saving a little narrow loop-hole,
the place would have been nearly quite dark but for two flambeaux or
torches, which showed, by a red and smoky light, the arched roof and
naked walls, the rude altar of stone, and the crucifix of the same
material.
Before this altar was placed a bier, and on each side of this bier
kneeled three priests, who told their beads, and muttered their
prayers, with the greatest signs of external devotion. For this service
a splendid “soul-scat” was paid to the convent of Saint Edmund’s by the
mother of the deceased; and, that it might be fully deserved, the whole
brethren, saving the lame Sacristan, had transferred themselves to
Coningsburgh, where, while six of their number were constantly on guard
in the performance of divine rites by the bier of Athelstane, the
others failed not to take their share of the refreshments and
amusements which went on at the castle. In maintaining this pious watch
and ward, the good monks were particularly careful not to interrupt
their hymns for an instant, lest Zernebock, the ancient Saxon Apollyon,
should lay his clutches on the departed Athelstane. Nor were they less
careful to prevent any unhallowed layman from touching the pall, which,
having been that used at the funeral of Saint Edmund, was liable to be
desecrated, if handled by the profane. If, in truth, these attentions
could be of any use to the deceased, he had some right to expect them
at the hands of the brethren of Saint Edmund’s, since, besides a
hundred mancuses of gold paid down as the soul-ransom, the mother of
Athelstane had announced her intention of endowing that foundation with
the better part of the lands of the deceased, in order to maintain
perpetual prayers for his soul, and that of her departed husband.
Richard and Wilfred followed the Saxon Cedric into the apartment of
death, where, as their guide pointed with solemn air to the untimely
bier of Athelstane, they followed his example in devoutly crossing
themselves, and muttering a brief prayer for the weal of the departed
soul.
This act of pious charity performed, Cedric again motioned them to
follow him, gliding over the stone floor with a noiseless tread; and,
after ascending a few steps, opened with great caution the door of a
small oratory, which adjoined to the chapel. It was about eight feet
square, hollowed, like the chapel itself, out of the thickness of the
wall; and the loop-hole, which enlightened it, being to the west, and
widening considerably as it sloped inward, a beam of the setting sun
found its way into its dark recess, and showed a female of a dignified
mien, and whose countenance retained the marked remains of majestic
beauty. Her long mourning robes and her flowing wimple of black
cypress, enhanced the whiteness of her skin, and the beauty of her
light-coloured and flowing tresses, which time had neither thinned nor
mingled with silver. Her countenance expressed the deepest sorrow that
is consistent with resignation. On the stone table before her stood a
crucifix of ivory, beside which was laid a missal, having its pages
richly illuminated, and its boards adorned with clasps of gold, and
bosses of the same precious metal.
“Noble Edith,” said Cedric, after having stood a moment silent, as if
to give Richard and Wilfred time to look upon the lady of the mansion,
“these are worthy strangers, come to take a part in thy sorrows. And
this, in especial, is the valiant Knight who fought so bravely for the
deliverance of him for whom we this day mourn.”
“His bravery has my thanks,” returned the lady; “although it be the
will of Heaven that it should be displayed in vain. I thank, too, his
courtesy, and that of his companion, which hath brought them hither to
behold the widow of Adeling, the mother of Athelstane, in her deep hour
of sorrow and lamentation. To your care, kind kinsman, I intrust them,
satisfied that they will want no hospitality which these sad walls can
yet afford.”
The guests bowed deeply to the mourning parent, and withdrew from their
hospitable guide.
Another winding stair conducted them to an apartment of the same size
with that which they had first entered, occupying indeed the story
immediately above. From this room, ere yet the door was opened,
proceeded a low and melancholy strain of vocal music. When they
entered, they found themselves in the presence of about twenty matrons
and maidens of distinguished Saxon lineage. Four maidens, Rowena
leading the choir, raised a hymn for the soul of the deceased, of which
we have only been able to decipher two or three stanzas:—
Dust unto dust,
To this all must;
The tenant hath resign’d
The faded form
To waste and worm—
Corruption claims her kind.
Through paths unknown
Thy soul hath flown,
To seek the realms of woe,
Where fiery pain
Shall purge the stain
Of actions done below.
In that sad place,
By Mary’s grace,
Brief may thy dwelling be
Till prayers and alms,
And holy psalms,
Shall set the captive free.
While this dirge was sung, in a low and melancholy tone, by the female
choristers, the others were divided into two bands, of which one was
engaged in bedecking, with such embroidery as their skill and taste
could compass, a large silken pall, destined to cover the bier of
Athelstane, while the others busied themselves in selecting, from
baskets of flowers placed before them, garlands, which they intended
for the same mournful purpose. The behaviour of the maidens was
decorous, if not marked with deep affliction; but now and then a
whisper or a smile called forth the rebuke of the severer matrons, and
here and there might be seen a damsel more interested in endeavouring
to find out how her mourning-robe became her, than in the dismal
ceremony for which they were preparing. Neither was this propensity (if
we must needs confess the truth) at all diminished by the appearance of
two strange knights, which occasioned some looking up, peeping, and
whispering. Rowena alone, too proud to be vain, paid her greeting to
her deliverer with a graceful courtesy. Her demeanour was serious, but
not dejected; and it may be doubted whether thoughts of Ivanhoe, and of
the uncertainty of his fate, did not claim as great a share in her
gravity as the death of her kinsman.
To Cedric, however, who, as we have observed, was not remarkably
clear-sighted on such occasions, the sorrow of his ward seemed so much
deeper than any of the other maidens, that he deemed it proper to
whisper the explanation—“She was the affianced bride of the noble
Athelstane.”—It may be doubted whether this communication went a far
way to increase Wilfred’s disposition to sympathize with the mourners
of Coningsburgh.
Having thus formally introduced the guests to the different chambers in
which the obsequies of Athelstane were celebrated under different
forms, Cedric conducted them into a small room, destined, as he
informed them, for the exclusive accomodation of honourable guests,
whose more slight connexion with the deceased might render them
unwilling to join those who were immediately effected by the unhappy
event. He assured them of every accommodation, and was about to
withdraw when the Black Knight took his hand.
“I crave to remind you, noble Thane,” he said, “that when we last
parted, you promised, for the service I had the fortune to render you,
to grant me a boon.”
“It is granted ere named, noble Knight,” said Cedric; “yet, at this sad
moment—-”
“Of that also,” said the King, “I have bethought me—but my time is
brief—neither does it seem to me unfit, that, when closing the grave on
the noble Athelstane, we should deposit therein certain prejudices and
hasty opinions.”
“Sir Knight of the Fetterlock,” said Cedric, colouring, and
interrupting the King in his turn, “I trust your boon regards yourself
and no other; for in that which concerns the honour of my house, it is
scarce fitting that a stranger should mingle.”
“Nor do I wish to mingle,” said the King, mildly, “unless in so far as
you will admit me to have an interest. As yet you have known me but as
the Black Knight of the Fetterlock—Know me now as Richard Plantagenet.”
“Richard of Anjou!” exclaimed Cedric, stepping backward with the utmost
astonishment.
“No, noble Cedric—Richard of England!—whose deepest interest—whose
deepest wish, is to see her sons united with each other.—And, how now,
worthy Thane! hast thou no knee for thy prince?”
“To Norman blood,” said Cedric, “it hath never bended.”
“Reserve thine homage then,” said the Monarch, “until I shall prove my
right to it by my equal protection of Normans and English.”
“Prince,” answered Cedric, “I have ever done justice to thy bravery and
thy worth—Nor am I ignorant of thy claim to the crown through thy
descent from Matilda, niece to Edgar Atheling, and daughter to Malcolm
of Scotland. But Matilda, though of the royal Saxon blood, was not the
heir to the monarchy.”
“I will not dispute my title with thee, noble Thane,” said Richard,
calmly; “but I will bid thee look around thee, and see where thou wilt
find another to be put into the scale against it.”
“And hast thou wandered hither, Prince, to tell me so?” said Cedric—“To
upbraid me with the ruin of my race, ere the grave has closed o’er the
last scion of Saxon royalty?”—His countenance darkened as he spoke.—“It
was boldly—it was rashly done!”