Ivanhoe: A Romance
“That’s a lie, and a loud one,” said the Friar, “for I saw him borne to
his own Castle of Coningsburgh.”
“Nay, then, e’en tell the story yourself, my masters,” said Dennet,
turning sulky at these repeated contradictions; and it was with some
difficulty that the boor could be prevailed on, by the request of his
comrade and the Minstrel, to renew his tale.—“These two ‘sober’
friars,” said he at length, “since this reverend man will needs have
them such, had continued drinking good ale, and wine, and what not, for
the best part for a summer’s day, when they were aroused by a deep
groan, and a clanking of chains, and the figure of the deceased
Athelstane entered the apartment, saying, ‘Ye evil shep-herds!—’”
“It is false,” said the Friar, hastily, “he never spoke a word.”
“So ho! Friar Tuck,” said the Minstrel, drawing him apart from the
rustics; “we have started a new hare, I find.”
“I tell thee, Allan-a-Dale,” said the Hermit, “I saw Athelstane of
Coningsburgh as much as bodily eyes ever saw a living man. He had his
shroud on, and all about him smelt of the sepulchre—A butt of sack will
not wash it out of my memory.”
“Pshaw!” answered the Minstrel; “thou dost but jest with me!”
“Never believe me,” said the Friar, “an I fetched not a knock at him
with my quarter-staff that would have felled an ox, and it glided
through his body as it might through a pillar of smoke!”
“By Saint Hubert,” said the Minstrel, “but it is a wondrous tale, and
fit to be put in metre to the ancient tune, ‘Sorrow came to the old
Friar.’”
“Laugh, if ye list,” said Friar Tuck; “but an ye catch me singing on
such a theme, may the next ghost or devil carry me off with him
headlong! No, no—I instantly formed the purpose of assisting at some
good work, such as the burning of a witch, a judicial combat, or the
like matter of godly service, and therefore am I here.”
As they thus conversed, the heavy bell of the church of Saint Michael
of Templestowe, a venerable building, situated in a hamlet at some
distance from the Preceptory, broke short their argument. One by one
the sullen sounds fell successively on the ear, leaving but sufficient
space for each to die away in distant echo, ere the air was again
filled by repetition of the iron knell. These sounds, the signal of the
approaching ceremony, chilled with awe the hearts of the assembled
multitude, whose eyes were now turned to the Preceptory, expecting the
approach of the Grand Master, the champion, and the criminal.
At length the drawbridge fell, the gates opened, and a knight, bearing
the great standard of the Order, sallied from the castle, preceded by
six trumpets, and followed by the Knights Preceptors, two and two, the
Grand Master coming last, mounted on a stately horse, whose furniture
was of the simplest kind. Behind him came Brian de Bois-Guilbert, armed
cap-a-pie in bright armour, but without his lance, shield, and sword,
which were borne by his two esquires behind him. His face, though
partly hidden by a long plume which floated down from his barrel-cap,
bore a strong and mingled expression of passion, in which pride seemed
to contend with irresolution. He looked ghastly pale, as if he had not
slept for several nights, yet reined his pawing war-horse with the
habitual ease and grace proper to the best lance of the Order of the
Temple. His general appearance was grand and commanding; but, looking
at him with attention, men read that in his dark features, from which
they willingly withdrew their eyes.
On either side rode Conrade of Mont-Fitchet, and Albert de Malvoisin,
who acted as godfathers to the champion. They were in their robes of
peace, the white dress of the Order. Behind them followed other
Companions of the Temple, with a long train of esquires and pages clad
in black, aspirants to the honour of being one day Knights of the
Order. After these neophytes came a guard of warders on foot, in the
same sable livery, amidst whose partisans might be seen the pale form
of the accused, moving with a slow but undismayed step towards the
scene of her fate. She was stript of all her ornaments, lest perchance
there should be among them some of those amulets which Satan was
supposed to bestow upon his victims, to deprive them of the power of
confession even when under the torture. A coarse white dress, of the
simplest form, had been substituted for her Oriental garments; yet
there was such an exquisite mixture of courage and resignation in her
look, that even in this garb, and with no other ornament than her long
black tresses, each eye wept that looked upon her, and the most
hardened bigot regretted the fate that had converted a creature so
goodly into a vessel of wrath, and a waged slave of the devil.
A crowd of inferior personages belonging to the Preceptory followed the
victim, all moving with the utmost order, with arms folded, and looks
bent upon the ground.
This slow procession moved up the gentle eminence, on the summit of
which was the tiltyard, and, entering the lists, marched once around
them from right to left, and when they had completed the circle, made a
halt. There was then a momentary bustle, while the Grand Master and all
his attendants, excepting the champion and his godfathers, dismounted
from their horses, which were immediately removed out of the lists by
the esquires, who were in attendance for that purpose.
The unfortunate Rebecca was conducted to the black chair placed near
the pile. On her first glance at the terrible spot where preparations
were making for a death alike dismaying to the mind and painful to the
body, she was observed to shudder and shut her eyes, praying internally
doubtless, for her lips moved though no speech was heard. In the space
of a minute she opened her eyes, looked fixedly on the pile as if to
familiarize her mind with the object, and then slowly and naturally
turned away her head.
Meanwhile, the Grand Master had assumed his seat; and when the chivalry
of his order was placed around and behind him, each in his due rank, a
loud and long flourish of the trumpets announced that the Court were
seated for judgment. Malvoisin, then, acting as godfather of the
champion, stepped forward, and laid the glove of the Jewess, which was
the pledge of battle, at the feet of the Grand Master.
“Valorous Lord, and reverend Father,” said he, “here standeth the good
Knight, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, Knight Preceptor of the Order of the
Temple, who, by accepting the pledge of battle which I now lay at your
reverence’s feet, hath become bound to do his devoir in combat this
day, to maintain that this Jewish maiden, by name Rebecca, hath justly
deserved the doom passed upon her in a Chapter of this most Holy Order
of the Temple of Zion, condemning her to die as a sorceress;—here, I
say, he standeth, such battle to do, knightly and honourable, if such
be your noble and sanctified pleasure.”
“Hath he made oath,” said the Grand Master, “that his quarrel is just
and honourable? Bring forward the Crucifix and the ‘Te igitur’.”
“Sir, and most reverend father,” answered Malvoisin, readily, “our
brother here present hath already sworn to the truth of his accusation
in the hand of the good Knight Conrade de Mont-Fitchet; and otherwise
he ought not to be sworn, seeing that his adversary is an unbeliever,
and may take no oath.”
This explanation was satisfactory, to Albert’s great joy; for the wily
knight had foreseen the great difficulty, or rather impossibility, of
prevailing upon Brian de Bois-Guilbert to take such an oath before the
assembly, and had invented this excuse to escape the necessity of his
doing so.
The Grand Master, having allowed the apology of Albert Malvoisin,
commanded the herald to stand forth and do his devoir. The trumpets
then again flourished, and a herald, stepping forward, proclaimed
aloud,—“Oyez, oyez, oyez.—Here standeth the good Knight, Sir Brian de
Bois-Guilbert, ready to do battle with any knight of free blood, who
will sustain the quarrel allowed and allotted to the Jewess Rebecca, to
try by champion, in respect of lawful essoine of her own body; and to
such champion the reverend and valorous Grand Master here present
allows a fair field, and equal partition of sun and wind, and whatever
else appertains to a fair combat.” The trumpets again sounded, and
there was a dead pause of many minutes.
“No champion appears for the appellant,” said the Grand Master. “Go,
herald, and ask her whether she expects any one to do battle for her in
this her cause.” The herald went to the chair in which Rebecca was
seated, and Bois-Guilbert suddenly turning his horse’s head toward that
end of the lists, in spite of hints on either side from Malvoisin and
Mont-Fitchet, was by the side of Rebecca’s chair as soon as the herald.
“Is this regular, and according to the law of combat?” said Malvoisin,
looking to the Grand Master.
“Albert de Malvoisin, it is,” answered Beaumanoir; “for in this appeal
to the judgment of God, we may not prohibit parties from having that
communication with each other, which may best tend to bring forth the
truth of the quarrel.”
In the meantime, the herald spoke to Rebecca in these terms:—“Damsel,
the Honourable and Reverend the Grand Master demands of thee, if thou
art prepared with a champion to do battle this day in thy behalf, or if
thou dost yield thee as one justly condemned to a deserved doom?”
“Say to the Grand Master,” replied Rebecca, “that I maintain my
innocence, and do not yield me as justly condemned, lest I become
guilty of mine own blood. Say to him, that I challenge such delay as
his forms will permit, to see if God, whose opportunity is in man’s
extremity, will raise me up a deliverer; and when such uttermost space
is passed, may His holy will be done!” The herald retired to carry this
answer to the Grand Master.
“God forbid,” said Lucas Beaumanoir, “that Jew or Pagan should impeach
us of injustice!—Until the shadows be cast from the west to the
eastward, will we wait to see if a champion shall appear for this
unfortunate woman. When the day is so far passed, let her prepare for
death.”
The herald communicated the words of the Grand Master to Rebecca, who
bowed her head submissively, folded her arms, and, looking up towards
heaven, seemed to expect that aid from above which she could scarce
promise herself from man. During this awful pause, the voice of
Bois-Guilbert broke upon her ear—it was but a whisper, yet it startled
her more than the summons of the herald had appeared to do.
“Rebecca,” said the Templar, “dost thou hear me?”
“I have no portion in thee, cruel, hard-hearted man,” said the
unfortunate maiden.
“Ay, but dost thou understand my words?” said the Templar; “for the
sound of my voice is frightful in mine own ears. I scarce know on what
ground we stand, or for what purpose they have brought us hither.—This
listed space—that chair—these faggots—I know their purpose, and yet it
appears to me like something unreal—the fearful picture of a vision,
which appals my sense with hideous fantasies, but convinces not my
reason.”
“My mind and senses keep touch and time,” answered Rebecca, “and tell
me alike that these faggots are destined to consume my earthly body,
and open a painful but a brief passage to a better world.”
“Dreams, Rebecca,—dreams,” answered the Templar; “idle visions,
rejected by the wisdom of your own wiser Sadducees. Hear me, Rebecca,”
he said, proceeding with animation; “a better chance hast thou for life
and liberty than yonder knaves and dotard dream of. Mount thee behind
me on my steed—on Zamor, the gallant horse that never failed his rider.
I won him in single fight from the Soldan of Trebizond—mount, I say,
behind me—in one short hour is pursuit and enquiry far behind—a new