Yet this inconstancy is such,As thou, too, shalt adore;I could not love thee, love so much,Loved I not honour more.MONTROSE'S LINES.
When King Richard returned to his tent, he commanded the Nubian to be brought before him. He entered with his usual ceremonial reverence, and having prostrated himself, remained standing before the King in the attitude of a slave awaiting the orders of his master. It was perhaps well for him that the preservation of his character required his eyes to be fixed on the ground, since the keen glance with which Richard for some time surveyed him in silence would, if fully encountered, have been difficult to sustain.
“Thou canst well of woodcraft,” said the King, after a pause, “and hast started thy game and brought him to bay as ably as if Tristrem himself had taught thee. [A universal tradition ascribed to Sir Tristrem, famous for his love of the fair Queen Yseult, the laws concerning the practice of woodcraft, or VENERIE, as it was called, being those that related to the rules of the chase, which were deemed of much consequence during the Middle Ages.] But this is not all—he must be brought down at force. I myself would have liked to have levelled my hunting-spear at him. There are, it seems, respects which prevent this. Thou art about to return to the camp of the Soldan, bearing a letter, requiring of his courtesy to appoint neutral ground for the deed of chivalry, and should it consist with his pleasure, to concur with us in witnessing it. Now, speaking conjecturally, we think thou mightst find in that camp some cavalier who, for the love of truth and his own augmentation of honour, will do battle with this same traitor of Montserrat.”
The Nubian raised his eyes and fixed them on the King with a look of eager ardour; then raised them to Heaven with such solemn gratitude that the water soon glistened in them; then bent his head, as affirming what Richard desired, and resumed his usual posture of submissive attention.
“It is well,” said the King; “and I see thy desire to oblige me in this matter. And herein, I must needs say, lies the excellence of such a servant as thou, who hast not speech either to debate our purpose or to require explanation of what we have determined. An English serving man in thy place had given me his dogged advice to trust the combat with some good lance of my household, who, from my brother Longsword downwards, are all on fire to do battle in my cause; and a chattering Frenchman had made a thousand attempts to discover wherefore I look for a champion from the camp of the infidels. But thou, my silent agent, canst do mine errand without questioning or comprehending it; with thee to hear is to obey.”
A bend of the body and a genuflection were the appropriate answer of the Ethiopian to these observations.
“And now to another point,” said the King, and speaking suddenly and rapidly—“have you yet seen Edith Plantagenet?”
The mute looked up as in the act of being about to speak—nay, his lips had begun to utter a distinct negative—when the abortive attempt died away in the imperfect murmurs of the dumb.
“Why, lo you there!” said the King, “the very sound of the name of a royal maiden of beauty so surpassing as that of our lovely cousin seems to have power enough well-nigh to make the dumb speak. What miracles then might her eye work upon such a subject! I will make the experiment, friend slave. Thou shalt see this choice beauty of our Court, and do the errand of the princely Soldan.”
Again a joyful glance—again a genuflection—but, as he arose, the King laid his hand heavily on his shoulder, and proceeded with stern gravity thus: “Let me in one thing warn you, my sable envoy. Even if thou shouldst feel that the kindly influence of her whom thou art soon to behold should loosen the bonds of thy tongue, presently imprisoned, as the good Soldan expresses it, within the ivory walls of its castle, beware how thou changest thy taciturn character, or speakest a word in her presence, even if thy powers of utterance were to be miraculously restored. Believe me that I should have thy tongue extracted by the roots, and its ivory palace—that is, I presume, its range of teeth—drawn out one by one. Wherefore, be wise and silent still.”
The Nubian, so soon as the King had removed his heavy grasp from his shoulder, bent his head, and laid his hand on his lips, in token of silent obedience.
But Richard again laid his hand on him more gently, and added, “This behest we lay on thee as on a slave. Wert thou knight and gentleman, we would require thine honour in pledge of thy silence, which is one especial condition of our present trust.”
The Ethiopian raised his body proudly, looked full at the King, and laid his right hand on his heart.
Richard then summoned his chamberlain.
“Go, Neville,” he said, “with this slave to the tent of our royal consort, and say it is our pleasure that he have an audience—a private audience—of our cousin Edith. He is charged with a commission to her. Thou canst show him the way also, in case he requires thy guidance, though thou mayst have observed it is wonderful how familiar he already seems to be with the purlieus of our camp.—And thou, too, friend Ethiop,” the King continued, “what thou dost do quickly, and return hither within the half-hour.”
“I stand discovered,” thought the seeming Nubian, as, with downcast looks and folded arms, he followed the hasty stride of Neville towards the tent of Queen Berengaria—“I stand undoubtedly discovered and unfolded to King Richard; yet I cannot perceive that his resentment is hot against me. If I understand his words—and surely it is impossible to misinterpret them—he gives me a noble chance of redeeming my honour upon the crest of this false Marquis, whose guilt I read in his craven eye and quivering lip when the charge was made against him.—Roswal, faithfully hast thou served thy master, and most dearly shall thy wrong be avenged!—But what is the meaning of my present permission to look upon her whom I had despaired ever to see again? And why, or how, can the royal Plantagenet consent that I should see his divine kinswoman, either as the messenger of the heathen Saladin, or as the guilty exile whom he so lately expelled from his camp—his audacious avowal of the affection which is his pride being the greatest enhancement of his guilt? That Richard should consent to her receiving a letter from an infidel lover by the hands of one of such disproportioned rank are either of them circumstances equally incredible, and, at the same time, inconsistent with each other. But Richard, when unmoved by his heady passions, is liberal, generous, and truly noble; and as such I will deal with him, and act according to his instructions, direct or implied, seeking to know no more than may gradually unfold itself without my officious inquiry. To him who has given me so brave an opportunity to vindicate my tarnished honour, I owe acquiescence and obedience; and painful as it may be, the debt shall be paid. And yet”—thus the proud swelling of his heart further suggested—“Coeur de Lion, as he is called, might have measured the feelings of others by his own. I urge an address to his kinswoman! I, who never spoke word to her when I took a royal prize from her hand—when I was accounted not the lowest in feats of chivalry among the defenders of the Cross! I approach her when in a base disguise, and in a servile habit—and, alas! when my actual condition is that of a slave, with a spot of dishonour on that which was once my shield! I do this! He little knows me. Yet I thank him for the opportunity which may make us all better acquainted with each other.”
As he arrived at this conclusion, they paused before the entrance of the Queen's pavilion.
They were of course admitted by the guards, and Neville, leaving the Nubian in a small apartment, or antechamber, which was but too well remembered by him, passed into that which was used as the Queen's presence-chamber. He communicated his royal master's pleasure in a low and respectful tone of voice, very different from the bluntness of Thomas de Vaux, to whom Richard was everything and the rest of the Court, including Berengaria herself, was nothing. A burst of laughter followed the communication of his errand.
“And what like is the Nubian slave who comes ambassador on such an errand from the Soldan?—a negro, De Neville, is he not?” said a female voice, easily recognized for that of Berengaria. “A negro, is he not, De Neville, with black skin, a head curled like a ram's, a flat nose, and blubber lips—ha, worthy Sir Henry?”
“Let not your Grace forget the shin-bones,” said another voice, “bent outwards like the edge of a Saracen scimitar.”
“Rather like the bow of a Cupid, since he comes upon a lover's errand,” said the Queen.—“Gentle Neville, thou art ever prompt to pleasure us poor women, who have so little to pass away our idle moments. We must see this messenger of love. Turks and Moors have I seen many, but negro never.”
“I am created to obey your Grace's commands, so you will bear me out with my Sovereign for doing so,” answered the debonair knight. “Yet, let me assure your Grace you will see something different from what you expect.”
“So much the better—uglier yet than our imaginations can fancy, yet the chosen love-messenger of this gallant Soldan!”
“Gracious madam,” said the Lady Calista, “may I implore you would permit the good knight to carry this messenger straight to the Lady Edith, to whom his credentials are addressed? We have already escaped hardly for such a frolic.”
“Escaped?” repeated the Queen scornfully. “Yet thou mayest be right, Calista, in thy caution. Let this Nubian, as thou callest him, first do his errand to our cousin—besides, he is mute too, is he not?”
“He is, gracious madam,” answered the knight.
“Royal sport have these Eastern ladies,” said Berengaria, “attended by those before whom they may say anything, yet who can report nothing. Whereas in our camp, as the Prelate of Saint Jude's is wont to say, a bird of the air will carry the matter.”
“Because,” said De Neville, “your Grace forgets that you speak within canvas walls.”
The voices sunk on this observation, and after a little whispering, the English knight again returned to the Ethiopian, and made him a sign to follow. He did so, and Neville conducted him to a pavilion, pitched somewhat apart from that of the Queen, for the accommodation, it seemed, of the Lady Edith and her attendants. One of her Coptic maidens received the message communicated by Sir Henry Neville, and in the space of a very few minutes the Nubian was ushered into Edith's presence, while Neville was left on the outside of the tent. The slave who introduced him withdrew on a signal from her mistress, and it was with humiliation, not of the posture only but of the very inmost soul, that the unfortunate knight, thus strangely disguised, threw himself on one knee, with looks bent on the ground and arms folded on his bosom, like a criminal who expects his doom. Edith was clad in the same manner as when she received King Richard, her long, transparent dark veil hanging around her like the shade of a summer night on a beautiful landscape, disguising and rendering obscure the beauties which it could not hide. She held in her hand a silver lamp, fed with some aromatic spirit, which burned with unusual brightness.
When Edith came within a step of the kneeling and motionless slave, she held the light towards his face, as if to peruse his features more attentively, then turned from him, and placed her lamp so as to throw the shadow of his face in profile upon the curtain which hung beside. She at length spoke in a voice composed, yet deeply sorrowful,
“Is it you? It is indeed you, brave Knight of the Leopard—gallant Sir Kenneth of Scotland; is it indeed you?—thus servilely disguised—thus surrounded by a hundred dangers.”
At hearing the tones of his lady's voice thus unexpectedly addressed to him, and in a tone of compassion approaching to tenderness, a corresponding reply rushed to the knight's lips, and scarce could Richard's commands and his own promised silence prevent his answering that the sight he saw, the sounds he just heard, were sufficient to recompense the slavery of a life, and dangers which threatened that life every hour. He did recollect himself, however, and a deep and impassioned sigh was his only reply to the high-born Edith's question.
“I see—I know I have guessed right,” continued Edith. “I marked you from your first appearance near the platform on which I stood with the Queen. I knew, too, your valiant hound. She is no true lady, and is unworthy of the service of such a knight as thou art, from whom disguises of dress or hue could conceal a faithful servant. Speak, then, without fear to Edith Plantagenet. She knows how to grace in adversity the good knight who served, honoured, and did deeds of arms in her name, when fortune befriended him.—Still silent! Is it fear or shame that keeps thee so! Fear should be unknown to thee; and for shame, let it remain with those who have wronged thee.”
The knight, in despair at being obliged to play the mute in an interview so interesting, could only express his mortification by sighing deeply, and laying his finger upon his lips. Edith stepped back, as if somewhat displeased.
“What!” she said, “the Asiatic mute in very deed, as well as in attire? This I looked not for. Or thou mayest scorn me, perhaps, for thus boldly acknowledging that I have heedfully observed the homage thou hast paid me? Hold no unworthy thoughts of Edith on that account. She knows well the bounds which reserve and modesty prescribe to high-born maidens, and she knows when and how far they should give place to gratitude—to a sincere desire that it were in her power to repay services and repair injuries arising from the devotion which a good knight bore towards her. Why fold thy hands together, and wring them with so much passion? Can it be,” she added, shrinking back at the idea, “that their cruelty has actually deprived thee of speech? Thou shakest thy head. Be it a spell—be it obstinacy, I question thee no further, but leave thee to do thine errand after thine own fashion. I also can be mute.”
The disguised knight made an action as if at once lamenting his own condition and deprecating her displeasure, while at the same time he presented to her, wrapped, as usual, in fine silk and cloth of gold, the letter of the Soldan. She took it, surveyed it carelessly, then laid it aside, and bending her eyes once more on the knight, she said in a low tone, “Not even a word to do thine errand to me?”
He pressed both his hands to his brow, as if to intimate the pain which he felt at being unable to obey her; but she turned from him in anger.
“Begone!” she said. “I have spoken enough—too much—to one who will not waste on me a word in reply. Begone!—and say, if I have wronged thee, I have done penance; for if I have been the unhappy means of dragging thee down from a station of honour, I have, in this interview, forgotten my own worth, and lowered myself in thy eyes and in my own.”
She covered her eyes with her hands, and seemed deeply agitated. Sir Kenneth would have approached, but she waved him back.
“Stand off! thou whose soul Heaven hath suited to its new station! Aught less dull and fearful than a slavish mute had spoken a word of gratitude, were it but to reconcile me to my own degradation. Why pause you?—begone!”
The disguised knight almost involuntarily looked towards the letter as an apology for protracting his stay. She snatched it up, saying in a tone of irony and contempt, “I had forgotten—the dutiful slave waits an answer to his message. How's this—from the Soldan!”
She hastily ran over the contents, which were expressed both in Arabic and French, and when she had done, she laughed in bitter anger.
“Now this passes imagination!” she said; “no jongleur can show so deft a transmutation! His legerdemain can transform zechins and byzants into doits and maravedis; but can his art convert a Christian knight, ever esteemed among the bravest of the Holy Crusade, into the dust-kissing slave of a heathen Soldan—the bearer of a paynim's insolent proposals to a Christian maiden—nay, forgetting the laws of honourable chivalry, as well as of religion? But it avails not talking to the willing slave of a heathen hound. Tell your master, when his scourge shall have found thee a tongue, that which thou hast seen me do”—so saying, she threw the Soldan's letter on the ground, and placed her foot upon it—“and say to him, that Edith Plantagenet scorns the homage of an unchristened pagan.”
With these words she was about to shoot from the knight, when, kneeling at her feet in bitter agony, he ventured to lay his hand upon her robe and oppose her departure.
“Heard'st thou not what I said, dull slave?” she said, turning short round on him, and speaking with emphasis. “Tell the heathen Soldan, thy master, that I scorn his suit as much as I despise the prostration of a worthless renegade to religion and chivalry—to God and to his lady!”
So saying, she burst from him, tore her garment from his grasp, and left the tent.
The voice of Neville, at the same time, summoned him from without. Exhausted and stupefied by the distress he had undergone during this interview, from which he could only have extricated himself by breach of the engagement which he had formed with King Richard, the unfortunate knight staggered rather than walked after the English baron, till they reached the royal pavilion, before which a party of horsemen had just dismounted. There were light and motion within the tent, and when Neville entered with his disguised attendant, they found the King, with several of his nobility, engaged in welcoming those who were newly arrived.
“The tears I shed must ever fall.I weep not for an absent swain;For time may happier hours recall,And parted lovers meet again.“I weep not for the silent dead.Their pains are past, their sorrows o'er;And those that loved their steps must tread,When death shall join to part no more.”But worse than absence, worse than death,She wept her lover's sullied fame,And, fired with all the pride of birth,She wept a soldier's injured name.BALLAD.
The frank and bold voice of Richard was heard in joyous gratulation.
“Thomas de Vaux! stout Tom of the Gills! by the head of King Henry, thou art welcome to me as ever was flask of wine to a jolly toper! I should scarce have known how to order my battle-array, unless I had thy bulky form in mine eye as a landmark to form my ranks upon. We shall have blows anon, Thomas, if the saints be gracious to us; and had we fought in thine absence, I would have looked to hear of thy being found hanging upon an elder-tree.”
“I should have borne my disappointment with more Christian patience, I trust,” said Thomas de Vaux, “than to have died the death of an apostate. But I thank your Grace for my welcome, which is the more generous, as it respects a banquet of blows, of which, saving your pleasure, you are ever too apt to engross the larger share. But here have I brought one to whom your Grace will, I know, give a yet warmer welcome.”
The person who now stepped forward to make obeisance to Richard was a young man of low stature and slight form. His dress was as modest as his figure was unimpressive; but he bore on his bonnet a gold buckle, with a gem, the lustre of which could only be rivalled by the brilliancy of the eye which the bonnet shaded. It was the only striking feature in his countenance; but when once noticed, it ever made a strong impression on the spectator. About his neck there hung in a scarf of sky-blue silk a WREST as it was called—that is, the key with which a harp is tuned, and which was of solid gold.
This personage would have kneeled reverently to Richard, but the Monarch raised him in joyful haste, pressed him to his bosom warmly, and kissed him on either side of the face.
“Blondel de Nesle!” he exclaimed joyfully—“welcome from Cyprus, my king of minstrels!—welcome to the King of England, who rates not his own dignity more highly than he does thine. I have been sick, man, and, by my soul, I believe it was for lack of thee; for, were I half way to the gate of heaven, methinks thy strains could call me back. And what news, my gentle master, from the land of the lyre? Anything fresh from the TROUVEURS of Provence? Anything from the minstrels of merry Normandy? Above all, hast thou thyself been busy? But I need not ask thee—thou canst not be idle if thou wouldst; thy noble qualities are like a fire burning within, and compel thee to pour thyself out in music and song.”
“Something I have learned, and something I have done, noble King,” answered the celebrated Blondel, with a retiring modesty which all Richard's enthusiastic admiration of his skill had been unable to banish.
“We will hear thee, man—we will hear thee instantly,” said the King. Then, touching Blondel's shoulder kindly, he added, “That is, if thou art not fatigued with thy journey; for I would sooner ride my best horse to death than injure a note of thy voice.”
“My voice is, as ever, at the service of my royal patron,” said Blondel; “but your Majesty,” he added, looking at some papers on the table, “seems more importantly engaged, and the hour waxes late.”
“Not a whit, man, not a whit, my dearest Blondel. I did but sketch an array of battle against the Saracens, a thing of a moment, almost as soon done as the routing of them.”
“Methinks, however,” said Thomas de Vaux, “it were not unfit to inquire what soldiers your Grace hath to array. I bring reports on that subject from Ascalon.”
“Thou art a mule, Thomas,” said the King—“a very mule for dullness and obstinacy! Come, nobles—a hall—a hall—range ye around him! Give Blondel the tabouret. Where is his harp-bearer?—or, soft, lend him my harp, his own may be damaged by the journey.”
“I would your Grace would take my report,” said Thomas de Vaux. “I have ridden far, and have more list to my bed than to have my ears tickled.”
“THY ears tickled!” said the King; “that must be with a woodcock's feather, and not with sweet sounds. Hark thee, Thomas, do thine ears know the singing of Blondel from the braying of an ass?”
“In faith, my liege,” replied Thomas, “I cannot well say; but setting Blondel out of the question, who is a born gentleman, and doubtless of high acquirements, I shall never, for the sake of your Grace's question, look on a minstrel but I shall think upon an ass.”
“And might not your manners,” said Richard, “have excepted me, who am a gentleman born as well as Blondel, and, like him, a guild-brother of the joyeuse science?”
“Your Grace should remember,” said De Vaux, smiling, “that 'tis useless asking for manners from a mule.”
“Most truly spoken,” said the King; “and an ill-conditioned animal thou art. But come hither, master mule, and be unloaded, that thou mayest get thee to thy litter, without any music being wasted on thee. Meantime do thou, good brother of Salisbury, go to our consort's tent, and tell her that Blondel has arrived, with his budget fraught with the newest minstrelsy. Bid her come hither instantly, and do thou escort her, and see that our cousin, Edith Plantagenet, remain not behind.”
His eye then rested for a moment on the Nubian, with that expression of doubtful meaning which his countenance usually displayed when he looked at him.
“Ha, our silent and secret messenger returned?—Stand up, slave, behind the back of De Neville, and thou shalt hear presently sounds which will make thee bless God that He afflicted thee rather with dumbness than deafness.”
So saying, he turned from the rest of the company towards De Vaux, and plunged instantly into the military details which that baron laid before him.
About the time that the Lord of Gilsland had finished his audience, a messenger announced that the Queen and her attendants were approaching the royal tent.—“A flask of wine, ho!” said the King; “of old King Isaac's long-saved Cyprus, which we won when we stormed Famagosta. Fill to the stout Lord of Gilsland, gentles—a more careful and faithful servant never had any prince.”
“I am glad,” said Thomas de Vaux, “that your Grace finds the mule a useful slave, though his voice be less musical than horse-hair or wire.”
“What, thou canst not yet digest that quip of the mule?” said Richard. “Wash it down with a brimming flagon, man, or thou wilt choke upon it. Why, so—well pulled!—and now I will tell thee, thou art a soldier as well as I, and we must brook each other's jests in the hall as each other's blows in the tourney, and love each other the harder we hit. By my faith, if thou didst not hit me as hard as I did thee in our late encounter! thou gavest all thy wit to the thrust. But here lies the difference betwixt thee and Blondel. Thou art but my comrade—I might say my pupil—in the art of war; Blondel is my master in the science of minstrelsy and music. To thee I permit the freedom of intimacy; to him I must do reverence, as to my superior in his art. Come, man, be not peevish, but remain and hear our glee.”
“To see your Majesty in such cheerful mood,” said the Lord of Gilsland, “by my faith, I could remain till Blondel had achieved the great romance of King Arthur, which lasts for three days.”
“We will not tax your patience so deeply,” said the King. “But see, yonder glare of torches without shows that our consort approaches. Away to receive her, man, and win thyself grace in the brightest eyes of Christendom. Nay, never stop to adjust thy cloak. See, thou hast let Neville come between the wind and the sails of thy galley.”
“He was never before me in the field of battle,” said De Vaux, not greatly pleased to see himself anticipated by the more active service of the chamberlain.
“No, neither he nor any one went before thee there, my good Tom of the Gills,” said the King, “unless it was ourself, now and then.”
“Ay, my liege,” said De Vaux, “and let us do justice to the unfortunate. The unhappy Knight of the Leopard hath been before me too, at a season; for, look you, he weighs less on horseback, and so—”
“Hush!” said the King, interrupting him in a peremptory tone, “not a word of him,” and instantly stepped forward to greet his royal consort; and when he had done so, he presented to her Blondel, as king of minstrelsy and his master in the gay science. Berengaria, who well knew that her royal husband's passion for poetry and music almost equalled his appetite for warlike fame, and that Blondel was his especial favourite, took anxious care to receive him with all the flattering distinctions due to one whom the King delighted to honour. Yet it was evident that, though Blondel made suitable returns to the compliments showered on him something too abundantly by the royal beauty, he owned with deeper reverence and more humble gratitude the simple and graceful welcome of Edith, whose kindly greeting appeared to him, perhaps, sincere in proportion to its brevity and simplicity.
Both the Queen and her royal husband were aware of this distinction, and Richard, seeing his consort somewhat piqued at the preference assigned to his cousin, by which perhaps he himself did not feel much gratified, said in the hearing of both, “We minstrels, Berengaria, as thou mayest see by the bearing of our master Blondel, pay more reverence to a severe judge like our kinswoman than to a kindly, partial friend like thyself, who is willing to take our worth upon trust.”
Edith was moved by this sarcasm of her royal kinsman, and hesitated not to reply that, “To be a harsh and severe judge was not an attribute proper to her alone of all the Plantagenets.”
She had perhaps said more, having some touch of the temper of that house, which, deriving their name and cognizance from the lowly broom (PLANTA GENISTA), assumed as an emblem of humility, were perhaps one of the proudest families that ever ruled in England; but her eye, when kindling in her reply, suddenly caught those of the Nubian, although he endeavoured to conceal himself behind the nobles who were present, and she sunk upon a seat, turning so pale that Queen Berengaria deemed herself obliged to call for water and essences, and to go through the other ceremonies appropriate to a lady's swoon. Richard, who better estimated Edith's strength of mind, called to Blondel to assume his seat and commence his lay, declaring that minstrelsy was worth every other recipe to recall a Plantagenet to life. “Sing us,” he said, “that song of the Bloody Vest, of which thou didst formerly give me the argument ere I left Cyprus. Thou must be perfect in it by this time, or, as our yeomen say, thy bow is broken.”
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The anxious eye of the minstrel, however, dwelt on Edith, and it was not till he observed her returning colour that he obeyed the repeated commands of the King. Then, accompanying his voice with the harp, so as to grace, but yet not drown, the sense of what he sung, he chanted in a sort of recitative one of those ancient adventures of love and knighthood which were wont of yore to win the public attention. So soon as he began to prelude, the insignificance of his personal appearance seemed to disappear, and his countenance glowed with energy and inspiration. His full, manly, mellow voice, so absolutely under command of the purest taste, thrilled on every ear and to every heart. Richard, rejoiced as after victory, called out the appropriate summons for silence, “Listen, lords, in bower and hall”; while, with the zeal of a patron at once and a pupil, he arranged the circle around, and hushed them into silence; and he himself sat down with an air of expectation and interest, not altogether unmixed with the gravity of the professed critic. The courtiers turned their eyes on the King, that they might be ready to trace and imitate the emotions his features should express, and Thomas de Vaux yawned tremendously, as one who submitted unwillingly to a wearisome penance. The song of Blondel was of course in the Norman language, but the verses which follow express its meaning and its manner.
THE BLOODY VEST.'Twas near the fair city of Benevent,When the sun was setting on bough and bent,And knights were preparing in bower and tent,On the eve of the Baptist's tournament;When in Lincoln green a stripling gent,Well seeming a page by a princess sent,Wander'd the camp, and, still as he went,Inquired for the Englishman, Thomas a Kent.Far hath he far'd, and farther must fare,Till he finds his pavilion nor stately nor rare,—Little save iron and steel was there;And, as lacking the coin to pay armourer's care,With his sinewy arms to the shoulders bare,The good knight with hammer and file did repairThe mail that to-morrow must see him wear,For the honour of Saint John and his lady fair.“Thus speaks my lady,” the page said he,And the knight bent lowly both head and knee,“She is Benevent's Princess so high in degree,And thou art as lowly as knight may well be—He that would climb so lofty a tree,Or spring such a gulf as divides her from thee,Must dare some high deed, by which all men may seeHis ambition is back'd by his hie chivalrie.“Therefore thus speaks my lady,” the fair page he said,And the knight lowly louted with hand and with head,“Fling aside the good armour in which thou art clad,And don thou this weed of her night-gear instead,For a hauberk of steel, a kirtle of thread;And charge, thus attir'd, in the tournament dread,And fight as thy wont is where most blood is shed,And bring honour away, or remain with the dead.”
Untroubled in his look, and untroubled in his breast, The knight the weed hath taken, and reverently hath kiss'd. “Now blessed be the moment, the messenger be blest! Much honour'd do I hold me in my lady's high behest; And say unto my lady, in this dear night-weed dress'd, To the best armed champion I will not veil my crest; But if I live and bear me well 'tis her turn to take the test.” Here, gentles, ends the foremost fytte of the Lay of the Bloody Vest.
“Thou hast changed the measure upon us unawares in that last couplet, my Blondel,” said the King.
“Most true, my lord,” said Blondel. “I rendered the verses from the Italian of an old harper whom I met in Cyprus, and not having had time either to translate it accurately or commit it to memory, I am fain to supply gaps in the music and the verse as I can upon the spur of the moment, as you see boors mend a quickset fence with a fagot.”
“Nay, on my faith,” said the King, “I like these rattling, rolling Alexandrines. Methinks they come more twangingly off to the music than that briefer measure.”
“Both are licensed, as is well known to your Grace,” answered Blondel.
“They are so, Blondel,” said Richard, “yet methinks the scene where there is like to be fighting will go best on in these same thundering Alexandrines, which sound like the charge of cavalry, while the other measure is but like the sidelong amble of a lady's palfrey.”
“It shall be as your Grace pleases,” replied Blondel, and began again to prelude.
“Nay, first cherish thy fancy with a cup of fiery Chios wine,” said the King. “And hark thee, I would have thee fling away that new-fangled restriction of thine, of terminating in accurate and similar rhymes. They are a constraint on thy flow of fancy, and make thee resemble a man dancing in fetters.”
“The fetters are easily flung off, at least,” said Blondel, again sweeping his fingers over the strings, as one who would rather have played than listened to criticism.
“But why put them on, man?” continued the King. “Wherefore thrust thy genius into iron bracelets? I marvel how you got forward at all. I am sure I should not have been able to compose a stanza in yonder hampered measure.”
Blondel looked down, and busied himself with the strings of his harp, to hide an involuntary smile which crept over his features; but it escaped not Richard's observation.
“By my faith, thou laughest at me, Blondel,” he said; “and, in good truth, every man deserves it who presumes to play the master when he should be the pupil. But we kings get bad habits of self-opinion. Come, on with thy lay, dearest Blondel—on after thine own fashion, better than aught that we can suggest, though we must needs be talking.”
Blondel resumed the lay; but as extemporaneous composition was familiar to him, he failed not to comply with the King's hints, and was perhaps not displeased to show with how much ease he could new-model a poem, even while in the act of recitation.
THE BLOODY VEST.FYTTE SECOND.The Baptist's fair morrow beheld gallant feats—There was winning of honour and losing of seats;There was hewing with falchions and splintering of staves—The victors won glory, the vanquish'd won graves.Oh, many a knight there fought bravely and well,Yet one was accounted his peers to excel,And 'twas he whose sole armour on body and breastSeem'd the weed of a damsel when bouned for her rest.There were some dealt him wounds that were bloody and sore,But others respected his plight, and forbore.“It is some oath of honour,” they said, “and I trow,'Twere unknightly to slay him achieving his vow.”Then the Prince, for his sake, bade the tournament cease—He flung down his warder, the trumpets sung peace;And the judges declare, and competitors yield,That the Knight of the Night-gear was first in the field.The feast it was nigh, and the mass it was nigher,When before the fair Princess low looted a squire,And deliver'd a garment unseemly to view,With sword-cut and spear-thrust, all hack'd and pierc'd through;All rent and all tatter'd, all clotted with blood,With foam of the horses, with dust, and with mud;Not the point of that lady's small finger, I ween,Could have rested on spot was unsullied and clean.“This token my master, Sir Thomas a Kent,Restores to the Princess of fair Benevent;He that climbs the tall tree has won right to the fruit,He that leaps the wide gulf should prevail in his suit;Through life's utmost peril the prize I have won,And now must the faith of my mistress be shown:For she who prompts knights on such danger to runMust avouch his true service in front of the sun.“'I restore,' says my master, 'the garment I've worn,And I claim of the Princess to don it in turn;For its stains and its rents she should prize it the more,Since by shame 'tis unsullied, though crimson'd with gore.'”Then deep blush'd the Princess—yet kiss'd she and press'dThe blood-spotted robes to her lips and her breast.“Go tell my true knight, church and chamber shall showIf I value the blood on this garment or no.”And when it was time for the nobles to pass,In solemn procession to minster and mass,The first walk'd the Princess in purple and pall,But the blood-besmear'd night-robe she wore over all;And eke, in the hall, where they all sat at dine,When she knelt to her father and proffer'd the wine,Over all her rich robes and state jewels she woreThat wimple unseemly bedabbled with gore.Then lords whisper'd ladies, as well you may think,And ladies replied with nod, titter, and wink;And the Prince, who in anger and shame had look'd down,Turn'd at length to his daughter, and spoke with a frown:“Now since thou hast publish'd thy folly and guilt,E'en atone with thy hand for the blood thou hast spilt;Yet sore for your boldness you both will repent,When you wander as exiles from fair Benevent.”Then out spoke stout Thomas, in hall where he stood,Exhausted and feeble, but dauntless of mood:“The blood that I lost for this daughter of thine,I pour'd forth as freely as flask gives its wine;And if for my sake she brooks penance and blame,Do not doubt I will save her from suffering and shame;And light will she reck of thy princedom and rent,When I hail her, in England, the Countess of Kent.”
A murmur of applause ran through the assembly, following the example of Richard himself, who loaded with praises his favourite minstrel, and ended by presenting him with a ring of considerable value. The Queen hastened to distinguish the favourite by a rich bracelet, and many of the nobles who were present followed the royal example.
“Is our cousin Edith,” said the King, “become insensible to the sound of the harp she once loved?”
“She thanks Blondel for his lay,” replied Edith, “but doubly the kindness of the kinsman who suggested it.”
“Thou art angry, cousin,” said the King; “angry because thou hast heard of a woman more wayward than thyself. But you escape me not. I will walk a space homeward with you towards the Queen's pavilion. We must have conference together ere the night has waned into morning.”
The Queen and her attendants were now on foot, and the other guests withdrew from the royal tent. A train with blazing torches, and an escort of archers, awaited Berengaria without the pavilion, and she was soon on her way homeward. Richard, as he had proposed, walked beside his kinswoman, and compelled her to accept of his arm as her support, so that they could speak to each other without being overheard.
“What answer, then, am I to return to the noble Soldan?” said Richard. “The kings and princes are falling from me, Edith; this new quarrel hath alienated them once more. I would do something for the Holy Sepulchre by composition, if not by victory; and the chance of my doing this depends, alas, on the caprice of a woman. I would lay my single spear in the rest against ten of the best lances in Christendom, rather than argue with a wilful wench who knows not what is for her own good. What answer, coz, am I to return to the Soldan? It must be decisive.”
“Tell him,” said Edith, “that the poorest of the Plantagenets will rather wed with misery than with misbelief.”
“Shall I say with slavery, Edith?” said the King. “Methinks that is nearer thy thoughts.”
“There is no room,” said Edith, “for the suspicion you so grossly insinuate. Slavery of the body might have been pitied, but that of the soul is only to be despised. Shame to thee, King of merry England. Thou hast enthralled both the limbs and the spirit of a knight, one scarce less famed than thyself.”
“Should I not prevent my kinswoman from drinking poison, by sullying the vessel which contained it, if I saw no other means of disgusting her with the fatal liquor?” replied the King.
“It is thyself,” answered Edith, “that would press me to drink poison, because it is proffered in a golden chalice.”
“Edith,” said Richard, “I cannot force thy resolution; but beware you shut not the door which Heaven opens. The hermit of Engaddi—he whom Popes and Councils have regarded as a prophet—hath read in the stars that thy marriage shall reconcile me with a powerful enemy, and that thy husband shall be Christian, leaving thus the fairest ground to hope that the conversion of the Soldan, and the bringing in of the sons of Ishmael to the pale of the church, will be the consequence of thy wedding with Saladin. Come, thou must make some sacrifice rather than mar such happy prospects.”
“Men may sacrifice rams and goats,” said Edith, “but not honour and conscience. I have heard that it was the dishonour of a Christian maiden which brought the Saracens into Spain; the shame of another is no likely mode of expelling them from Palestine.”
“Dost thou call it shame to become an empress?” said the King.
“I call it shame and dishonour to profane a Christian sacrament by entering into it with an infidel whom it cannot bind; and I call it foul dishonour that I, the descendant of a Christian princess, should become of free will the head of a haram of heathen concubines.”
“Well, kinswoman,” said the King, after a pause, “I must not quarrel with thee, though I think thy dependent condition might have dictated more compliance.”
“My liege,” replied Edith, “your Grace hath worthily succeeded to all the wealth, dignity, and dominion of the House of Plantagenet—do not, therefore, begrudge your poor kinswoman some small share of their pride.”
“By my faith, wench,” said the King, “thou hast unhorsed me with that very word, so we will kiss and be friends. I will presently dispatch thy answer to Saladin. But after all, coz, were it not better to suspend your answer till you have seen him? Men say he is pre-eminently handsome.”
“There is no chance of our meeting, my lord,” said Edith.
“By Saint George, but there is next to a certainty of it,” said the King; “for Saladin will doubtless afford us a free field for the doing of this new battle of the Standard, and will witness it himself. Berengaria is wild to behold it also; and I dare be sworn not a feather of you, her companions and attendants, will remain behind—least of all thou thyself, fair coz. But come, we have reached the pavilion, and must part; not in unkindness thou, oh—nay, thou must seal it with thy lip as well as thy hand, sweet Edith—it is my right as a sovereign to kiss my pretty vassals.”
He embraced her respectfully and affectionately, and returned through the moonlit camp, humming to himself such snatches of Blondel's lay as he could recollect.
On his arrival he lost no time in making up his dispatches for Saladin, and delivered them to the Nubian, with a charge to set out by peep of day on his return to the Soldan.