[Contents]CHAPTER VIII.Arrival of Sir Rafe Piersie—The Challenge.Sir John Assueton was early astir next morning, for his head was so filled with the remembrance of those friends and scenes of his youth, he now hoped to revisit after a long absence, that he was impatient to depart from Norham Castle. He had already given orders to the squires to hold themselves in readiness, and he had visited the stable, where Blanche-etoile neighed a recognition to his master, and was spoken to with the kindness of a friend. The knight then ascended the ramparts to enjoy a short promenade; and there he was soon afterwards joined by Hepborne, who came springing towards him, urged by an unusual flow of spirits.“Good morrow, Hepborne,” said Assueton; “I am glad to see thee so alert this morning. I have looked at our steeds;[71]they are as courageous as lions, and as gamesome as kids. They will carry us into Scotland with as much spirit as we shall ride them thither. After breaking our fast, and bestowing our meed of thanks on the good old knight for his hospitality, we may yet make our way o’er many a good mile of Scottish ground ere yonder new-born sun shall sink in the west.”“Nay, my dear Assueton,” said Hepborne, “what need hast thou for such haste? Hadst thou some fair damsel in Scotland—some lady bright, who, with her swan-like neck stretched towards the mid-day sun, looketh day after day from her lofty towernet, with anxious eyes, in the hope of descrying thee, her true and constant Knight—hadst thou such a fair one as this, I say, impatience might indeed become thee; but what reason hast thou, despiser of the lovely sex as thou art, to long for a change of position? By the Rood of St. Andrew, I begin to believe that thou art no such woman-hater as thou wouldst pretend, and that all this seeming coldness of thine is nothing but thy laudable constancy to some Scottish maid, who hath thine early-pledged vows of love in keeping.”“Thou art welcome to rally me as it may please thee, Hepborne,” replied Assueton, with a smile: “but, on the faith and honour of my knighthood, I have not seen the maiden for whom I would go three ells from my intended path, except for common knightly courtesy, or to redress some grievous wrong. Nay, nay, thou knowest my natural duresse—that my heart is adamant to all such weak impressions. Perdie, I cannot understand how any such affect the good, hardy, soldier-like bosom, though I do observe the melancholy truth exampled forth, in daily occurrence, with those around me. But I perceive thy drift, my politic friend. To assail is the best tactique against being assailed. Thou camest forth conscience-stricken, and being well aware that thy foolish fondness of this masquing damosel of the Castle here would come under my gentle lash, to divert the attack against thyself, thou dost begin to skirmish against me. But I see well enow ’tis the Lady Eleanore’s attraction that would keep thee here.”“It is e’en so, I candidly confess it,” replied Hepborne. “I candidly confess it, dost mark me? so, throwing myself at thy feet, I cry for quarter.”“Nay, an thou dost disarm me thus,” replied Assueton, “I can say no more.”“Oh, Assueton, Assueton, my bel ami,” said Hepborne, enthusiastically, “I was the happiest of human beings last night. I did indeed meet her on the ramparts. Old Adam of Gordon[72]was a good seer; nay, perchance, though as to that I know not, he may have been Cupid’s messenger. Yet, hold! Depardieux, I do her most foul wrong in so supposing; for she hath too much maiden modesty to have been guilty of so much boldness. But, be that as it may, her words—her looks—were kind and most encouraging. She did blushingly confess that her heart had known no other affection than that which she bears towards her venerable father. She half admitted that I was not altogether indifferent to her; she did utter a hope that we should remain her father’s guests for some longer space; yea, and she even admitted that to see me again would give her pleasure. Then her accents were so sweet, and her demeanour so gentle—Oh, Assueton, she is in very truth an angel! But what is all this to thee, thou Knight of Adamant? I forgot that I might as well speak to the stones of these walls of amorets and love passages, as to Sir John Assueton.”“Thou art right, i’ faith, Hepborne,” replied Assueton; “they say walls have ears, whilst I, in good earnest, may with truth enow be said to have none for such matters, since they do irk whenever the theme of love is handled in their hearing. Yet my friendship for thee bids me listen to thy ravings, and compassion for thy disease makes me watch the progress of its symptoms, as I should do those of any other fever. From all thou hast said, then, I would gather that thou wouldst fain loiter off another day or two, to catch fresh smiles and deeper wounds from the Lady Eleanore. Is’t not so, Hepborne?”“In truth, Assueton,” replied Sir Patrick, “her whole deportment towards me last night hath buoyed me up with hope, yea, and hath even led me to flatter myself that I am not indifferent to her, Scot though I be. At so critical a period, then, I cannot go, my dear Assueton; and I am sure thy good nature will never allow thee to abandon thy friend in the crisis of his distemper.”“No, Hepborne,” said Assueton, laughing, “I shall certainly not be so little of a Christian knight as to abandon thee when thine estate is so dangerous. Well, then, I must wait thy time, I suppose. But parfoy I must have some rounds of the tiltyard, were it but to joust at the quintaine, or Blanche-etoile and I too will lose our occupation. Wilt thou not take a turn with me for exercise? But soft—I need not talk to thee of any such thing, for yonder comes the cause of thy malady.”“By St. Dennis, it is she indeed!” exclaimed Hepborne: “that is the very mantle she wore. But who is that cavalier[73]on whose arm she hangs so freely?” added he with a jealous tone and air.“St. Genevieve! but he is a tall, proper, handsome knight,” said Assueton.“Pshaw?” said Hepborne pettishly, “I see nothing handsome about him; meseems he hath the air of a sturdy swineherd.”“Is not that the Lady Eleanore de Selby?” inquired Assueton of a sentinel who walked on the ramparts at some little distance from where the knights then stood.“Ay, in truth, it is she,” replied the man, stopping to look at her.“And who may yonder knight be with whom she holds converse?” demanded Hepborne eagerly.“By the mass, I know not, Sir Knight,” replied the man as he turned to tread back his measured pace; “I never saw him before, that I knows on.”But notwithstanding the unfavourable remark which jealousy had made Hepborne cast on the stranger’s appearance, he could not help secretly confessing that the knight with whom the Lady Eleanore had come forth from the keep, and on whose arm she was now leaning with so little reserve, was indeed very handsome, even noble-looking. An esquire waited for him at the end of the bridge, with two magnificently-caparisoned black horses. The lady seemed to be a drag on his steps, and to keep him back, as it were, with a thousand last words, as if with a desire of prolonging the few remaining minutes of their converse. On his part he displayed signs of the tenderest affection for her; and after they had crossed the bridge tardily together, she threw herself upon his mailed neck, and he enfolded her in his arms, both remaining locked together for some moments in a last embrace. The warrior then tore himself from her, and vaulting on his steed, struck the pointed steel into his sides, and galloped off at a desperate pace. The lady, leaning on the balustrades of the bridge, rested there a little space, and then turning slowly towards the door of the keep, disappeared.The two knights commanded a full though distant view of this scene of dumb show, from the part of the rampart where they then stood. Assueton turned his eyes with compassion upon his friend to observe its effect upon him. He was standing like a marble statue, still gazing on the spot where it had been acted—his eyes fixed in his head as with apathetical stupor. At length, after remaining in the same attitude for several minutes, he struck his forehead violently with the palms[74]of his hands, and addressing his friend in hurried accents—“Assueton, Assueton,” said he, “didst thou see? didst thou mark! Oh, woman, woman, woman! But it mattereth not. Assueton, let our horses be ordered; I will forth with thee for Scotland even now; ay, even now. Thou wert indeed right, my friend; there is more of thorns than of roses about them all. Thou wert wise, Assueton; but I am cured now—nay, I am as sane as thyself. Our horses, Assueton—our squires and cortege. Let us not lose a moment; we may despatch good store of Scottish miles ere we sleep.”“Nay, let us not be guilty of doing violence to the courtesy of knighthood,” replied Assueton; “Sir Walter de Selby hath used much fair hospitality towards us. It beseems us not to leave Norham Castle without giving thanks to the good old governor in person, and bidding him adieu. Besides, ’twere as well, methinks, to go with less suspicious haste, lest we may be misjudged; and, indeed, Sir Walter can have hardly left his couch as yet.”“Ay, ay, true—thou sayest true, my friend,” said Hepborne, interrupting him keenly. “I had forgotten. Her father not yet astir, and she taking leave of her lover so tenderly at such an hour. Oh, damnable! He came, doubtless, last night, and has been i’ the keep without the old man’s knowledge. So, all her deep and long drawn suspires were but the offspring of her fears lest her leman should break faith.”“Come, come, Hepborne, my bel ami, compose thyself,” said Sir John; “thou must not let this appear within; ’tis but a short hour sacrificed to common civility, and then let us boune us for Scotland.”“Thou sayest well, Assueton,” said Hepborne, recollecting himself after a short pause, during which he sighed deeply; “I must endeavour to command myself; my passion too much enchafeth me. The good old man hath indeed been to us kindness itself. How cruel that he should be so deceived in his daughter! I pity him from the bottom of my soul. My wounds will soon be healed—war-toil must be their confecture; but his, alas! are yet to be opened, for now they do fester all unwist to him, and when they do burst forth, I fear me they may well out his life’s blood. But come,” added he, rousing himself, “let’s in.”They turned their steps towards the keep, but before they had descended from the ramparts their ears were struck with the sound of a bugle, and as they looked over the walls they descried a long cavalcade of knights, esquires, grooms, lacqueys,[75]and spearmen, advancing with lances and pennons up the hollow way leading towards the outer gate of the Castle. The party soon came thundering over the drawbridge, and were saluted by the guards as they passed. At the head of the troop rode the proud Sir Rafe Piersie. The array of the very meanest of his people was magnificent; but his armour and his horse-gear shone like the sun, and glittered with the splendour of their embossments. They passed into the inner courtyard; loud rang the bugle of announcement, and the ear was assailed by the neighing of hot steeds, the clattering and pawing of impatient hoofs, the champing of foam-covered bits, the jingling of chains, and the clinking of spurs; whilst a rout of soldiers and grooms, with Master Thomas Turnberry at their head, ran clustering around them. The squires of the Castle, with the hoary seneschal and a host of lacqueys, came forth from the keep, and ushered in Sir Rafe Piersie and his suite.Hepborne and Assueton soon afterwards followed, and, on reaching the banquet-hall, they found Sir Walter de Selby in the act of receiving and welcoming his newly-arrived guest, whose supercilious air, when addressing the plain, honest old soldier by no means prepossessed the two Scottish knights in his favour. Sir Walter introduced them to Piersie, and he received them with the same offensive hauteur. There is something in such a deportment that provokes even the humble man to put on haughtiness. Hepborne, from late events, was not prepared to be in the most condescending humour, so that he failed not to carry his head fully three inches higher than he had done since he became an inmate of the Castle of Norham. Nor was Assueton at all behind him in stateliness.The table was covered with the morning’s meal, and but little conversation passed during the time it was going on. Sir Walter de Selby seemed to be more reserved, and even less disposed to risk his words than he had been the previous night.“I marvel much, Sir Governor,” said Sir Rafe Piersie with a haughty sneer—“Methinks ’tis marvellously strange, I say, that thou hast as yet said nothing touching the object of the visit I have thus paid thee. Am I, or am I not, to have this girl of thine? Depardieux, there hath been more ambassage about this affair than might have brought home and wedded a queen of England. The damsel, I am informed, knew not her own mind, and thou were weak enough to suffer thyself to be blown about by her wayward whimsies; but my kinsman, the Bishop of Durham, tells me that, having at last brought thine own determination up to the proper point, thou art finally resolved[76]she shall be mine. Marry, a matter of great exertion, truly, to accept of Sir Rafe Piersie as a husband for Eleanore de Selby!”“My mind has indeed been made up, Sir Rafe Piersie,” said the old knight, “and would to Heaven, beausir, that it could have been made up differently; for, certes, it doleth me sorely to be driven to answer thee as I must of needscost do. I should not have broached this matter till privacy had put the seal on our converse: but, since thou hast opened it, I am forced to tell thee that, since I saw the Bishop of Durham, obstacles have appeared which render it impossible for me to give thee my daughter, the Lady Eleanore, to wife. She is affianced to another.”“So,” thought Hepborne, the ideas passing rapidly through his mind, “her father knows of the attachment between her and the knight who left her this morning. Then, perhaps, she has been less to blame than I thought; yet why were her words and manner such, last night, towards me, as to mislead me into the idea that I had reason to hope? Oh, deceitful woman, never satisfied with the success of thy springes as long as there is a foolish bird to catch. So! thou must have me limed to? But, grammercy, I have escaped thy toils.”Such were Hepborne’s thoughts; but what Sir Rafe Piersie’s were during the pause of astonishment he was thrown into, may be best gathered from the utterance he gave them.“What is this I hear? has a limb of the noble Piersie been brought here to be insulted? Thou art a false old papelarde; and were it not for those hoary hairs of thine, by the beard of St. Barnabas, I would brain thee with this gauntlet;” and saying so, he dashed it down on the board, making it ring again.Hepborne and Assueton both started up, and stretched out their hands eagerly to seize it.“Ah, thou art always lucky, Hepborne,” said Assueton, much disappointed to see that his friend had snatched it before him.“Sir Rafe Piersie,” said Hepborne, “in behalf of this good old knight, whom thou hast so grossly insulted at his own board, I defy thee to instant and mortal debate; and in thy teeth I return the opprobrious epithets thou didst dare to throw in his face; and here, I say, thou liest!” and with these words he threw down his gauntlet.“And who art thou?” said his antagonist, taking it up; “who art thou, young cockerel, who crowest so loud? By St. George, but thou showest small share of wisdom to pit thyself thus against Sir Rafe Piersie. But fear not, thou shalt have thy[77]will. Was thy darreigne for instant fight, saidst thou? In God’s name, let us to horse then without farther parley. Let Sir Richard de Lacy here, and thine eager friend there, be the judges of the field; and as for the place, the Norham meadow below will do as well for thine overthrow as any other; thou wilt have easy galloping ere thou dost meet it. What, defy Sir Rafe Piersie to combat of outrance, and give him the lie, too! Thou art doomed, young man, thou art doomed; thine insolence hath put thee beyond the pale of my mercy. By the holy Rood, thou must be the young cock-sparrow the old dotard hath chosen as a mate for his pretty popelot, else thou never couldst have been so bold.”“I am not so fortunate,” replied Hepborne, with calm and courteous manner.“And what may thy name and title be, then?” demanded Piersie, with yet greater hauteur.“My name,” replied he, with a dignified bow, “is Sir Patrick Hepborne.”“Ha! then, by my faith, thou hast some good Northern blood in thee,” replied Piersie; “thou art less unworthy of my lance than I did ween thou wert. Thy father is a right doughty Scot; and, if I mistake not, I have heard of some deeds of thine done in France, which have made thine honours and renomie to bud and buxion rathely. But ’tis a warm climate they have sprouted in, and such early and unnatural shoots are wont to be air-drawn and unhealthy; and albeit they may vegetate under the more southern sun, they are often withered by the blasts of the North as soon as they appear amongst us. But come, come, my horse, Delaval—my horse and gear, I say;” and, leaving the hall hastily, he sought a chamber where he might prepare himself for single combat.
[Contents]CHAPTER VIII.Arrival of Sir Rafe Piersie—The Challenge.Sir John Assueton was early astir next morning, for his head was so filled with the remembrance of those friends and scenes of his youth, he now hoped to revisit after a long absence, that he was impatient to depart from Norham Castle. He had already given orders to the squires to hold themselves in readiness, and he had visited the stable, where Blanche-etoile neighed a recognition to his master, and was spoken to with the kindness of a friend. The knight then ascended the ramparts to enjoy a short promenade; and there he was soon afterwards joined by Hepborne, who came springing towards him, urged by an unusual flow of spirits.“Good morrow, Hepborne,” said Assueton; “I am glad to see thee so alert this morning. I have looked at our steeds;[71]they are as courageous as lions, and as gamesome as kids. They will carry us into Scotland with as much spirit as we shall ride them thither. After breaking our fast, and bestowing our meed of thanks on the good old knight for his hospitality, we may yet make our way o’er many a good mile of Scottish ground ere yonder new-born sun shall sink in the west.”“Nay, my dear Assueton,” said Hepborne, “what need hast thou for such haste? Hadst thou some fair damsel in Scotland—some lady bright, who, with her swan-like neck stretched towards the mid-day sun, looketh day after day from her lofty towernet, with anxious eyes, in the hope of descrying thee, her true and constant Knight—hadst thou such a fair one as this, I say, impatience might indeed become thee; but what reason hast thou, despiser of the lovely sex as thou art, to long for a change of position? By the Rood of St. Andrew, I begin to believe that thou art no such woman-hater as thou wouldst pretend, and that all this seeming coldness of thine is nothing but thy laudable constancy to some Scottish maid, who hath thine early-pledged vows of love in keeping.”“Thou art welcome to rally me as it may please thee, Hepborne,” replied Assueton, with a smile: “but, on the faith and honour of my knighthood, I have not seen the maiden for whom I would go three ells from my intended path, except for common knightly courtesy, or to redress some grievous wrong. Nay, nay, thou knowest my natural duresse—that my heart is adamant to all such weak impressions. Perdie, I cannot understand how any such affect the good, hardy, soldier-like bosom, though I do observe the melancholy truth exampled forth, in daily occurrence, with those around me. But I perceive thy drift, my politic friend. To assail is the best tactique against being assailed. Thou camest forth conscience-stricken, and being well aware that thy foolish fondness of this masquing damosel of the Castle here would come under my gentle lash, to divert the attack against thyself, thou dost begin to skirmish against me. But I see well enow ’tis the Lady Eleanore’s attraction that would keep thee here.”“It is e’en so, I candidly confess it,” replied Hepborne. “I candidly confess it, dost mark me? so, throwing myself at thy feet, I cry for quarter.”“Nay, an thou dost disarm me thus,” replied Assueton, “I can say no more.”“Oh, Assueton, Assueton, my bel ami,” said Hepborne, enthusiastically, “I was the happiest of human beings last night. I did indeed meet her on the ramparts. Old Adam of Gordon[72]was a good seer; nay, perchance, though as to that I know not, he may have been Cupid’s messenger. Yet, hold! Depardieux, I do her most foul wrong in so supposing; for she hath too much maiden modesty to have been guilty of so much boldness. But, be that as it may, her words—her looks—were kind and most encouraging. She did blushingly confess that her heart had known no other affection than that which she bears towards her venerable father. She half admitted that I was not altogether indifferent to her; she did utter a hope that we should remain her father’s guests for some longer space; yea, and she even admitted that to see me again would give her pleasure. Then her accents were so sweet, and her demeanour so gentle—Oh, Assueton, she is in very truth an angel! But what is all this to thee, thou Knight of Adamant? I forgot that I might as well speak to the stones of these walls of amorets and love passages, as to Sir John Assueton.”“Thou art right, i’ faith, Hepborne,” replied Assueton; “they say walls have ears, whilst I, in good earnest, may with truth enow be said to have none for such matters, since they do irk whenever the theme of love is handled in their hearing. Yet my friendship for thee bids me listen to thy ravings, and compassion for thy disease makes me watch the progress of its symptoms, as I should do those of any other fever. From all thou hast said, then, I would gather that thou wouldst fain loiter off another day or two, to catch fresh smiles and deeper wounds from the Lady Eleanore. Is’t not so, Hepborne?”“In truth, Assueton,” replied Sir Patrick, “her whole deportment towards me last night hath buoyed me up with hope, yea, and hath even led me to flatter myself that I am not indifferent to her, Scot though I be. At so critical a period, then, I cannot go, my dear Assueton; and I am sure thy good nature will never allow thee to abandon thy friend in the crisis of his distemper.”“No, Hepborne,” said Assueton, laughing, “I shall certainly not be so little of a Christian knight as to abandon thee when thine estate is so dangerous. Well, then, I must wait thy time, I suppose. But parfoy I must have some rounds of the tiltyard, were it but to joust at the quintaine, or Blanche-etoile and I too will lose our occupation. Wilt thou not take a turn with me for exercise? But soft—I need not talk to thee of any such thing, for yonder comes the cause of thy malady.”“By St. Dennis, it is she indeed!” exclaimed Hepborne: “that is the very mantle she wore. But who is that cavalier[73]on whose arm she hangs so freely?” added he with a jealous tone and air.“St. Genevieve! but he is a tall, proper, handsome knight,” said Assueton.“Pshaw?” said Hepborne pettishly, “I see nothing handsome about him; meseems he hath the air of a sturdy swineherd.”“Is not that the Lady Eleanore de Selby?” inquired Assueton of a sentinel who walked on the ramparts at some little distance from where the knights then stood.“Ay, in truth, it is she,” replied the man, stopping to look at her.“And who may yonder knight be with whom she holds converse?” demanded Hepborne eagerly.“By the mass, I know not, Sir Knight,” replied the man as he turned to tread back his measured pace; “I never saw him before, that I knows on.”But notwithstanding the unfavourable remark which jealousy had made Hepborne cast on the stranger’s appearance, he could not help secretly confessing that the knight with whom the Lady Eleanore had come forth from the keep, and on whose arm she was now leaning with so little reserve, was indeed very handsome, even noble-looking. An esquire waited for him at the end of the bridge, with two magnificently-caparisoned black horses. The lady seemed to be a drag on his steps, and to keep him back, as it were, with a thousand last words, as if with a desire of prolonging the few remaining minutes of their converse. On his part he displayed signs of the tenderest affection for her; and after they had crossed the bridge tardily together, she threw herself upon his mailed neck, and he enfolded her in his arms, both remaining locked together for some moments in a last embrace. The warrior then tore himself from her, and vaulting on his steed, struck the pointed steel into his sides, and galloped off at a desperate pace. The lady, leaning on the balustrades of the bridge, rested there a little space, and then turning slowly towards the door of the keep, disappeared.The two knights commanded a full though distant view of this scene of dumb show, from the part of the rampart where they then stood. Assueton turned his eyes with compassion upon his friend to observe its effect upon him. He was standing like a marble statue, still gazing on the spot where it had been acted—his eyes fixed in his head as with apathetical stupor. At length, after remaining in the same attitude for several minutes, he struck his forehead violently with the palms[74]of his hands, and addressing his friend in hurried accents—“Assueton, Assueton,” said he, “didst thou see? didst thou mark! Oh, woman, woman, woman! But it mattereth not. Assueton, let our horses be ordered; I will forth with thee for Scotland even now; ay, even now. Thou wert indeed right, my friend; there is more of thorns than of roses about them all. Thou wert wise, Assueton; but I am cured now—nay, I am as sane as thyself. Our horses, Assueton—our squires and cortege. Let us not lose a moment; we may despatch good store of Scottish miles ere we sleep.”“Nay, let us not be guilty of doing violence to the courtesy of knighthood,” replied Assueton; “Sir Walter de Selby hath used much fair hospitality towards us. It beseems us not to leave Norham Castle without giving thanks to the good old governor in person, and bidding him adieu. Besides, ’twere as well, methinks, to go with less suspicious haste, lest we may be misjudged; and, indeed, Sir Walter can have hardly left his couch as yet.”“Ay, ay, true—thou sayest true, my friend,” said Hepborne, interrupting him keenly. “I had forgotten. Her father not yet astir, and she taking leave of her lover so tenderly at such an hour. Oh, damnable! He came, doubtless, last night, and has been i’ the keep without the old man’s knowledge. So, all her deep and long drawn suspires were but the offspring of her fears lest her leman should break faith.”“Come, come, Hepborne, my bel ami, compose thyself,” said Sir John; “thou must not let this appear within; ’tis but a short hour sacrificed to common civility, and then let us boune us for Scotland.”“Thou sayest well, Assueton,” said Hepborne, recollecting himself after a short pause, during which he sighed deeply; “I must endeavour to command myself; my passion too much enchafeth me. The good old man hath indeed been to us kindness itself. How cruel that he should be so deceived in his daughter! I pity him from the bottom of my soul. My wounds will soon be healed—war-toil must be their confecture; but his, alas! are yet to be opened, for now they do fester all unwist to him, and when they do burst forth, I fear me they may well out his life’s blood. But come,” added he, rousing himself, “let’s in.”They turned their steps towards the keep, but before they had descended from the ramparts their ears were struck with the sound of a bugle, and as they looked over the walls they descried a long cavalcade of knights, esquires, grooms, lacqueys,[75]and spearmen, advancing with lances and pennons up the hollow way leading towards the outer gate of the Castle. The party soon came thundering over the drawbridge, and were saluted by the guards as they passed. At the head of the troop rode the proud Sir Rafe Piersie. The array of the very meanest of his people was magnificent; but his armour and his horse-gear shone like the sun, and glittered with the splendour of their embossments. They passed into the inner courtyard; loud rang the bugle of announcement, and the ear was assailed by the neighing of hot steeds, the clattering and pawing of impatient hoofs, the champing of foam-covered bits, the jingling of chains, and the clinking of spurs; whilst a rout of soldiers and grooms, with Master Thomas Turnberry at their head, ran clustering around them. The squires of the Castle, with the hoary seneschal and a host of lacqueys, came forth from the keep, and ushered in Sir Rafe Piersie and his suite.Hepborne and Assueton soon afterwards followed, and, on reaching the banquet-hall, they found Sir Walter de Selby in the act of receiving and welcoming his newly-arrived guest, whose supercilious air, when addressing the plain, honest old soldier by no means prepossessed the two Scottish knights in his favour. Sir Walter introduced them to Piersie, and he received them with the same offensive hauteur. There is something in such a deportment that provokes even the humble man to put on haughtiness. Hepborne, from late events, was not prepared to be in the most condescending humour, so that he failed not to carry his head fully three inches higher than he had done since he became an inmate of the Castle of Norham. Nor was Assueton at all behind him in stateliness.The table was covered with the morning’s meal, and but little conversation passed during the time it was going on. Sir Walter de Selby seemed to be more reserved, and even less disposed to risk his words than he had been the previous night.“I marvel much, Sir Governor,” said Sir Rafe Piersie with a haughty sneer—“Methinks ’tis marvellously strange, I say, that thou hast as yet said nothing touching the object of the visit I have thus paid thee. Am I, or am I not, to have this girl of thine? Depardieux, there hath been more ambassage about this affair than might have brought home and wedded a queen of England. The damsel, I am informed, knew not her own mind, and thou were weak enough to suffer thyself to be blown about by her wayward whimsies; but my kinsman, the Bishop of Durham, tells me that, having at last brought thine own determination up to the proper point, thou art finally resolved[76]she shall be mine. Marry, a matter of great exertion, truly, to accept of Sir Rafe Piersie as a husband for Eleanore de Selby!”“My mind has indeed been made up, Sir Rafe Piersie,” said the old knight, “and would to Heaven, beausir, that it could have been made up differently; for, certes, it doleth me sorely to be driven to answer thee as I must of needscost do. I should not have broached this matter till privacy had put the seal on our converse: but, since thou hast opened it, I am forced to tell thee that, since I saw the Bishop of Durham, obstacles have appeared which render it impossible for me to give thee my daughter, the Lady Eleanore, to wife. She is affianced to another.”“So,” thought Hepborne, the ideas passing rapidly through his mind, “her father knows of the attachment between her and the knight who left her this morning. Then, perhaps, she has been less to blame than I thought; yet why were her words and manner such, last night, towards me, as to mislead me into the idea that I had reason to hope? Oh, deceitful woman, never satisfied with the success of thy springes as long as there is a foolish bird to catch. So! thou must have me limed to? But, grammercy, I have escaped thy toils.”Such were Hepborne’s thoughts; but what Sir Rafe Piersie’s were during the pause of astonishment he was thrown into, may be best gathered from the utterance he gave them.“What is this I hear? has a limb of the noble Piersie been brought here to be insulted? Thou art a false old papelarde; and were it not for those hoary hairs of thine, by the beard of St. Barnabas, I would brain thee with this gauntlet;” and saying so, he dashed it down on the board, making it ring again.Hepborne and Assueton both started up, and stretched out their hands eagerly to seize it.“Ah, thou art always lucky, Hepborne,” said Assueton, much disappointed to see that his friend had snatched it before him.“Sir Rafe Piersie,” said Hepborne, “in behalf of this good old knight, whom thou hast so grossly insulted at his own board, I defy thee to instant and mortal debate; and in thy teeth I return the opprobrious epithets thou didst dare to throw in his face; and here, I say, thou liest!” and with these words he threw down his gauntlet.“And who art thou?” said his antagonist, taking it up; “who art thou, young cockerel, who crowest so loud? By St. George, but thou showest small share of wisdom to pit thyself thus against Sir Rafe Piersie. But fear not, thou shalt have thy[77]will. Was thy darreigne for instant fight, saidst thou? In God’s name, let us to horse then without farther parley. Let Sir Richard de Lacy here, and thine eager friend there, be the judges of the field; and as for the place, the Norham meadow below will do as well for thine overthrow as any other; thou wilt have easy galloping ere thou dost meet it. What, defy Sir Rafe Piersie to combat of outrance, and give him the lie, too! Thou art doomed, young man, thou art doomed; thine insolence hath put thee beyond the pale of my mercy. By the holy Rood, thou must be the young cock-sparrow the old dotard hath chosen as a mate for his pretty popelot, else thou never couldst have been so bold.”“I am not so fortunate,” replied Hepborne, with calm and courteous manner.“And what may thy name and title be, then?” demanded Piersie, with yet greater hauteur.“My name,” replied he, with a dignified bow, “is Sir Patrick Hepborne.”“Ha! then, by my faith, thou hast some good Northern blood in thee,” replied Piersie; “thou art less unworthy of my lance than I did ween thou wert. Thy father is a right doughty Scot; and, if I mistake not, I have heard of some deeds of thine done in France, which have made thine honours and renomie to bud and buxion rathely. But ’tis a warm climate they have sprouted in, and such early and unnatural shoots are wont to be air-drawn and unhealthy; and albeit they may vegetate under the more southern sun, they are often withered by the blasts of the North as soon as they appear amongst us. But come, come, my horse, Delaval—my horse and gear, I say;” and, leaving the hall hastily, he sought a chamber where he might prepare himself for single combat.
CHAPTER VIII.Arrival of Sir Rafe Piersie—The Challenge.
Arrival of Sir Rafe Piersie—The Challenge.
Arrival of Sir Rafe Piersie—The Challenge.
Sir John Assueton was early astir next morning, for his head was so filled with the remembrance of those friends and scenes of his youth, he now hoped to revisit after a long absence, that he was impatient to depart from Norham Castle. He had already given orders to the squires to hold themselves in readiness, and he had visited the stable, where Blanche-etoile neighed a recognition to his master, and was spoken to with the kindness of a friend. The knight then ascended the ramparts to enjoy a short promenade; and there he was soon afterwards joined by Hepborne, who came springing towards him, urged by an unusual flow of spirits.“Good morrow, Hepborne,” said Assueton; “I am glad to see thee so alert this morning. I have looked at our steeds;[71]they are as courageous as lions, and as gamesome as kids. They will carry us into Scotland with as much spirit as we shall ride them thither. After breaking our fast, and bestowing our meed of thanks on the good old knight for his hospitality, we may yet make our way o’er many a good mile of Scottish ground ere yonder new-born sun shall sink in the west.”“Nay, my dear Assueton,” said Hepborne, “what need hast thou for such haste? Hadst thou some fair damsel in Scotland—some lady bright, who, with her swan-like neck stretched towards the mid-day sun, looketh day after day from her lofty towernet, with anxious eyes, in the hope of descrying thee, her true and constant Knight—hadst thou such a fair one as this, I say, impatience might indeed become thee; but what reason hast thou, despiser of the lovely sex as thou art, to long for a change of position? By the Rood of St. Andrew, I begin to believe that thou art no such woman-hater as thou wouldst pretend, and that all this seeming coldness of thine is nothing but thy laudable constancy to some Scottish maid, who hath thine early-pledged vows of love in keeping.”“Thou art welcome to rally me as it may please thee, Hepborne,” replied Assueton, with a smile: “but, on the faith and honour of my knighthood, I have not seen the maiden for whom I would go three ells from my intended path, except for common knightly courtesy, or to redress some grievous wrong. Nay, nay, thou knowest my natural duresse—that my heart is adamant to all such weak impressions. Perdie, I cannot understand how any such affect the good, hardy, soldier-like bosom, though I do observe the melancholy truth exampled forth, in daily occurrence, with those around me. But I perceive thy drift, my politic friend. To assail is the best tactique against being assailed. Thou camest forth conscience-stricken, and being well aware that thy foolish fondness of this masquing damosel of the Castle here would come under my gentle lash, to divert the attack against thyself, thou dost begin to skirmish against me. But I see well enow ’tis the Lady Eleanore’s attraction that would keep thee here.”“It is e’en so, I candidly confess it,” replied Hepborne. “I candidly confess it, dost mark me? so, throwing myself at thy feet, I cry for quarter.”“Nay, an thou dost disarm me thus,” replied Assueton, “I can say no more.”“Oh, Assueton, Assueton, my bel ami,” said Hepborne, enthusiastically, “I was the happiest of human beings last night. I did indeed meet her on the ramparts. Old Adam of Gordon[72]was a good seer; nay, perchance, though as to that I know not, he may have been Cupid’s messenger. Yet, hold! Depardieux, I do her most foul wrong in so supposing; for she hath too much maiden modesty to have been guilty of so much boldness. But, be that as it may, her words—her looks—were kind and most encouraging. She did blushingly confess that her heart had known no other affection than that which she bears towards her venerable father. She half admitted that I was not altogether indifferent to her; she did utter a hope that we should remain her father’s guests for some longer space; yea, and she even admitted that to see me again would give her pleasure. Then her accents were so sweet, and her demeanour so gentle—Oh, Assueton, she is in very truth an angel! But what is all this to thee, thou Knight of Adamant? I forgot that I might as well speak to the stones of these walls of amorets and love passages, as to Sir John Assueton.”“Thou art right, i’ faith, Hepborne,” replied Assueton; “they say walls have ears, whilst I, in good earnest, may with truth enow be said to have none for such matters, since they do irk whenever the theme of love is handled in their hearing. Yet my friendship for thee bids me listen to thy ravings, and compassion for thy disease makes me watch the progress of its symptoms, as I should do those of any other fever. From all thou hast said, then, I would gather that thou wouldst fain loiter off another day or two, to catch fresh smiles and deeper wounds from the Lady Eleanore. Is’t not so, Hepborne?”“In truth, Assueton,” replied Sir Patrick, “her whole deportment towards me last night hath buoyed me up with hope, yea, and hath even led me to flatter myself that I am not indifferent to her, Scot though I be. At so critical a period, then, I cannot go, my dear Assueton; and I am sure thy good nature will never allow thee to abandon thy friend in the crisis of his distemper.”“No, Hepborne,” said Assueton, laughing, “I shall certainly not be so little of a Christian knight as to abandon thee when thine estate is so dangerous. Well, then, I must wait thy time, I suppose. But parfoy I must have some rounds of the tiltyard, were it but to joust at the quintaine, or Blanche-etoile and I too will lose our occupation. Wilt thou not take a turn with me for exercise? But soft—I need not talk to thee of any such thing, for yonder comes the cause of thy malady.”“By St. Dennis, it is she indeed!” exclaimed Hepborne: “that is the very mantle she wore. But who is that cavalier[73]on whose arm she hangs so freely?” added he with a jealous tone and air.“St. Genevieve! but he is a tall, proper, handsome knight,” said Assueton.“Pshaw?” said Hepborne pettishly, “I see nothing handsome about him; meseems he hath the air of a sturdy swineherd.”“Is not that the Lady Eleanore de Selby?” inquired Assueton of a sentinel who walked on the ramparts at some little distance from where the knights then stood.“Ay, in truth, it is she,” replied the man, stopping to look at her.“And who may yonder knight be with whom she holds converse?” demanded Hepborne eagerly.“By the mass, I know not, Sir Knight,” replied the man as he turned to tread back his measured pace; “I never saw him before, that I knows on.”But notwithstanding the unfavourable remark which jealousy had made Hepborne cast on the stranger’s appearance, he could not help secretly confessing that the knight with whom the Lady Eleanore had come forth from the keep, and on whose arm she was now leaning with so little reserve, was indeed very handsome, even noble-looking. An esquire waited for him at the end of the bridge, with two magnificently-caparisoned black horses. The lady seemed to be a drag on his steps, and to keep him back, as it were, with a thousand last words, as if with a desire of prolonging the few remaining minutes of their converse. On his part he displayed signs of the tenderest affection for her; and after they had crossed the bridge tardily together, she threw herself upon his mailed neck, and he enfolded her in his arms, both remaining locked together for some moments in a last embrace. The warrior then tore himself from her, and vaulting on his steed, struck the pointed steel into his sides, and galloped off at a desperate pace. The lady, leaning on the balustrades of the bridge, rested there a little space, and then turning slowly towards the door of the keep, disappeared.The two knights commanded a full though distant view of this scene of dumb show, from the part of the rampart where they then stood. Assueton turned his eyes with compassion upon his friend to observe its effect upon him. He was standing like a marble statue, still gazing on the spot where it had been acted—his eyes fixed in his head as with apathetical stupor. At length, after remaining in the same attitude for several minutes, he struck his forehead violently with the palms[74]of his hands, and addressing his friend in hurried accents—“Assueton, Assueton,” said he, “didst thou see? didst thou mark! Oh, woman, woman, woman! But it mattereth not. Assueton, let our horses be ordered; I will forth with thee for Scotland even now; ay, even now. Thou wert indeed right, my friend; there is more of thorns than of roses about them all. Thou wert wise, Assueton; but I am cured now—nay, I am as sane as thyself. Our horses, Assueton—our squires and cortege. Let us not lose a moment; we may despatch good store of Scottish miles ere we sleep.”“Nay, let us not be guilty of doing violence to the courtesy of knighthood,” replied Assueton; “Sir Walter de Selby hath used much fair hospitality towards us. It beseems us not to leave Norham Castle without giving thanks to the good old governor in person, and bidding him adieu. Besides, ’twere as well, methinks, to go with less suspicious haste, lest we may be misjudged; and, indeed, Sir Walter can have hardly left his couch as yet.”“Ay, ay, true—thou sayest true, my friend,” said Hepborne, interrupting him keenly. “I had forgotten. Her father not yet astir, and she taking leave of her lover so tenderly at such an hour. Oh, damnable! He came, doubtless, last night, and has been i’ the keep without the old man’s knowledge. So, all her deep and long drawn suspires were but the offspring of her fears lest her leman should break faith.”“Come, come, Hepborne, my bel ami, compose thyself,” said Sir John; “thou must not let this appear within; ’tis but a short hour sacrificed to common civility, and then let us boune us for Scotland.”“Thou sayest well, Assueton,” said Hepborne, recollecting himself after a short pause, during which he sighed deeply; “I must endeavour to command myself; my passion too much enchafeth me. The good old man hath indeed been to us kindness itself. How cruel that he should be so deceived in his daughter! I pity him from the bottom of my soul. My wounds will soon be healed—war-toil must be their confecture; but his, alas! are yet to be opened, for now they do fester all unwist to him, and when they do burst forth, I fear me they may well out his life’s blood. But come,” added he, rousing himself, “let’s in.”They turned their steps towards the keep, but before they had descended from the ramparts their ears were struck with the sound of a bugle, and as they looked over the walls they descried a long cavalcade of knights, esquires, grooms, lacqueys,[75]and spearmen, advancing with lances and pennons up the hollow way leading towards the outer gate of the Castle. The party soon came thundering over the drawbridge, and were saluted by the guards as they passed. At the head of the troop rode the proud Sir Rafe Piersie. The array of the very meanest of his people was magnificent; but his armour and his horse-gear shone like the sun, and glittered with the splendour of their embossments. They passed into the inner courtyard; loud rang the bugle of announcement, and the ear was assailed by the neighing of hot steeds, the clattering and pawing of impatient hoofs, the champing of foam-covered bits, the jingling of chains, and the clinking of spurs; whilst a rout of soldiers and grooms, with Master Thomas Turnberry at their head, ran clustering around them. The squires of the Castle, with the hoary seneschal and a host of lacqueys, came forth from the keep, and ushered in Sir Rafe Piersie and his suite.Hepborne and Assueton soon afterwards followed, and, on reaching the banquet-hall, they found Sir Walter de Selby in the act of receiving and welcoming his newly-arrived guest, whose supercilious air, when addressing the plain, honest old soldier by no means prepossessed the two Scottish knights in his favour. Sir Walter introduced them to Piersie, and he received them with the same offensive hauteur. There is something in such a deportment that provokes even the humble man to put on haughtiness. Hepborne, from late events, was not prepared to be in the most condescending humour, so that he failed not to carry his head fully three inches higher than he had done since he became an inmate of the Castle of Norham. Nor was Assueton at all behind him in stateliness.The table was covered with the morning’s meal, and but little conversation passed during the time it was going on. Sir Walter de Selby seemed to be more reserved, and even less disposed to risk his words than he had been the previous night.“I marvel much, Sir Governor,” said Sir Rafe Piersie with a haughty sneer—“Methinks ’tis marvellously strange, I say, that thou hast as yet said nothing touching the object of the visit I have thus paid thee. Am I, or am I not, to have this girl of thine? Depardieux, there hath been more ambassage about this affair than might have brought home and wedded a queen of England. The damsel, I am informed, knew not her own mind, and thou were weak enough to suffer thyself to be blown about by her wayward whimsies; but my kinsman, the Bishop of Durham, tells me that, having at last brought thine own determination up to the proper point, thou art finally resolved[76]she shall be mine. Marry, a matter of great exertion, truly, to accept of Sir Rafe Piersie as a husband for Eleanore de Selby!”“My mind has indeed been made up, Sir Rafe Piersie,” said the old knight, “and would to Heaven, beausir, that it could have been made up differently; for, certes, it doleth me sorely to be driven to answer thee as I must of needscost do. I should not have broached this matter till privacy had put the seal on our converse: but, since thou hast opened it, I am forced to tell thee that, since I saw the Bishop of Durham, obstacles have appeared which render it impossible for me to give thee my daughter, the Lady Eleanore, to wife. She is affianced to another.”“So,” thought Hepborne, the ideas passing rapidly through his mind, “her father knows of the attachment between her and the knight who left her this morning. Then, perhaps, she has been less to blame than I thought; yet why were her words and manner such, last night, towards me, as to mislead me into the idea that I had reason to hope? Oh, deceitful woman, never satisfied with the success of thy springes as long as there is a foolish bird to catch. So! thou must have me limed to? But, grammercy, I have escaped thy toils.”Such were Hepborne’s thoughts; but what Sir Rafe Piersie’s were during the pause of astonishment he was thrown into, may be best gathered from the utterance he gave them.“What is this I hear? has a limb of the noble Piersie been brought here to be insulted? Thou art a false old papelarde; and were it not for those hoary hairs of thine, by the beard of St. Barnabas, I would brain thee with this gauntlet;” and saying so, he dashed it down on the board, making it ring again.Hepborne and Assueton both started up, and stretched out their hands eagerly to seize it.“Ah, thou art always lucky, Hepborne,” said Assueton, much disappointed to see that his friend had snatched it before him.“Sir Rafe Piersie,” said Hepborne, “in behalf of this good old knight, whom thou hast so grossly insulted at his own board, I defy thee to instant and mortal debate; and in thy teeth I return the opprobrious epithets thou didst dare to throw in his face; and here, I say, thou liest!” and with these words he threw down his gauntlet.“And who art thou?” said his antagonist, taking it up; “who art thou, young cockerel, who crowest so loud? By St. George, but thou showest small share of wisdom to pit thyself thus against Sir Rafe Piersie. But fear not, thou shalt have thy[77]will. Was thy darreigne for instant fight, saidst thou? In God’s name, let us to horse then without farther parley. Let Sir Richard de Lacy here, and thine eager friend there, be the judges of the field; and as for the place, the Norham meadow below will do as well for thine overthrow as any other; thou wilt have easy galloping ere thou dost meet it. What, defy Sir Rafe Piersie to combat of outrance, and give him the lie, too! Thou art doomed, young man, thou art doomed; thine insolence hath put thee beyond the pale of my mercy. By the holy Rood, thou must be the young cock-sparrow the old dotard hath chosen as a mate for his pretty popelot, else thou never couldst have been so bold.”“I am not so fortunate,” replied Hepborne, with calm and courteous manner.“And what may thy name and title be, then?” demanded Piersie, with yet greater hauteur.“My name,” replied he, with a dignified bow, “is Sir Patrick Hepborne.”“Ha! then, by my faith, thou hast some good Northern blood in thee,” replied Piersie; “thou art less unworthy of my lance than I did ween thou wert. Thy father is a right doughty Scot; and, if I mistake not, I have heard of some deeds of thine done in France, which have made thine honours and renomie to bud and buxion rathely. But ’tis a warm climate they have sprouted in, and such early and unnatural shoots are wont to be air-drawn and unhealthy; and albeit they may vegetate under the more southern sun, they are often withered by the blasts of the North as soon as they appear amongst us. But come, come, my horse, Delaval—my horse and gear, I say;” and, leaving the hall hastily, he sought a chamber where he might prepare himself for single combat.
Sir John Assueton was early astir next morning, for his head was so filled with the remembrance of those friends and scenes of his youth, he now hoped to revisit after a long absence, that he was impatient to depart from Norham Castle. He had already given orders to the squires to hold themselves in readiness, and he had visited the stable, where Blanche-etoile neighed a recognition to his master, and was spoken to with the kindness of a friend. The knight then ascended the ramparts to enjoy a short promenade; and there he was soon afterwards joined by Hepborne, who came springing towards him, urged by an unusual flow of spirits.
“Good morrow, Hepborne,” said Assueton; “I am glad to see thee so alert this morning. I have looked at our steeds;[71]they are as courageous as lions, and as gamesome as kids. They will carry us into Scotland with as much spirit as we shall ride them thither. After breaking our fast, and bestowing our meed of thanks on the good old knight for his hospitality, we may yet make our way o’er many a good mile of Scottish ground ere yonder new-born sun shall sink in the west.”
“Nay, my dear Assueton,” said Hepborne, “what need hast thou for such haste? Hadst thou some fair damsel in Scotland—some lady bright, who, with her swan-like neck stretched towards the mid-day sun, looketh day after day from her lofty towernet, with anxious eyes, in the hope of descrying thee, her true and constant Knight—hadst thou such a fair one as this, I say, impatience might indeed become thee; but what reason hast thou, despiser of the lovely sex as thou art, to long for a change of position? By the Rood of St. Andrew, I begin to believe that thou art no such woman-hater as thou wouldst pretend, and that all this seeming coldness of thine is nothing but thy laudable constancy to some Scottish maid, who hath thine early-pledged vows of love in keeping.”
“Thou art welcome to rally me as it may please thee, Hepborne,” replied Assueton, with a smile: “but, on the faith and honour of my knighthood, I have not seen the maiden for whom I would go three ells from my intended path, except for common knightly courtesy, or to redress some grievous wrong. Nay, nay, thou knowest my natural duresse—that my heart is adamant to all such weak impressions. Perdie, I cannot understand how any such affect the good, hardy, soldier-like bosom, though I do observe the melancholy truth exampled forth, in daily occurrence, with those around me. But I perceive thy drift, my politic friend. To assail is the best tactique against being assailed. Thou camest forth conscience-stricken, and being well aware that thy foolish fondness of this masquing damosel of the Castle here would come under my gentle lash, to divert the attack against thyself, thou dost begin to skirmish against me. But I see well enow ’tis the Lady Eleanore’s attraction that would keep thee here.”
“It is e’en so, I candidly confess it,” replied Hepborne. “I candidly confess it, dost mark me? so, throwing myself at thy feet, I cry for quarter.”
“Nay, an thou dost disarm me thus,” replied Assueton, “I can say no more.”
“Oh, Assueton, Assueton, my bel ami,” said Hepborne, enthusiastically, “I was the happiest of human beings last night. I did indeed meet her on the ramparts. Old Adam of Gordon[72]was a good seer; nay, perchance, though as to that I know not, he may have been Cupid’s messenger. Yet, hold! Depardieux, I do her most foul wrong in so supposing; for she hath too much maiden modesty to have been guilty of so much boldness. But, be that as it may, her words—her looks—were kind and most encouraging. She did blushingly confess that her heart had known no other affection than that which she bears towards her venerable father. She half admitted that I was not altogether indifferent to her; she did utter a hope that we should remain her father’s guests for some longer space; yea, and she even admitted that to see me again would give her pleasure. Then her accents were so sweet, and her demeanour so gentle—Oh, Assueton, she is in very truth an angel! But what is all this to thee, thou Knight of Adamant? I forgot that I might as well speak to the stones of these walls of amorets and love passages, as to Sir John Assueton.”
“Thou art right, i’ faith, Hepborne,” replied Assueton; “they say walls have ears, whilst I, in good earnest, may with truth enow be said to have none for such matters, since they do irk whenever the theme of love is handled in their hearing. Yet my friendship for thee bids me listen to thy ravings, and compassion for thy disease makes me watch the progress of its symptoms, as I should do those of any other fever. From all thou hast said, then, I would gather that thou wouldst fain loiter off another day or two, to catch fresh smiles and deeper wounds from the Lady Eleanore. Is’t not so, Hepborne?”
“In truth, Assueton,” replied Sir Patrick, “her whole deportment towards me last night hath buoyed me up with hope, yea, and hath even led me to flatter myself that I am not indifferent to her, Scot though I be. At so critical a period, then, I cannot go, my dear Assueton; and I am sure thy good nature will never allow thee to abandon thy friend in the crisis of his distemper.”
“No, Hepborne,” said Assueton, laughing, “I shall certainly not be so little of a Christian knight as to abandon thee when thine estate is so dangerous. Well, then, I must wait thy time, I suppose. But parfoy I must have some rounds of the tiltyard, were it but to joust at the quintaine, or Blanche-etoile and I too will lose our occupation. Wilt thou not take a turn with me for exercise? But soft—I need not talk to thee of any such thing, for yonder comes the cause of thy malady.”
“By St. Dennis, it is she indeed!” exclaimed Hepborne: “that is the very mantle she wore. But who is that cavalier[73]on whose arm she hangs so freely?” added he with a jealous tone and air.
“St. Genevieve! but he is a tall, proper, handsome knight,” said Assueton.
“Pshaw?” said Hepborne pettishly, “I see nothing handsome about him; meseems he hath the air of a sturdy swineherd.”
“Is not that the Lady Eleanore de Selby?” inquired Assueton of a sentinel who walked on the ramparts at some little distance from where the knights then stood.
“Ay, in truth, it is she,” replied the man, stopping to look at her.
“And who may yonder knight be with whom she holds converse?” demanded Hepborne eagerly.
“By the mass, I know not, Sir Knight,” replied the man as he turned to tread back his measured pace; “I never saw him before, that I knows on.”
But notwithstanding the unfavourable remark which jealousy had made Hepborne cast on the stranger’s appearance, he could not help secretly confessing that the knight with whom the Lady Eleanore had come forth from the keep, and on whose arm she was now leaning with so little reserve, was indeed very handsome, even noble-looking. An esquire waited for him at the end of the bridge, with two magnificently-caparisoned black horses. The lady seemed to be a drag on his steps, and to keep him back, as it were, with a thousand last words, as if with a desire of prolonging the few remaining minutes of their converse. On his part he displayed signs of the tenderest affection for her; and after they had crossed the bridge tardily together, she threw herself upon his mailed neck, and he enfolded her in his arms, both remaining locked together for some moments in a last embrace. The warrior then tore himself from her, and vaulting on his steed, struck the pointed steel into his sides, and galloped off at a desperate pace. The lady, leaning on the balustrades of the bridge, rested there a little space, and then turning slowly towards the door of the keep, disappeared.
The two knights commanded a full though distant view of this scene of dumb show, from the part of the rampart where they then stood. Assueton turned his eyes with compassion upon his friend to observe its effect upon him. He was standing like a marble statue, still gazing on the spot where it had been acted—his eyes fixed in his head as with apathetical stupor. At length, after remaining in the same attitude for several minutes, he struck his forehead violently with the palms[74]of his hands, and addressing his friend in hurried accents—“Assueton, Assueton,” said he, “didst thou see? didst thou mark! Oh, woman, woman, woman! But it mattereth not. Assueton, let our horses be ordered; I will forth with thee for Scotland even now; ay, even now. Thou wert indeed right, my friend; there is more of thorns than of roses about them all. Thou wert wise, Assueton; but I am cured now—nay, I am as sane as thyself. Our horses, Assueton—our squires and cortege. Let us not lose a moment; we may despatch good store of Scottish miles ere we sleep.”
“Nay, let us not be guilty of doing violence to the courtesy of knighthood,” replied Assueton; “Sir Walter de Selby hath used much fair hospitality towards us. It beseems us not to leave Norham Castle without giving thanks to the good old governor in person, and bidding him adieu. Besides, ’twere as well, methinks, to go with less suspicious haste, lest we may be misjudged; and, indeed, Sir Walter can have hardly left his couch as yet.”
“Ay, ay, true—thou sayest true, my friend,” said Hepborne, interrupting him keenly. “I had forgotten. Her father not yet astir, and she taking leave of her lover so tenderly at such an hour. Oh, damnable! He came, doubtless, last night, and has been i’ the keep without the old man’s knowledge. So, all her deep and long drawn suspires were but the offspring of her fears lest her leman should break faith.”
“Come, come, Hepborne, my bel ami, compose thyself,” said Sir John; “thou must not let this appear within; ’tis but a short hour sacrificed to common civility, and then let us boune us for Scotland.”
“Thou sayest well, Assueton,” said Hepborne, recollecting himself after a short pause, during which he sighed deeply; “I must endeavour to command myself; my passion too much enchafeth me. The good old man hath indeed been to us kindness itself. How cruel that he should be so deceived in his daughter! I pity him from the bottom of my soul. My wounds will soon be healed—war-toil must be their confecture; but his, alas! are yet to be opened, for now they do fester all unwist to him, and when they do burst forth, I fear me they may well out his life’s blood. But come,” added he, rousing himself, “let’s in.”
They turned their steps towards the keep, but before they had descended from the ramparts their ears were struck with the sound of a bugle, and as they looked over the walls they descried a long cavalcade of knights, esquires, grooms, lacqueys,[75]and spearmen, advancing with lances and pennons up the hollow way leading towards the outer gate of the Castle. The party soon came thundering over the drawbridge, and were saluted by the guards as they passed. At the head of the troop rode the proud Sir Rafe Piersie. The array of the very meanest of his people was magnificent; but his armour and his horse-gear shone like the sun, and glittered with the splendour of their embossments. They passed into the inner courtyard; loud rang the bugle of announcement, and the ear was assailed by the neighing of hot steeds, the clattering and pawing of impatient hoofs, the champing of foam-covered bits, the jingling of chains, and the clinking of spurs; whilst a rout of soldiers and grooms, with Master Thomas Turnberry at their head, ran clustering around them. The squires of the Castle, with the hoary seneschal and a host of lacqueys, came forth from the keep, and ushered in Sir Rafe Piersie and his suite.
Hepborne and Assueton soon afterwards followed, and, on reaching the banquet-hall, they found Sir Walter de Selby in the act of receiving and welcoming his newly-arrived guest, whose supercilious air, when addressing the plain, honest old soldier by no means prepossessed the two Scottish knights in his favour. Sir Walter introduced them to Piersie, and he received them with the same offensive hauteur. There is something in such a deportment that provokes even the humble man to put on haughtiness. Hepborne, from late events, was not prepared to be in the most condescending humour, so that he failed not to carry his head fully three inches higher than he had done since he became an inmate of the Castle of Norham. Nor was Assueton at all behind him in stateliness.
The table was covered with the morning’s meal, and but little conversation passed during the time it was going on. Sir Walter de Selby seemed to be more reserved, and even less disposed to risk his words than he had been the previous night.
“I marvel much, Sir Governor,” said Sir Rafe Piersie with a haughty sneer—“Methinks ’tis marvellously strange, I say, that thou hast as yet said nothing touching the object of the visit I have thus paid thee. Am I, or am I not, to have this girl of thine? Depardieux, there hath been more ambassage about this affair than might have brought home and wedded a queen of England. The damsel, I am informed, knew not her own mind, and thou were weak enough to suffer thyself to be blown about by her wayward whimsies; but my kinsman, the Bishop of Durham, tells me that, having at last brought thine own determination up to the proper point, thou art finally resolved[76]she shall be mine. Marry, a matter of great exertion, truly, to accept of Sir Rafe Piersie as a husband for Eleanore de Selby!”
“My mind has indeed been made up, Sir Rafe Piersie,” said the old knight, “and would to Heaven, beausir, that it could have been made up differently; for, certes, it doleth me sorely to be driven to answer thee as I must of needscost do. I should not have broached this matter till privacy had put the seal on our converse: but, since thou hast opened it, I am forced to tell thee that, since I saw the Bishop of Durham, obstacles have appeared which render it impossible for me to give thee my daughter, the Lady Eleanore, to wife. She is affianced to another.”
“So,” thought Hepborne, the ideas passing rapidly through his mind, “her father knows of the attachment between her and the knight who left her this morning. Then, perhaps, she has been less to blame than I thought; yet why were her words and manner such, last night, towards me, as to mislead me into the idea that I had reason to hope? Oh, deceitful woman, never satisfied with the success of thy springes as long as there is a foolish bird to catch. So! thou must have me limed to? But, grammercy, I have escaped thy toils.”
Such were Hepborne’s thoughts; but what Sir Rafe Piersie’s were during the pause of astonishment he was thrown into, may be best gathered from the utterance he gave them.
“What is this I hear? has a limb of the noble Piersie been brought here to be insulted? Thou art a false old papelarde; and were it not for those hoary hairs of thine, by the beard of St. Barnabas, I would brain thee with this gauntlet;” and saying so, he dashed it down on the board, making it ring again.
Hepborne and Assueton both started up, and stretched out their hands eagerly to seize it.
“Ah, thou art always lucky, Hepborne,” said Assueton, much disappointed to see that his friend had snatched it before him.
“Sir Rafe Piersie,” said Hepborne, “in behalf of this good old knight, whom thou hast so grossly insulted at his own board, I defy thee to instant and mortal debate; and in thy teeth I return the opprobrious epithets thou didst dare to throw in his face; and here, I say, thou liest!” and with these words he threw down his gauntlet.
“And who art thou?” said his antagonist, taking it up; “who art thou, young cockerel, who crowest so loud? By St. George, but thou showest small share of wisdom to pit thyself thus against Sir Rafe Piersie. But fear not, thou shalt have thy[77]will. Was thy darreigne for instant fight, saidst thou? In God’s name, let us to horse then without farther parley. Let Sir Richard de Lacy here, and thine eager friend there, be the judges of the field; and as for the place, the Norham meadow below will do as well for thine overthrow as any other; thou wilt have easy galloping ere thou dost meet it. What, defy Sir Rafe Piersie to combat of outrance, and give him the lie, too! Thou art doomed, young man, thou art doomed; thine insolence hath put thee beyond the pale of my mercy. By the holy Rood, thou must be the young cock-sparrow the old dotard hath chosen as a mate for his pretty popelot, else thou never couldst have been so bold.”
“I am not so fortunate,” replied Hepborne, with calm and courteous manner.
“And what may thy name and title be, then?” demanded Piersie, with yet greater hauteur.
“My name,” replied he, with a dignified bow, “is Sir Patrick Hepborne.”
“Ha! then, by my faith, thou hast some good Northern blood in thee,” replied Piersie; “thou art less unworthy of my lance than I did ween thou wert. Thy father is a right doughty Scot; and, if I mistake not, I have heard of some deeds of thine done in France, which have made thine honours and renomie to bud and buxion rathely. But ’tis a warm climate they have sprouted in, and such early and unnatural shoots are wont to be air-drawn and unhealthy; and albeit they may vegetate under the more southern sun, they are often withered by the blasts of the North as soon as they appear amongst us. But come, come, my horse, Delaval—my horse and gear, I say;” and, leaving the hall hastily, he sought a chamber where he might prepare himself for single combat.