TheWolfe of Badenoch.

[Contents]TheWolfe of Badenoch.CHAPTER I.The Scottish Knights—Journeying Homewards—The Hostelry of Norham Towers.It was in the latter part of the fourteenth century that Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton—two young Scottish knights, who had been serving their novitiate of chivalry under the banners of Charles the Sixth of France, and who had bled their maiden lances against the Flemings at Rosebarque—were hastening towards the Border separating England from their native country. A truce then subsisting betwixt the kingdoms that divided Britain had enabled the two friends to land in Kent, whence they were permitted to prosecute their journey through the dominions of Richard II., attended by a circumscribed retinue of some ten or a dozen horsemen.“These tedious leagues of English ground seem to lengthen under our travel,” said Sir John Assueton, breaking a silence that was stealing upon their march with the descending shades of evening. “Dost thou not long for one cheering glance of the silver Tweed, ere its stream shall have been forsaken by the last glimmer of twilight?”“In sooth, I should be well contented to behold it,” replied Hepborne. “The night droops fast, and our jaded palfreys already lag their ears from weariness. Even our unbacked war-steeds, albeit they have carried no heavier burden than their trappings, have natheless lost some deal of their morning’s metal, and, judging from their sobered paces, methinks they would gladly exchange their gay chamfronts for the more vulgar hempen-halters of some well-littered stable.”[18]“Depardieux, but I have mine own sympathy with them,” said Assueton. “Saidst thou not that we should lie at Norham to-night?”“Methought to cast the time and the distance so,” replied Hepborne; “and by those lights that twinkle from yonder dark mass, rising against that yellow streak in the sky, I should judge that I have not greatly missed in meting our day’s journey to that of the sun. Look between those groups of trees—nay, more to the right, over that swelling bank—that, if I mistake not, is the keep of Norham Castle, and those are doubtless the torches of the warders moving along the battlements. The watch must be setting ere this. Let us put on.”“Thou dost not mean to crave hospitality from the captain of the strength, dost thou?” demanded Assueton.“Such was my purpose,” replied Hepborne; “and the rather, that the good old knight, Sir Walter de Selby, hath a fair fame for being no churlish host.”“Nay, if thou lovest me, Hepborne, let us shun the Castle,” said Assueton. “I have, ’tis true, heard of this same Sir Walter de Selby; and the world lies if he be not, indeed, as thou sayst, a hospitable old knight. But they say he hath damsels about him; and thou knowest I love not to doff mine armour only to don the buckram of etiquette; and to have mine invention put upon the rack to minister to woman’s vanity. Let us then to the village hostel, I entreat thee.”“This strange unknightly disease of thine doth grow on thee, Assueton,” said Hepborne, laughing. “I have, indeed, heard that the widowed Sir Walter was left with one peerless daughter, who is doubtless the pride of her father’s hall; nay, I confess to thee, my friend, that the much-bruited tale of her beauty hath had its own share in begetting my desire to lodge me in Norham; but since thou wilt have it so, I am content to pleasure thee, trusting that this my ready penance of self-denial may count against the heavy score of my sins. But stay;—What may this be that lies fluttering here among the gorse?”“Meseems it a wounded hawk,” said Assueton, stooping from his horse to look at it.“In truth, ’tis indeed a fair falcon,” said Hepborne’s esquire, Mortimer Sang, as he dismounted to pick it up. “He gasps as if he were dying. Ha! by’r Lady, but he hath nommed a plump partridge; see here, it is dead in his talons.”“He hath perchance come by some hurt in the swooping,” said Hepborne; “Canst thou discover any wound in him?”“Nay, I can see nothing amiss in him,” replied Sang.[19]“I’ll warrant me, a well-reclaimed falcon,” said Hepborne, taking him from his esquire; “ay, and the pet of some fair damsel too, if I may guess from his silken jesses. But hold—he reviveth. I will put him here in the bosom of my surcoat, and so foster the small spark of life that may yet remain in him.”At this moment their attention was arrested by the sound of voices; and, by the meagre light that now remained, they could descry two ladies, mounted on palfreys, and followed by two or three male attendants, who came slowly from behind a wooded knoll, a little to the left of the path before them. Their eyes were thrown on the ground, and they seemed to be earnestly engaged in looking for something they had lost.“Alas, my poor bird!” said one of the ladies, “I fear I shall never see thee more.”“Mary, ’tis vain to look for him by this lack of light,” said an esquire.“Do thou thy duty and seek for him, Master Turnberry,” said the second lady, in a haughty tone.“A murrain on’t!” said the esquire again; “this comes of casting a hawk at a fowl at sundown.”“I tell thee he must be hereabouts,” said the second lady again; “it was over these trees that I saw him stoop.”“Stoop! ay, I’ll be sworn I saw him stoop,” said the esquire. “But an I saw him not dash his brains ’gainst one of those gnarled elms, my name is not Thomas, and I have no eyes for falconry. He’s amortised, I promise thee.”“Silence, Master Turnberry,” said the same lady again; “thou givest thy tongue larger license than doth well beseem thee.”“By the Rood, but ’tis well to call silence,” replied the esquire, sulkily, “and to me too who did verily steal these two hours’ sport of hawking for thee at mine own proper peril.”“Ay, stolen indeed were they on thy part, Master Turnberry,” replied the same lady; “but forget not that they were honestly bought of thee on ours.”“Nay, then, bought or not,” said the esquire, “the last nail’s breadth of thy merchandize hath been unrolled to thee. We must e’en clip short, and haste us to Norham, else will Sir Walter’s grey beard become redder than a comet’s tail with ire. Thou knowest this has been but a testy day with him.”“Peace with thy impudence, sir knave,” said the same lady hotly. “Dost thou dare thus to speak in presence of the Lady Eleanore de Selby? A greybeard’s ire shall never——”[20]“Nay, talk not so,” said the first lady, mildly interrupting her. “The honest squire equeary hath reason. Though it grieveth me to lose my poor falcon thus, we must e’en give him up, and haste us to the Castle.”“Stay, stay, fair damsel,” cried Hepborne, urging his steed forward from the hollow bushy path where he and his party had hitherto remained concealed, from dread of alarming the ladies, a precaution which he now entirely forgot in his eagerness to approach her, whose person and manners had already bewitched him. “Stay, stay—fly not, lady—your hawk—your falcon!”But the sudden appearance of armed men had so filled the ladies with alarm, that they had fled at his first word; and he now saw himself opposed by sturdy Squire Turnberry, who being too much taken by surprise to catch the knight’s meaning, and taking it for granted that his purpose was hostile, wheeled his horse round, and planting himself firmly in the midst of the path, at the head of the grooms, couched his hunting-spear, as if determined to prevent pursuit.“What, ho! sir stranger knight—what seek ye, in the fiend’s name?” demanded the squire, sternly.“Credit me no evil,” said Sir Patrick. “It galleth me sore that mine intemperate rudeness should have so frayed these beauteous damsels. Mine intent was but to restore the fair lady’s lost falcon, the which it was our chance to pick up in this hollow way. He had ta’en some unseen hurt in swooping at this partridge, which he had nommed.”“Nay, by the mass, but I thought as much,” said the squire.“Tell the lovely mistress of this fair bird, that Sir Patrick Hepborne willingly submits him to what penance she may enjoin for the alarm he caused her,” said the knight; “and tell, too, that he gave life to her expiring falcon, by cherishing it in his bosom.”“I give thee thanks in mine own name, and that of the lady who owneth the hawk,” said the esquire. “Trust me, thy sin will be forgotten in the signal service thou hast done her. The bird, methinks, rouseth him as if there were no longer evil in him.”“Yea, he proyneth and manteleth him as if rejoicing that he shall again embrace his lady’s wrist with his sengles,” said the knight. “Happy bird! depardieux, but he is to be envied. Tell his fair mistress, that if the small service it hath been my good fortune to render her, may merit aught of boon at her hands, let my reward be mine enlistment in that host of gallant knights who may have vowed devotion to her will.”[21]“Sir Knight,” said the squire, “I will bear thy courteous message to her who owneth the falcon; and if I tarry not longer to give the greater store of thanks, ’tis that the Lady Eleanore de Selby hath spurred away so fast, that I must have a fiend’s flight if I can catch her.” And turning his horse with these words he tarried not for further parlance.“’Tis a strange adventure, Assueton,” said Hepborne to his friend, as they pursued their journey; “to meet thus with the peerless Eleanore de Selby at the very moment she formed the subject of our discourse.”“’Tis whimsical enow,” said Assueton, drily; “yet it is nothing marvellous.”“Albeit that the growing darkness left me but to guess at the excellence of her features, from the elegance of her person,” continued Hepborne, “yet do I confess myself more than half enamoured of her by very intuition. Didst thou observe that her attendant who talked so forwardly, though not devoid of grace, showed in her superior presence but as a mere mortal beside a goddess?”“Nay,” replied Assueton, “though I do rarely measure or weigh the points of women, and am more versant in those of a battle-steed, yet methought that the attendant, as thou callest her, had the more noble port of the two.”“Fie on thy judgment, Assueton,” cried Hepborne; “to prefer the saucy, pert demeanour of an over-indulged hand-maid, to the dignified deportment of gentle birth. The Lady Eleanore de Selby—she, I mean, in the reddish-coloured mantle, she who wept for the hawk—was as far above her companion in the elegance of her air, as heaven is above earth.”“May be so,” replied Assueton with perfect indifference. “’Tis a question not worth the mooting.”“To thee, perhaps, it may be of little interest,” said Hepborne; “but I could be well contented to be permitted to solve it in Norham Castle. Why wert thou born with feelings so much at war with what beseemeth a knight, as to make thee eschew all converse with those fair beings, the sun of whose beauty shineth but to brace up the otherwise damp and flaccid nerves of chivalrous adventure?”“Nay, thou mightest as well demand of me why my raven locks are not as fair as thine,” said Assueton with a smile; “yea, or bid him who is born blind to will to see.”“By Saint Baldrid, but I do pity thee as much as if thou wert blind,” said Hepborne. “Nay, what is it but to be blind, yea, to want every sense, to be thus unmoved with——”[22]“Ha! see where the broad bosom of Tweed at last glads our eyes, glistening yonder with the pale light that still lingers in the west,” exclaimed Assueton, overjoyed to avail himself of so happy an opportunity of interrupting his friend’s harangue.“Yonder farther shadowy bank is Scotland—our country,” cried Hepborne, with deep feeling.“God’s blessing on her hardy soil!” said Assueton, with enthusiasm.“Amen!” said Hepborne. “To her shall we henceforth devote our arms, long enow wielded in foreign broils, where, in truth, heart did hardly go with hand.”“But where lieth the hamlet of Norham?” inquired Assueton.“Seest thou not where a few feeble rays are shed from its scattered tenements on the hither meadow below?” replied Hepborne. “Nay, thou mayest dimly descry the church yonder, sanctified by the shelter it did of erst yield to the blessed remains of the holy St. Cuthbert, what time the impious Danes drove them from Lindisferne.”“But what, methinks, is most to thy present purpose, Sir Knight,” observed Mortimer Sang, “yonder brighter glede proceedeth, if I rightly guess, from the blazing hearth of Master Sylvester Kyle, as thirsty a tapster as ever broached a barrel, and one who, if he be yet alive, hath hardly, I wot, his make on either side the Border, for knavery and sharp wit.”“Pray heaven his sharp wit may not have soured his ale,” muttered Roger Riddel, the laconic esquire of Sir John Assueton.They now hastened down the hollow way that led to the village and soon found themselves in its simple street.“Ay,” exclaimed Sang, “by St. Andrew, but old Kyle’s gate is right hospitably open. I promise ye, ’tis a good omen for Border quiet to find it so. So please thee, Sir Knight, shall I advance and give note of thine approach?”“Do so,” said Hepborne, to the esquire, who immediately cantered forward.“Ho! house there!” cried Sang, halting in the gateway. “Come forth, Monsieur, mine host of the hostel of Norham Tower. Where art thou, Mr. Sylvester Kyle? Where be thine hostlers, drawers, and underskinkers? Why do not all appear to do themselves honour by waiting on two most puissant knights, for I talk not of their esquires, or the other gentlemen soldiers of pregnant prowess, of the very least of whom it were an honour to undo the spur?”[23]By the time that Sang had ended his summons, the party were at the gate, and had leisure to survey the premises. A rude wall of considerable length faced the irregular street of the village, having the gateway in the centre. The thatch-roofed buildings within formed the other three sides of the quadrangular court. Those to the right were occupied as stables, and in those to the left were the kitchen, and various other domestic offices; whilst the middle part was entirely taken up by one large room, from whence gleamed the light of a great fire, that burned on a hearth in the midst, shedding around a common comfort on the motley parties of noisy ale-drinkers seated at different tables.“What, ho! Sylvester, I say—what a murrain keeps thee?” cried Sang, although the portly form of the vintner already appeared within the aperture of the doorway, like a goodly portrait in a frame, his carbuncled face vying in lustre with the red flare of the torch he held high in his hand. “Gramercy, Master Kyle, so thou hast come at last. By the mass, but that paunch of thine is a right fair warrant for the goodness of thine ale, yet it will be well that it do come quicker when it be called for than thou hast.”“Heyday, what a racket thou dost make, gaffer horseman!” cried Kyle. “But the emptiest vessel doth ever make the most din.”“Tut, man, thou hast hit it for once with thy fool’s head,” replied Sang. “I am, as thou sayest, at this present, in very sober earnest, an empty vessel; yea, and for that matter, so are we all. But never trust me and we make not a din till we be filled. The sooner thou stoppest our music, then, the better for thine ears, seeing that if we be forced to pipe thus, and that thou dancest not more quickly to our call, thou mayest perchance lose them.”“By the mass, but thy music is marvellously out of tune, good fellow,” replied the publican. “Thy screeching is like that of a cracked rebeck, the neck of which must be hard griped, and most cruelly pinched, ere its tone be softened. But of what strength is thy company?” continued he, whirling his torch around so as to obtain a general view of the group of horsemen. “By St. Cuthbert, I wish there may be stabling for ye all.”“Stabling for us all, sir knave?” cried Sang; “marry, thou dost speak as if we were a herd of horses.”“Cry you mercy, noble esquire,” rejoined Kyle. “An thou beest an ass, indeed, a halter and a hook at the gate-cheek may[24]serve thy turn, and so peraunter I may find room for the rest.”A smothered laugh among his comrades proclaimed Squire Sang’s defeat. The triumphant host ran to hold Sir Patrick Hepborne’s stirrup.“By the Rood,” cried the squire, as he dismounted, with a good-natured chuckle at his own discomfiture—“by the Rood, but the rogue hath mastered me for this bout. But verily my wit is fasting, whilst his, I warrant, hath the full spirit of his potent ale in’t. Never trust me but I shall be even with him anon.”“Master Kyle,” said Assueton, to their host, as he ushered his guests into the common room, “we should be glad to see some food. The rising sun looked upon our last meal; so bestir thyself, I pr’ythee, goodman, and let us know as soon as may be how we are to fare.”“Room there, sirs, for two valiant knights,” cried Kyle, getting rid of the question by addressing himself to a party seated at a table near the hearth; “room, I say, gentlemen. What, are ye stocks, my masters?”“Nay, treat not the good people so rudely,” said Hepborne, as some eight or ten persons were hastily vacating their places; “there is room enow for all. Go not thou, at least, old man,” continued he, addressing a minstrel who was following the rest,his snowy locks and beard hanging luxuriantly around a countenance which showed all the freshness of a green old age; “sit thee down, I do beseech thee, and vouchsafe us thy winning discourse. Where is the chevalier to whom a bard may not do honour?”The minstrel’s heart was touched by Sir Patrick’s kind words; his full hazel eye beamed on him with gratitude; he put his hand to his breast, and modestly bowed his head.“My time is already spent, most gentle knight,” said he. “Ere this I am looked for at the Castle; yet, ere I go hence, let me drink this cup of thanks for thy courtesy. To thee I wish tender love of fairest lady; and may thy lance, and the lance of thy brave companion, never be couched but to conquer.” And so draining the draught to the bottom, he again bowed, and immediately retired.“So, Master Kyle,” said Assueton to the host, who returned at this moment, after having ascertained the country and quality of his new guests, “what hast thou in thy buttery?”“Of a truth, Sir Knight, we are now but ill provided for sike guests,” replied Kyle. “Had it been thy luck to have sojourned here yestere’en, indeed, I wot ye mought ha’ been feasted.[25]But arrives me my Lord Bishop of Durham at the Castle this morning; down comes me the seneschal with his buttery-men, and whips me off a whole beeve’s carcase; then in pour me the people of my Lord Bishop—clerks, lacqueys, and grooms; bolt goes me a leg of mutton here—crack goes me a venison pasty there—gobble goes me a salmon in this corner, whilst a whole flock of pullets are riven asunder in that; so that there has been nothing from sunrise till sundown but wagging of jaws.”“Marry, these church-followers are wont to be stout knights of the trencher,” said Assueton, with a smile. “But let us have a supper from what may be left thee, and that without more ado.”“Anon, courteous Sir Knight,” said Master Kyle, with a grin. “But, as I was a-saying, there hath been such stuffing; nay ye may know by the clinking of their cans that the rogues drink not fasting. By the mass, ’tis easy to guess from the seas of ale they are swallowing, what mountains of good provender they have to float in their stomachs. Why, yonder lantern-jaws i’ the corner, with a mouth that opens as if he would swallow another Jonas, and wangs like the famine-ground fangs of a starving wolf—that same fellow devoured me a couple of fat capons single-head; and that other churl——”“Have done with thine impertinence, villain, said Assueton, interrupting him; “have done with thine impertinence, I say, and let us straightway have such fare as thou canst give, or by St. Andrew——”“Nay, then, sweet sir,” replied the host, “there be yet reserved some delicate pig’s liver for myself and Mrs. Kyle, but they shall be forthwith cheerfully yielded to thy necessities.”“Pestilence take thee, knave,” cried Assueton, “couldst thou not have set them down to us at once, without stirring up our appetites to greater keenness by thine enumeration of the good things that are gone? Come, come, despatch—our hunger is beyond nicety.”Sir John Assueton now sat down to put in practice that patience of hunger, the exercise of which was one of the chief virtues of knighthood. As for Sir Patrick Hepborne, his attention was so entirely absorbed by a conversation that ensued at the adjoining table, to which the Bishop’s people had retired, that he altogether forgot his wants.“And was it thy luck to see the Lady Eleanore de Selby, Master Barton?” demanded one of the persons of the dialogue; “Fame speaketh largely of her perfections.”[26]“Yea, Foster, I did indeed behold her,” replied the other, who seemed to be a person of more consequence than the rest. “When I entered the Castle-hall this morning, to receive the commands of my Lord the Bishop, she was seated between him and her father. They were alone, and the old knight was urging something to her in round soldier-like terms; but I gathered not the purport of his speech, for he broke off abruptly as I appeared.”“And is she so rare a beauty as folks do call her?” demanded Foster.“Verily, so much loveliness did never bless these eyes before,” replied Barton. “Yet was the sunshine of her face disturbed by clouds. Tear-drops, too, had dimmed the lustre of her charms. But methought they were more the offspring of a haughty spirit than of an afflicted heart.”“Nay, of a truth, they do say that she lacketh not haughtiness,” observed Foster. “’Tis whispered that she hath already scorned some noble knights who would fain have wedded the heiress of the rich Sir Walter de Selby.”“Nay, I warrant me she hath had suitors enow, and those no mean ones,” replied Barton. “What thinkest thou of Sir Rafe Piersie, brother to the gallant Hotspur? Marry, they say that he deigns to woo her with right serious intent.”“Sayest thou so?” exclaimed Foster; “then must the old knight’s gold have glittered in the young knight’s eyes, that a proud-blooded Piersie should even him thus to the daughter of him who is but a soldier of Fortune.”“Ay, and welcome, I ween, would the old knight’s hard-won wealth be to the empty coffers of a younger brother who hath never spared expense,” replied Barton.“Yea, and high, I wot, mought Sir Walter’s hoar head be held with such a gallant for his son-in-law,” observed Foster again.“Trust me,” said Barton, “he would joyfully part with all the golden fruits he hath gleaned from Scottish fields, to see this solitary scion from his old stock grafted on the goodly and towering tree of Northumberland. But they say that the Lady Eleanore is so hard to win, that she even scorns this high alliance; and if I might guess at matters the which to know are beyond my reach, I should say, hark ye, that this visit of our Right Reverend Lord Bishop to Sir Walter de Selby, hath something in it of the nature of an ambassage from the Piersie touching this same affair.”“I do well know our Right Reverend Lord’s affection for that house,” said Foster.[27]“Nay, he doth stand related to the Piersie in no very distant degree,” replied Barton.“Perchance this marriage treaty then had something to do with the lady’s tears,” observed Foster.“Doubtless,” said Barton. “But I mistake if she carrieth not a high brow that will be ill to bend. Her doting father hath been ever too foolishly fond of her to thwart her will, till it hath waxed too strong for his opposing. She will never yield, I promise thee.”“Then hath our Bishop lost his travel,” said Foster. “But when returneth our Reverend Lord homeward?”“His present orders are for to-morrow,” replied Barton.“How sayst thou, Assueton?” said Hepborne, in a whisper to his friend, after the conversation between the two strangers had dropped; “how sayst thou now? Did I right, think ye, to yield to thine importunity, to shun the hospitality of Norham Castle, that we might hostel it so vilely here i’ the nale of the Norham Tower? Dost thou not grieve for thy folly?”“Why, faith,” replied Assueton, “to thee it may be cause of some regret; and I may grieve for thee, seeing that thou, an idolater of woman’s beauty, hast missed worshipping before the footstool of this haughty damsel. Thou mightest have caught a shred of ribbon from her fair hand, perchance, to have been treasured and worn in thy helmet; but, for mine own particular part, I despise such toys. Rough, unribboned steel, and the joyous neighing of my war-steed, are to me more pleasing than the gaudy paraments and puling parlance of love-sick maidens.”“Nay, then, I do confess that my desire to behold this rare beauty hath much grown by what I have heard,” replied Hepborne. “Would that thou hadst been less indolently disposed, my friend. We might have been even now in the Castle; and ere we should have left it, who knows but we might have rescued this distressed damosel from an alliance she detesteth. Even after all these protestations to the contrary, thine icy heart mought have been thawed by the fire of her eyes, and the adventure mought have been thine own.”“St. Andrew forbid!” replied Assueton. “I covet no such emprise. I trust my heart is love-proof. Have I not stood before the lightning-glances of the demoiselles of Paris, and may I not hold my breastplate to be good armour against all else?”“Nay, boast not of this unknightly duresse of thine, Assueton,” replied Hepborne. “Trust me, thou wilt fall when thine hour cometh. But, by St. Baldrid, I would give this golden[28]chain from my neck—nay, I would give ten times its worth, to be blessed with but a sight of her.”“Ay,” said Assueton, “thou art like the moth, and wouldst hover round the lamp-fire till thy wings were singed.”“Pshaw, Sir Adamant,” said Hepborne, “thou knowest I have skimmed through many a festal hall, blazing with bright eyes, and yet are my opinions as whole as thine. But I am not insensible to woman’s charms as thou art; and to behold so bright a star, perdie, I should care little to risk being scorched by coming within the range of its rays.”“Nay, then, I do almost repent me that I hindered thee from thy design of quartering in the Castle,” said Assueton. “Thou mightest have levied new war on our ancient and natural foemen, by snatching an affianced bride from the big house of Northumberland.”“Depardieux, but it were indeed a triumph, and worthy of a Scottish knight, to carry off the Lady Eleanore de Selby by her own consent from the proud Piersie,” said Hepborne. “But ’tis well enow to jest of.”Whilst this dialogue was going on between the two friends, their esquires entered the place. Mortimer Sang, after reconnoitring the different tables, and perceiving that there were no convenient places vacant, except at that occupied by the attendants of the Bishop, went towards it, followed by his comrade Roger Riddel.“By your good leave, courteous gentlemen,” said Sang, with a bow, at the same time filling up an empty space with his person; “I hope no objection to our joining your good company? Here, tapster,” cried he, at the same time throwing money on the table, “bring in a flagon of Rhenish, that we may wash away the dryness of new acquaintance.”This cheering introduction of the two esquires was received with a smiling welcome on the part of those to whom it was addressed.“Come ye from the south, Sir Squire?” demanded Barton, after the wine had silently circulated, to the great inward satisfaction of the partakers.“Ay, truly, from the south, indeed,” replied Sang, lifting the flagon to his head.“Then was I right, Richard, after all,” said Barton, addressing one of his fellows. “Did I not tell thee that these strangers had none of the loutish Scot in their gait?”“Loutish Scot!” cried Sang, taking the flagon from his lips, and starting up fiercely; “What mean ye by loutish Scot?”[29]Barton eyed the tall figure, broad chest, and sinewy arms of the Scottish esquire.“Nay, I meant thee not offence, Sir Squire,” replied he.“Ha!” said Sang, regaining his good-humour; “then I take no offence where none is meant. Your Scot and your Southern are born foes to fight in fair field; yet I see no just cause against their drinking together in good fellowship when the times be fitting, albeit they may be called upon anon to crack each other’s sconces in battle broil. Thine hand,” said he, stretching his right across the table to the Bishop’s man, whilst he poised the flagon with his left. “Peraunter thou be’st a soldier, though of a truth that garb of thine would speak thee to be as much of a clerk as an esquire; but, indeed, an thy trade be arms, I am bold to say, that Scotland doth not hold a man who will do thee the petites politesses of the skirmish more handsomely than I shall, should chance ever throw us against each other. Meanwhile my hearty service to thee.”“Spoke like a true man,” said Roger Riddel, taking the flagon from his friend. “Here, tapster, we lack wine.”“Nay, Roger,” said Sang, “but we cannot drink thus fasting. What a murrain keeps that knave with the——Ha! he comes. Why, holy St. Andrew, what meanest thou, villain, by putting down this flinty skim-milk? Caitiff, dost take us for ostriches, to digest iron? Saw I not hogs’ livers a-frying for our supper?”“Nay, good master Squire,” said the flaxen-polled lad of a tapster, “sure mistress says that the livers be meat for your masters.”“Meat for our masters, sirrah!” replied Sang; “and can the hostel of Master Sylvester Kyle, famed from the Borders to the Calais Straits—can this far-famed house, I say, afford nothing better for a brace of Scottish knights, whose renown hath filled the world from Cattiness to the land of Egypt, than a fried hog’s liver? Avoid, sinner, avoid; out of my way, and let me go talk to this same hostess.”So saying, he strode over the bench, and, kicking the rushes before him in his progress towards the door, made directly for the kitchen.

[Contents]TheWolfe of Badenoch.CHAPTER I.The Scottish Knights—Journeying Homewards—The Hostelry of Norham Towers.It was in the latter part of the fourteenth century that Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton—two young Scottish knights, who had been serving their novitiate of chivalry under the banners of Charles the Sixth of France, and who had bled their maiden lances against the Flemings at Rosebarque—were hastening towards the Border separating England from their native country. A truce then subsisting betwixt the kingdoms that divided Britain had enabled the two friends to land in Kent, whence they were permitted to prosecute their journey through the dominions of Richard II., attended by a circumscribed retinue of some ten or a dozen horsemen.“These tedious leagues of English ground seem to lengthen under our travel,” said Sir John Assueton, breaking a silence that was stealing upon their march with the descending shades of evening. “Dost thou not long for one cheering glance of the silver Tweed, ere its stream shall have been forsaken by the last glimmer of twilight?”“In sooth, I should be well contented to behold it,” replied Hepborne. “The night droops fast, and our jaded palfreys already lag their ears from weariness. Even our unbacked war-steeds, albeit they have carried no heavier burden than their trappings, have natheless lost some deal of their morning’s metal, and, judging from their sobered paces, methinks they would gladly exchange their gay chamfronts for the more vulgar hempen-halters of some well-littered stable.”[18]“Depardieux, but I have mine own sympathy with them,” said Assueton. “Saidst thou not that we should lie at Norham to-night?”“Methought to cast the time and the distance so,” replied Hepborne; “and by those lights that twinkle from yonder dark mass, rising against that yellow streak in the sky, I should judge that I have not greatly missed in meting our day’s journey to that of the sun. Look between those groups of trees—nay, more to the right, over that swelling bank—that, if I mistake not, is the keep of Norham Castle, and those are doubtless the torches of the warders moving along the battlements. The watch must be setting ere this. Let us put on.”“Thou dost not mean to crave hospitality from the captain of the strength, dost thou?” demanded Assueton.“Such was my purpose,” replied Hepborne; “and the rather, that the good old knight, Sir Walter de Selby, hath a fair fame for being no churlish host.”“Nay, if thou lovest me, Hepborne, let us shun the Castle,” said Assueton. “I have, ’tis true, heard of this same Sir Walter de Selby; and the world lies if he be not, indeed, as thou sayst, a hospitable old knight. But they say he hath damsels about him; and thou knowest I love not to doff mine armour only to don the buckram of etiquette; and to have mine invention put upon the rack to minister to woman’s vanity. Let us then to the village hostel, I entreat thee.”“This strange unknightly disease of thine doth grow on thee, Assueton,” said Hepborne, laughing. “I have, indeed, heard that the widowed Sir Walter was left with one peerless daughter, who is doubtless the pride of her father’s hall; nay, I confess to thee, my friend, that the much-bruited tale of her beauty hath had its own share in begetting my desire to lodge me in Norham; but since thou wilt have it so, I am content to pleasure thee, trusting that this my ready penance of self-denial may count against the heavy score of my sins. But stay;—What may this be that lies fluttering here among the gorse?”“Meseems it a wounded hawk,” said Assueton, stooping from his horse to look at it.“In truth, ’tis indeed a fair falcon,” said Hepborne’s esquire, Mortimer Sang, as he dismounted to pick it up. “He gasps as if he were dying. Ha! by’r Lady, but he hath nommed a plump partridge; see here, it is dead in his talons.”“He hath perchance come by some hurt in the swooping,” said Hepborne; “Canst thou discover any wound in him?”“Nay, I can see nothing amiss in him,” replied Sang.[19]“I’ll warrant me, a well-reclaimed falcon,” said Hepborne, taking him from his esquire; “ay, and the pet of some fair damsel too, if I may guess from his silken jesses. But hold—he reviveth. I will put him here in the bosom of my surcoat, and so foster the small spark of life that may yet remain in him.”At this moment their attention was arrested by the sound of voices; and, by the meagre light that now remained, they could descry two ladies, mounted on palfreys, and followed by two or three male attendants, who came slowly from behind a wooded knoll, a little to the left of the path before them. Their eyes were thrown on the ground, and they seemed to be earnestly engaged in looking for something they had lost.“Alas, my poor bird!” said one of the ladies, “I fear I shall never see thee more.”“Mary, ’tis vain to look for him by this lack of light,” said an esquire.“Do thou thy duty and seek for him, Master Turnberry,” said the second lady, in a haughty tone.“A murrain on’t!” said the esquire again; “this comes of casting a hawk at a fowl at sundown.”“I tell thee he must be hereabouts,” said the second lady again; “it was over these trees that I saw him stoop.”“Stoop! ay, I’ll be sworn I saw him stoop,” said the esquire. “But an I saw him not dash his brains ’gainst one of those gnarled elms, my name is not Thomas, and I have no eyes for falconry. He’s amortised, I promise thee.”“Silence, Master Turnberry,” said the same lady again; “thou givest thy tongue larger license than doth well beseem thee.”“By the Rood, but ’tis well to call silence,” replied the esquire, sulkily, “and to me too who did verily steal these two hours’ sport of hawking for thee at mine own proper peril.”“Ay, stolen indeed were they on thy part, Master Turnberry,” replied the same lady; “but forget not that they were honestly bought of thee on ours.”“Nay, then, bought or not,” said the esquire, “the last nail’s breadth of thy merchandize hath been unrolled to thee. We must e’en clip short, and haste us to Norham, else will Sir Walter’s grey beard become redder than a comet’s tail with ire. Thou knowest this has been but a testy day with him.”“Peace with thy impudence, sir knave,” said the same lady hotly. “Dost thou dare thus to speak in presence of the Lady Eleanore de Selby? A greybeard’s ire shall never——”[20]“Nay, talk not so,” said the first lady, mildly interrupting her. “The honest squire equeary hath reason. Though it grieveth me to lose my poor falcon thus, we must e’en give him up, and haste us to the Castle.”“Stay, stay, fair damsel,” cried Hepborne, urging his steed forward from the hollow bushy path where he and his party had hitherto remained concealed, from dread of alarming the ladies, a precaution which he now entirely forgot in his eagerness to approach her, whose person and manners had already bewitched him. “Stay, stay—fly not, lady—your hawk—your falcon!”But the sudden appearance of armed men had so filled the ladies with alarm, that they had fled at his first word; and he now saw himself opposed by sturdy Squire Turnberry, who being too much taken by surprise to catch the knight’s meaning, and taking it for granted that his purpose was hostile, wheeled his horse round, and planting himself firmly in the midst of the path, at the head of the grooms, couched his hunting-spear, as if determined to prevent pursuit.“What, ho! sir stranger knight—what seek ye, in the fiend’s name?” demanded the squire, sternly.“Credit me no evil,” said Sir Patrick. “It galleth me sore that mine intemperate rudeness should have so frayed these beauteous damsels. Mine intent was but to restore the fair lady’s lost falcon, the which it was our chance to pick up in this hollow way. He had ta’en some unseen hurt in swooping at this partridge, which he had nommed.”“Nay, by the mass, but I thought as much,” said the squire.“Tell the lovely mistress of this fair bird, that Sir Patrick Hepborne willingly submits him to what penance she may enjoin for the alarm he caused her,” said the knight; “and tell, too, that he gave life to her expiring falcon, by cherishing it in his bosom.”“I give thee thanks in mine own name, and that of the lady who owneth the hawk,” said the esquire. “Trust me, thy sin will be forgotten in the signal service thou hast done her. The bird, methinks, rouseth him as if there were no longer evil in him.”“Yea, he proyneth and manteleth him as if rejoicing that he shall again embrace his lady’s wrist with his sengles,” said the knight. “Happy bird! depardieux, but he is to be envied. Tell his fair mistress, that if the small service it hath been my good fortune to render her, may merit aught of boon at her hands, let my reward be mine enlistment in that host of gallant knights who may have vowed devotion to her will.”[21]“Sir Knight,” said the squire, “I will bear thy courteous message to her who owneth the falcon; and if I tarry not longer to give the greater store of thanks, ’tis that the Lady Eleanore de Selby hath spurred away so fast, that I must have a fiend’s flight if I can catch her.” And turning his horse with these words he tarried not for further parlance.“’Tis a strange adventure, Assueton,” said Hepborne to his friend, as they pursued their journey; “to meet thus with the peerless Eleanore de Selby at the very moment she formed the subject of our discourse.”“’Tis whimsical enow,” said Assueton, drily; “yet it is nothing marvellous.”“Albeit that the growing darkness left me but to guess at the excellence of her features, from the elegance of her person,” continued Hepborne, “yet do I confess myself more than half enamoured of her by very intuition. Didst thou observe that her attendant who talked so forwardly, though not devoid of grace, showed in her superior presence but as a mere mortal beside a goddess?”“Nay,” replied Assueton, “though I do rarely measure or weigh the points of women, and am more versant in those of a battle-steed, yet methought that the attendant, as thou callest her, had the more noble port of the two.”“Fie on thy judgment, Assueton,” cried Hepborne; “to prefer the saucy, pert demeanour of an over-indulged hand-maid, to the dignified deportment of gentle birth. The Lady Eleanore de Selby—she, I mean, in the reddish-coloured mantle, she who wept for the hawk—was as far above her companion in the elegance of her air, as heaven is above earth.”“May be so,” replied Assueton with perfect indifference. “’Tis a question not worth the mooting.”“To thee, perhaps, it may be of little interest,” said Hepborne; “but I could be well contented to be permitted to solve it in Norham Castle. Why wert thou born with feelings so much at war with what beseemeth a knight, as to make thee eschew all converse with those fair beings, the sun of whose beauty shineth but to brace up the otherwise damp and flaccid nerves of chivalrous adventure?”“Nay, thou mightest as well demand of me why my raven locks are not as fair as thine,” said Assueton with a smile; “yea, or bid him who is born blind to will to see.”“By Saint Baldrid, but I do pity thee as much as if thou wert blind,” said Hepborne. “Nay, what is it but to be blind, yea, to want every sense, to be thus unmoved with——”[22]“Ha! see where the broad bosom of Tweed at last glads our eyes, glistening yonder with the pale light that still lingers in the west,” exclaimed Assueton, overjoyed to avail himself of so happy an opportunity of interrupting his friend’s harangue.“Yonder farther shadowy bank is Scotland—our country,” cried Hepborne, with deep feeling.“God’s blessing on her hardy soil!” said Assueton, with enthusiasm.“Amen!” said Hepborne. “To her shall we henceforth devote our arms, long enow wielded in foreign broils, where, in truth, heart did hardly go with hand.”“But where lieth the hamlet of Norham?” inquired Assueton.“Seest thou not where a few feeble rays are shed from its scattered tenements on the hither meadow below?” replied Hepborne. “Nay, thou mayest dimly descry the church yonder, sanctified by the shelter it did of erst yield to the blessed remains of the holy St. Cuthbert, what time the impious Danes drove them from Lindisferne.”“But what, methinks, is most to thy present purpose, Sir Knight,” observed Mortimer Sang, “yonder brighter glede proceedeth, if I rightly guess, from the blazing hearth of Master Sylvester Kyle, as thirsty a tapster as ever broached a barrel, and one who, if he be yet alive, hath hardly, I wot, his make on either side the Border, for knavery and sharp wit.”“Pray heaven his sharp wit may not have soured his ale,” muttered Roger Riddel, the laconic esquire of Sir John Assueton.They now hastened down the hollow way that led to the village and soon found themselves in its simple street.“Ay,” exclaimed Sang, “by St. Andrew, but old Kyle’s gate is right hospitably open. I promise ye, ’tis a good omen for Border quiet to find it so. So please thee, Sir Knight, shall I advance and give note of thine approach?”“Do so,” said Hepborne, to the esquire, who immediately cantered forward.“Ho! house there!” cried Sang, halting in the gateway. “Come forth, Monsieur, mine host of the hostel of Norham Tower. Where art thou, Mr. Sylvester Kyle? Where be thine hostlers, drawers, and underskinkers? Why do not all appear to do themselves honour by waiting on two most puissant knights, for I talk not of their esquires, or the other gentlemen soldiers of pregnant prowess, of the very least of whom it were an honour to undo the spur?”[23]By the time that Sang had ended his summons, the party were at the gate, and had leisure to survey the premises. A rude wall of considerable length faced the irregular street of the village, having the gateway in the centre. The thatch-roofed buildings within formed the other three sides of the quadrangular court. Those to the right were occupied as stables, and in those to the left were the kitchen, and various other domestic offices; whilst the middle part was entirely taken up by one large room, from whence gleamed the light of a great fire, that burned on a hearth in the midst, shedding around a common comfort on the motley parties of noisy ale-drinkers seated at different tables.“What, ho! Sylvester, I say—what a murrain keeps thee?” cried Sang, although the portly form of the vintner already appeared within the aperture of the doorway, like a goodly portrait in a frame, his carbuncled face vying in lustre with the red flare of the torch he held high in his hand. “Gramercy, Master Kyle, so thou hast come at last. By the mass, but that paunch of thine is a right fair warrant for the goodness of thine ale, yet it will be well that it do come quicker when it be called for than thou hast.”“Heyday, what a racket thou dost make, gaffer horseman!” cried Kyle. “But the emptiest vessel doth ever make the most din.”“Tut, man, thou hast hit it for once with thy fool’s head,” replied Sang. “I am, as thou sayest, at this present, in very sober earnest, an empty vessel; yea, and for that matter, so are we all. But never trust me and we make not a din till we be filled. The sooner thou stoppest our music, then, the better for thine ears, seeing that if we be forced to pipe thus, and that thou dancest not more quickly to our call, thou mayest perchance lose them.”“By the mass, but thy music is marvellously out of tune, good fellow,” replied the publican. “Thy screeching is like that of a cracked rebeck, the neck of which must be hard griped, and most cruelly pinched, ere its tone be softened. But of what strength is thy company?” continued he, whirling his torch around so as to obtain a general view of the group of horsemen. “By St. Cuthbert, I wish there may be stabling for ye all.”“Stabling for us all, sir knave?” cried Sang; “marry, thou dost speak as if we were a herd of horses.”“Cry you mercy, noble esquire,” rejoined Kyle. “An thou beest an ass, indeed, a halter and a hook at the gate-cheek may[24]serve thy turn, and so peraunter I may find room for the rest.”A smothered laugh among his comrades proclaimed Squire Sang’s defeat. The triumphant host ran to hold Sir Patrick Hepborne’s stirrup.“By the Rood,” cried the squire, as he dismounted, with a good-natured chuckle at his own discomfiture—“by the Rood, but the rogue hath mastered me for this bout. But verily my wit is fasting, whilst his, I warrant, hath the full spirit of his potent ale in’t. Never trust me but I shall be even with him anon.”“Master Kyle,” said Assueton, to their host, as he ushered his guests into the common room, “we should be glad to see some food. The rising sun looked upon our last meal; so bestir thyself, I pr’ythee, goodman, and let us know as soon as may be how we are to fare.”“Room there, sirs, for two valiant knights,” cried Kyle, getting rid of the question by addressing himself to a party seated at a table near the hearth; “room, I say, gentlemen. What, are ye stocks, my masters?”“Nay, treat not the good people so rudely,” said Hepborne, as some eight or ten persons were hastily vacating their places; “there is room enow for all. Go not thou, at least, old man,” continued he, addressing a minstrel who was following the rest,his snowy locks and beard hanging luxuriantly around a countenance which showed all the freshness of a green old age; “sit thee down, I do beseech thee, and vouchsafe us thy winning discourse. Where is the chevalier to whom a bard may not do honour?”The minstrel’s heart was touched by Sir Patrick’s kind words; his full hazel eye beamed on him with gratitude; he put his hand to his breast, and modestly bowed his head.“My time is already spent, most gentle knight,” said he. “Ere this I am looked for at the Castle; yet, ere I go hence, let me drink this cup of thanks for thy courtesy. To thee I wish tender love of fairest lady; and may thy lance, and the lance of thy brave companion, never be couched but to conquer.” And so draining the draught to the bottom, he again bowed, and immediately retired.“So, Master Kyle,” said Assueton to the host, who returned at this moment, after having ascertained the country and quality of his new guests, “what hast thou in thy buttery?”“Of a truth, Sir Knight, we are now but ill provided for sike guests,” replied Kyle. “Had it been thy luck to have sojourned here yestere’en, indeed, I wot ye mought ha’ been feasted.[25]But arrives me my Lord Bishop of Durham at the Castle this morning; down comes me the seneschal with his buttery-men, and whips me off a whole beeve’s carcase; then in pour me the people of my Lord Bishop—clerks, lacqueys, and grooms; bolt goes me a leg of mutton here—crack goes me a venison pasty there—gobble goes me a salmon in this corner, whilst a whole flock of pullets are riven asunder in that; so that there has been nothing from sunrise till sundown but wagging of jaws.”“Marry, these church-followers are wont to be stout knights of the trencher,” said Assueton, with a smile. “But let us have a supper from what may be left thee, and that without more ado.”“Anon, courteous Sir Knight,” said Master Kyle, with a grin. “But, as I was a-saying, there hath been such stuffing; nay ye may know by the clinking of their cans that the rogues drink not fasting. By the mass, ’tis easy to guess from the seas of ale they are swallowing, what mountains of good provender they have to float in their stomachs. Why, yonder lantern-jaws i’ the corner, with a mouth that opens as if he would swallow another Jonas, and wangs like the famine-ground fangs of a starving wolf—that same fellow devoured me a couple of fat capons single-head; and that other churl——”“Have done with thine impertinence, villain, said Assueton, interrupting him; “have done with thine impertinence, I say, and let us straightway have such fare as thou canst give, or by St. Andrew——”“Nay, then, sweet sir,” replied the host, “there be yet reserved some delicate pig’s liver for myself and Mrs. Kyle, but they shall be forthwith cheerfully yielded to thy necessities.”“Pestilence take thee, knave,” cried Assueton, “couldst thou not have set them down to us at once, without stirring up our appetites to greater keenness by thine enumeration of the good things that are gone? Come, come, despatch—our hunger is beyond nicety.”Sir John Assueton now sat down to put in practice that patience of hunger, the exercise of which was one of the chief virtues of knighthood. As for Sir Patrick Hepborne, his attention was so entirely absorbed by a conversation that ensued at the adjoining table, to which the Bishop’s people had retired, that he altogether forgot his wants.“And was it thy luck to see the Lady Eleanore de Selby, Master Barton?” demanded one of the persons of the dialogue; “Fame speaketh largely of her perfections.”[26]“Yea, Foster, I did indeed behold her,” replied the other, who seemed to be a person of more consequence than the rest. “When I entered the Castle-hall this morning, to receive the commands of my Lord the Bishop, she was seated between him and her father. They were alone, and the old knight was urging something to her in round soldier-like terms; but I gathered not the purport of his speech, for he broke off abruptly as I appeared.”“And is she so rare a beauty as folks do call her?” demanded Foster.“Verily, so much loveliness did never bless these eyes before,” replied Barton. “Yet was the sunshine of her face disturbed by clouds. Tear-drops, too, had dimmed the lustre of her charms. But methought they were more the offspring of a haughty spirit than of an afflicted heart.”“Nay, of a truth, they do say that she lacketh not haughtiness,” observed Foster. “’Tis whispered that she hath already scorned some noble knights who would fain have wedded the heiress of the rich Sir Walter de Selby.”“Nay, I warrant me she hath had suitors enow, and those no mean ones,” replied Barton. “What thinkest thou of Sir Rafe Piersie, brother to the gallant Hotspur? Marry, they say that he deigns to woo her with right serious intent.”“Sayest thou so?” exclaimed Foster; “then must the old knight’s gold have glittered in the young knight’s eyes, that a proud-blooded Piersie should even him thus to the daughter of him who is but a soldier of Fortune.”“Ay, and welcome, I ween, would the old knight’s hard-won wealth be to the empty coffers of a younger brother who hath never spared expense,” replied Barton.“Yea, and high, I wot, mought Sir Walter’s hoar head be held with such a gallant for his son-in-law,” observed Foster again.“Trust me,” said Barton, “he would joyfully part with all the golden fruits he hath gleaned from Scottish fields, to see this solitary scion from his old stock grafted on the goodly and towering tree of Northumberland. But they say that the Lady Eleanore is so hard to win, that she even scorns this high alliance; and if I might guess at matters the which to know are beyond my reach, I should say, hark ye, that this visit of our Right Reverend Lord Bishop to Sir Walter de Selby, hath something in it of the nature of an ambassage from the Piersie touching this same affair.”“I do well know our Right Reverend Lord’s affection for that house,” said Foster.[27]“Nay, he doth stand related to the Piersie in no very distant degree,” replied Barton.“Perchance this marriage treaty then had something to do with the lady’s tears,” observed Foster.“Doubtless,” said Barton. “But I mistake if she carrieth not a high brow that will be ill to bend. Her doting father hath been ever too foolishly fond of her to thwart her will, till it hath waxed too strong for his opposing. She will never yield, I promise thee.”“Then hath our Bishop lost his travel,” said Foster. “But when returneth our Reverend Lord homeward?”“His present orders are for to-morrow,” replied Barton.“How sayst thou, Assueton?” said Hepborne, in a whisper to his friend, after the conversation between the two strangers had dropped; “how sayst thou now? Did I right, think ye, to yield to thine importunity, to shun the hospitality of Norham Castle, that we might hostel it so vilely here i’ the nale of the Norham Tower? Dost thou not grieve for thy folly?”“Why, faith,” replied Assueton, “to thee it may be cause of some regret; and I may grieve for thee, seeing that thou, an idolater of woman’s beauty, hast missed worshipping before the footstool of this haughty damsel. Thou mightest have caught a shred of ribbon from her fair hand, perchance, to have been treasured and worn in thy helmet; but, for mine own particular part, I despise such toys. Rough, unribboned steel, and the joyous neighing of my war-steed, are to me more pleasing than the gaudy paraments and puling parlance of love-sick maidens.”“Nay, then, I do confess that my desire to behold this rare beauty hath much grown by what I have heard,” replied Hepborne. “Would that thou hadst been less indolently disposed, my friend. We might have been even now in the Castle; and ere we should have left it, who knows but we might have rescued this distressed damosel from an alliance she detesteth. Even after all these protestations to the contrary, thine icy heart mought have been thawed by the fire of her eyes, and the adventure mought have been thine own.”“St. Andrew forbid!” replied Assueton. “I covet no such emprise. I trust my heart is love-proof. Have I not stood before the lightning-glances of the demoiselles of Paris, and may I not hold my breastplate to be good armour against all else?”“Nay, boast not of this unknightly duresse of thine, Assueton,” replied Hepborne. “Trust me, thou wilt fall when thine hour cometh. But, by St. Baldrid, I would give this golden[28]chain from my neck—nay, I would give ten times its worth, to be blessed with but a sight of her.”“Ay,” said Assueton, “thou art like the moth, and wouldst hover round the lamp-fire till thy wings were singed.”“Pshaw, Sir Adamant,” said Hepborne, “thou knowest I have skimmed through many a festal hall, blazing with bright eyes, and yet are my opinions as whole as thine. But I am not insensible to woman’s charms as thou art; and to behold so bright a star, perdie, I should care little to risk being scorched by coming within the range of its rays.”“Nay, then, I do almost repent me that I hindered thee from thy design of quartering in the Castle,” said Assueton. “Thou mightest have levied new war on our ancient and natural foemen, by snatching an affianced bride from the big house of Northumberland.”“Depardieux, but it were indeed a triumph, and worthy of a Scottish knight, to carry off the Lady Eleanore de Selby by her own consent from the proud Piersie,” said Hepborne. “But ’tis well enow to jest of.”Whilst this dialogue was going on between the two friends, their esquires entered the place. Mortimer Sang, after reconnoitring the different tables, and perceiving that there were no convenient places vacant, except at that occupied by the attendants of the Bishop, went towards it, followed by his comrade Roger Riddel.“By your good leave, courteous gentlemen,” said Sang, with a bow, at the same time filling up an empty space with his person; “I hope no objection to our joining your good company? Here, tapster,” cried he, at the same time throwing money on the table, “bring in a flagon of Rhenish, that we may wash away the dryness of new acquaintance.”This cheering introduction of the two esquires was received with a smiling welcome on the part of those to whom it was addressed.“Come ye from the south, Sir Squire?” demanded Barton, after the wine had silently circulated, to the great inward satisfaction of the partakers.“Ay, truly, from the south, indeed,” replied Sang, lifting the flagon to his head.“Then was I right, Richard, after all,” said Barton, addressing one of his fellows. “Did I not tell thee that these strangers had none of the loutish Scot in their gait?”“Loutish Scot!” cried Sang, taking the flagon from his lips, and starting up fiercely; “What mean ye by loutish Scot?”[29]Barton eyed the tall figure, broad chest, and sinewy arms of the Scottish esquire.“Nay, I meant thee not offence, Sir Squire,” replied he.“Ha!” said Sang, regaining his good-humour; “then I take no offence where none is meant. Your Scot and your Southern are born foes to fight in fair field; yet I see no just cause against their drinking together in good fellowship when the times be fitting, albeit they may be called upon anon to crack each other’s sconces in battle broil. Thine hand,” said he, stretching his right across the table to the Bishop’s man, whilst he poised the flagon with his left. “Peraunter thou be’st a soldier, though of a truth that garb of thine would speak thee to be as much of a clerk as an esquire; but, indeed, an thy trade be arms, I am bold to say, that Scotland doth not hold a man who will do thee the petites politesses of the skirmish more handsomely than I shall, should chance ever throw us against each other. Meanwhile my hearty service to thee.”“Spoke like a true man,” said Roger Riddel, taking the flagon from his friend. “Here, tapster, we lack wine.”“Nay, Roger,” said Sang, “but we cannot drink thus fasting. What a murrain keeps that knave with the——Ha! he comes. Why, holy St. Andrew, what meanest thou, villain, by putting down this flinty skim-milk? Caitiff, dost take us for ostriches, to digest iron? Saw I not hogs’ livers a-frying for our supper?”“Nay, good master Squire,” said the flaxen-polled lad of a tapster, “sure mistress says that the livers be meat for your masters.”“Meat for our masters, sirrah!” replied Sang; “and can the hostel of Master Sylvester Kyle, famed from the Borders to the Calais Straits—can this far-famed house, I say, afford nothing better for a brace of Scottish knights, whose renown hath filled the world from Cattiness to the land of Egypt, than a fried hog’s liver? Avoid, sinner, avoid; out of my way, and let me go talk to this same hostess.”So saying, he strode over the bench, and, kicking the rushes before him in his progress towards the door, made directly for the kitchen.

TheWolfe of Badenoch.CHAPTER I.The Scottish Knights—Journeying Homewards—The Hostelry of Norham Towers.

The Scottish Knights—Journeying Homewards—The Hostelry of Norham Towers.

The Scottish Knights—Journeying Homewards—The Hostelry of Norham Towers.

It was in the latter part of the fourteenth century that Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton—two young Scottish knights, who had been serving their novitiate of chivalry under the banners of Charles the Sixth of France, and who had bled their maiden lances against the Flemings at Rosebarque—were hastening towards the Border separating England from their native country. A truce then subsisting betwixt the kingdoms that divided Britain had enabled the two friends to land in Kent, whence they were permitted to prosecute their journey through the dominions of Richard II., attended by a circumscribed retinue of some ten or a dozen horsemen.“These tedious leagues of English ground seem to lengthen under our travel,” said Sir John Assueton, breaking a silence that was stealing upon their march with the descending shades of evening. “Dost thou not long for one cheering glance of the silver Tweed, ere its stream shall have been forsaken by the last glimmer of twilight?”“In sooth, I should be well contented to behold it,” replied Hepborne. “The night droops fast, and our jaded palfreys already lag their ears from weariness. Even our unbacked war-steeds, albeit they have carried no heavier burden than their trappings, have natheless lost some deal of their morning’s metal, and, judging from their sobered paces, methinks they would gladly exchange their gay chamfronts for the more vulgar hempen-halters of some well-littered stable.”[18]“Depardieux, but I have mine own sympathy with them,” said Assueton. “Saidst thou not that we should lie at Norham to-night?”“Methought to cast the time and the distance so,” replied Hepborne; “and by those lights that twinkle from yonder dark mass, rising against that yellow streak in the sky, I should judge that I have not greatly missed in meting our day’s journey to that of the sun. Look between those groups of trees—nay, more to the right, over that swelling bank—that, if I mistake not, is the keep of Norham Castle, and those are doubtless the torches of the warders moving along the battlements. The watch must be setting ere this. Let us put on.”“Thou dost not mean to crave hospitality from the captain of the strength, dost thou?” demanded Assueton.“Such was my purpose,” replied Hepborne; “and the rather, that the good old knight, Sir Walter de Selby, hath a fair fame for being no churlish host.”“Nay, if thou lovest me, Hepborne, let us shun the Castle,” said Assueton. “I have, ’tis true, heard of this same Sir Walter de Selby; and the world lies if he be not, indeed, as thou sayst, a hospitable old knight. But they say he hath damsels about him; and thou knowest I love not to doff mine armour only to don the buckram of etiquette; and to have mine invention put upon the rack to minister to woman’s vanity. Let us then to the village hostel, I entreat thee.”“This strange unknightly disease of thine doth grow on thee, Assueton,” said Hepborne, laughing. “I have, indeed, heard that the widowed Sir Walter was left with one peerless daughter, who is doubtless the pride of her father’s hall; nay, I confess to thee, my friend, that the much-bruited tale of her beauty hath had its own share in begetting my desire to lodge me in Norham; but since thou wilt have it so, I am content to pleasure thee, trusting that this my ready penance of self-denial may count against the heavy score of my sins. But stay;—What may this be that lies fluttering here among the gorse?”“Meseems it a wounded hawk,” said Assueton, stooping from his horse to look at it.“In truth, ’tis indeed a fair falcon,” said Hepborne’s esquire, Mortimer Sang, as he dismounted to pick it up. “He gasps as if he were dying. Ha! by’r Lady, but he hath nommed a plump partridge; see here, it is dead in his talons.”“He hath perchance come by some hurt in the swooping,” said Hepborne; “Canst thou discover any wound in him?”“Nay, I can see nothing amiss in him,” replied Sang.[19]“I’ll warrant me, a well-reclaimed falcon,” said Hepborne, taking him from his esquire; “ay, and the pet of some fair damsel too, if I may guess from his silken jesses. But hold—he reviveth. I will put him here in the bosom of my surcoat, and so foster the small spark of life that may yet remain in him.”At this moment their attention was arrested by the sound of voices; and, by the meagre light that now remained, they could descry two ladies, mounted on palfreys, and followed by two or three male attendants, who came slowly from behind a wooded knoll, a little to the left of the path before them. Their eyes were thrown on the ground, and they seemed to be earnestly engaged in looking for something they had lost.“Alas, my poor bird!” said one of the ladies, “I fear I shall never see thee more.”“Mary, ’tis vain to look for him by this lack of light,” said an esquire.“Do thou thy duty and seek for him, Master Turnberry,” said the second lady, in a haughty tone.“A murrain on’t!” said the esquire again; “this comes of casting a hawk at a fowl at sundown.”“I tell thee he must be hereabouts,” said the second lady again; “it was over these trees that I saw him stoop.”“Stoop! ay, I’ll be sworn I saw him stoop,” said the esquire. “But an I saw him not dash his brains ’gainst one of those gnarled elms, my name is not Thomas, and I have no eyes for falconry. He’s amortised, I promise thee.”“Silence, Master Turnberry,” said the same lady again; “thou givest thy tongue larger license than doth well beseem thee.”“By the Rood, but ’tis well to call silence,” replied the esquire, sulkily, “and to me too who did verily steal these two hours’ sport of hawking for thee at mine own proper peril.”“Ay, stolen indeed were they on thy part, Master Turnberry,” replied the same lady; “but forget not that they were honestly bought of thee on ours.”“Nay, then, bought or not,” said the esquire, “the last nail’s breadth of thy merchandize hath been unrolled to thee. We must e’en clip short, and haste us to Norham, else will Sir Walter’s grey beard become redder than a comet’s tail with ire. Thou knowest this has been but a testy day with him.”“Peace with thy impudence, sir knave,” said the same lady hotly. “Dost thou dare thus to speak in presence of the Lady Eleanore de Selby? A greybeard’s ire shall never——”[20]“Nay, talk not so,” said the first lady, mildly interrupting her. “The honest squire equeary hath reason. Though it grieveth me to lose my poor falcon thus, we must e’en give him up, and haste us to the Castle.”“Stay, stay, fair damsel,” cried Hepborne, urging his steed forward from the hollow bushy path where he and his party had hitherto remained concealed, from dread of alarming the ladies, a precaution which he now entirely forgot in his eagerness to approach her, whose person and manners had already bewitched him. “Stay, stay—fly not, lady—your hawk—your falcon!”But the sudden appearance of armed men had so filled the ladies with alarm, that they had fled at his first word; and he now saw himself opposed by sturdy Squire Turnberry, who being too much taken by surprise to catch the knight’s meaning, and taking it for granted that his purpose was hostile, wheeled his horse round, and planting himself firmly in the midst of the path, at the head of the grooms, couched his hunting-spear, as if determined to prevent pursuit.“What, ho! sir stranger knight—what seek ye, in the fiend’s name?” demanded the squire, sternly.“Credit me no evil,” said Sir Patrick. “It galleth me sore that mine intemperate rudeness should have so frayed these beauteous damsels. Mine intent was but to restore the fair lady’s lost falcon, the which it was our chance to pick up in this hollow way. He had ta’en some unseen hurt in swooping at this partridge, which he had nommed.”“Nay, by the mass, but I thought as much,” said the squire.“Tell the lovely mistress of this fair bird, that Sir Patrick Hepborne willingly submits him to what penance she may enjoin for the alarm he caused her,” said the knight; “and tell, too, that he gave life to her expiring falcon, by cherishing it in his bosom.”“I give thee thanks in mine own name, and that of the lady who owneth the hawk,” said the esquire. “Trust me, thy sin will be forgotten in the signal service thou hast done her. The bird, methinks, rouseth him as if there were no longer evil in him.”“Yea, he proyneth and manteleth him as if rejoicing that he shall again embrace his lady’s wrist with his sengles,” said the knight. “Happy bird! depardieux, but he is to be envied. Tell his fair mistress, that if the small service it hath been my good fortune to render her, may merit aught of boon at her hands, let my reward be mine enlistment in that host of gallant knights who may have vowed devotion to her will.”[21]“Sir Knight,” said the squire, “I will bear thy courteous message to her who owneth the falcon; and if I tarry not longer to give the greater store of thanks, ’tis that the Lady Eleanore de Selby hath spurred away so fast, that I must have a fiend’s flight if I can catch her.” And turning his horse with these words he tarried not for further parlance.“’Tis a strange adventure, Assueton,” said Hepborne to his friend, as they pursued their journey; “to meet thus with the peerless Eleanore de Selby at the very moment she formed the subject of our discourse.”“’Tis whimsical enow,” said Assueton, drily; “yet it is nothing marvellous.”“Albeit that the growing darkness left me but to guess at the excellence of her features, from the elegance of her person,” continued Hepborne, “yet do I confess myself more than half enamoured of her by very intuition. Didst thou observe that her attendant who talked so forwardly, though not devoid of grace, showed in her superior presence but as a mere mortal beside a goddess?”“Nay,” replied Assueton, “though I do rarely measure or weigh the points of women, and am more versant in those of a battle-steed, yet methought that the attendant, as thou callest her, had the more noble port of the two.”“Fie on thy judgment, Assueton,” cried Hepborne; “to prefer the saucy, pert demeanour of an over-indulged hand-maid, to the dignified deportment of gentle birth. The Lady Eleanore de Selby—she, I mean, in the reddish-coloured mantle, she who wept for the hawk—was as far above her companion in the elegance of her air, as heaven is above earth.”“May be so,” replied Assueton with perfect indifference. “’Tis a question not worth the mooting.”“To thee, perhaps, it may be of little interest,” said Hepborne; “but I could be well contented to be permitted to solve it in Norham Castle. Why wert thou born with feelings so much at war with what beseemeth a knight, as to make thee eschew all converse with those fair beings, the sun of whose beauty shineth but to brace up the otherwise damp and flaccid nerves of chivalrous adventure?”“Nay, thou mightest as well demand of me why my raven locks are not as fair as thine,” said Assueton with a smile; “yea, or bid him who is born blind to will to see.”“By Saint Baldrid, but I do pity thee as much as if thou wert blind,” said Hepborne. “Nay, what is it but to be blind, yea, to want every sense, to be thus unmoved with——”[22]“Ha! see where the broad bosom of Tweed at last glads our eyes, glistening yonder with the pale light that still lingers in the west,” exclaimed Assueton, overjoyed to avail himself of so happy an opportunity of interrupting his friend’s harangue.“Yonder farther shadowy bank is Scotland—our country,” cried Hepborne, with deep feeling.“God’s blessing on her hardy soil!” said Assueton, with enthusiasm.“Amen!” said Hepborne. “To her shall we henceforth devote our arms, long enow wielded in foreign broils, where, in truth, heart did hardly go with hand.”“But where lieth the hamlet of Norham?” inquired Assueton.“Seest thou not where a few feeble rays are shed from its scattered tenements on the hither meadow below?” replied Hepborne. “Nay, thou mayest dimly descry the church yonder, sanctified by the shelter it did of erst yield to the blessed remains of the holy St. Cuthbert, what time the impious Danes drove them from Lindisferne.”“But what, methinks, is most to thy present purpose, Sir Knight,” observed Mortimer Sang, “yonder brighter glede proceedeth, if I rightly guess, from the blazing hearth of Master Sylvester Kyle, as thirsty a tapster as ever broached a barrel, and one who, if he be yet alive, hath hardly, I wot, his make on either side the Border, for knavery and sharp wit.”“Pray heaven his sharp wit may not have soured his ale,” muttered Roger Riddel, the laconic esquire of Sir John Assueton.They now hastened down the hollow way that led to the village and soon found themselves in its simple street.“Ay,” exclaimed Sang, “by St. Andrew, but old Kyle’s gate is right hospitably open. I promise ye, ’tis a good omen for Border quiet to find it so. So please thee, Sir Knight, shall I advance and give note of thine approach?”“Do so,” said Hepborne, to the esquire, who immediately cantered forward.“Ho! house there!” cried Sang, halting in the gateway. “Come forth, Monsieur, mine host of the hostel of Norham Tower. Where art thou, Mr. Sylvester Kyle? Where be thine hostlers, drawers, and underskinkers? Why do not all appear to do themselves honour by waiting on two most puissant knights, for I talk not of their esquires, or the other gentlemen soldiers of pregnant prowess, of the very least of whom it were an honour to undo the spur?”[23]By the time that Sang had ended his summons, the party were at the gate, and had leisure to survey the premises. A rude wall of considerable length faced the irregular street of the village, having the gateway in the centre. The thatch-roofed buildings within formed the other three sides of the quadrangular court. Those to the right were occupied as stables, and in those to the left were the kitchen, and various other domestic offices; whilst the middle part was entirely taken up by one large room, from whence gleamed the light of a great fire, that burned on a hearth in the midst, shedding around a common comfort on the motley parties of noisy ale-drinkers seated at different tables.“What, ho! Sylvester, I say—what a murrain keeps thee?” cried Sang, although the portly form of the vintner already appeared within the aperture of the doorway, like a goodly portrait in a frame, his carbuncled face vying in lustre with the red flare of the torch he held high in his hand. “Gramercy, Master Kyle, so thou hast come at last. By the mass, but that paunch of thine is a right fair warrant for the goodness of thine ale, yet it will be well that it do come quicker when it be called for than thou hast.”“Heyday, what a racket thou dost make, gaffer horseman!” cried Kyle. “But the emptiest vessel doth ever make the most din.”“Tut, man, thou hast hit it for once with thy fool’s head,” replied Sang. “I am, as thou sayest, at this present, in very sober earnest, an empty vessel; yea, and for that matter, so are we all. But never trust me and we make not a din till we be filled. The sooner thou stoppest our music, then, the better for thine ears, seeing that if we be forced to pipe thus, and that thou dancest not more quickly to our call, thou mayest perchance lose them.”“By the mass, but thy music is marvellously out of tune, good fellow,” replied the publican. “Thy screeching is like that of a cracked rebeck, the neck of which must be hard griped, and most cruelly pinched, ere its tone be softened. But of what strength is thy company?” continued he, whirling his torch around so as to obtain a general view of the group of horsemen. “By St. Cuthbert, I wish there may be stabling for ye all.”“Stabling for us all, sir knave?” cried Sang; “marry, thou dost speak as if we were a herd of horses.”“Cry you mercy, noble esquire,” rejoined Kyle. “An thou beest an ass, indeed, a halter and a hook at the gate-cheek may[24]serve thy turn, and so peraunter I may find room for the rest.”A smothered laugh among his comrades proclaimed Squire Sang’s defeat. The triumphant host ran to hold Sir Patrick Hepborne’s stirrup.“By the Rood,” cried the squire, as he dismounted, with a good-natured chuckle at his own discomfiture—“by the Rood, but the rogue hath mastered me for this bout. But verily my wit is fasting, whilst his, I warrant, hath the full spirit of his potent ale in’t. Never trust me but I shall be even with him anon.”“Master Kyle,” said Assueton, to their host, as he ushered his guests into the common room, “we should be glad to see some food. The rising sun looked upon our last meal; so bestir thyself, I pr’ythee, goodman, and let us know as soon as may be how we are to fare.”“Room there, sirs, for two valiant knights,” cried Kyle, getting rid of the question by addressing himself to a party seated at a table near the hearth; “room, I say, gentlemen. What, are ye stocks, my masters?”“Nay, treat not the good people so rudely,” said Hepborne, as some eight or ten persons were hastily vacating their places; “there is room enow for all. Go not thou, at least, old man,” continued he, addressing a minstrel who was following the rest,his snowy locks and beard hanging luxuriantly around a countenance which showed all the freshness of a green old age; “sit thee down, I do beseech thee, and vouchsafe us thy winning discourse. Where is the chevalier to whom a bard may not do honour?”The minstrel’s heart was touched by Sir Patrick’s kind words; his full hazel eye beamed on him with gratitude; he put his hand to his breast, and modestly bowed his head.“My time is already spent, most gentle knight,” said he. “Ere this I am looked for at the Castle; yet, ere I go hence, let me drink this cup of thanks for thy courtesy. To thee I wish tender love of fairest lady; and may thy lance, and the lance of thy brave companion, never be couched but to conquer.” And so draining the draught to the bottom, he again bowed, and immediately retired.“So, Master Kyle,” said Assueton to the host, who returned at this moment, after having ascertained the country and quality of his new guests, “what hast thou in thy buttery?”“Of a truth, Sir Knight, we are now but ill provided for sike guests,” replied Kyle. “Had it been thy luck to have sojourned here yestere’en, indeed, I wot ye mought ha’ been feasted.[25]But arrives me my Lord Bishop of Durham at the Castle this morning; down comes me the seneschal with his buttery-men, and whips me off a whole beeve’s carcase; then in pour me the people of my Lord Bishop—clerks, lacqueys, and grooms; bolt goes me a leg of mutton here—crack goes me a venison pasty there—gobble goes me a salmon in this corner, whilst a whole flock of pullets are riven asunder in that; so that there has been nothing from sunrise till sundown but wagging of jaws.”“Marry, these church-followers are wont to be stout knights of the trencher,” said Assueton, with a smile. “But let us have a supper from what may be left thee, and that without more ado.”“Anon, courteous Sir Knight,” said Master Kyle, with a grin. “But, as I was a-saying, there hath been such stuffing; nay ye may know by the clinking of their cans that the rogues drink not fasting. By the mass, ’tis easy to guess from the seas of ale they are swallowing, what mountains of good provender they have to float in their stomachs. Why, yonder lantern-jaws i’ the corner, with a mouth that opens as if he would swallow another Jonas, and wangs like the famine-ground fangs of a starving wolf—that same fellow devoured me a couple of fat capons single-head; and that other churl——”“Have done with thine impertinence, villain, said Assueton, interrupting him; “have done with thine impertinence, I say, and let us straightway have such fare as thou canst give, or by St. Andrew——”“Nay, then, sweet sir,” replied the host, “there be yet reserved some delicate pig’s liver for myself and Mrs. Kyle, but they shall be forthwith cheerfully yielded to thy necessities.”“Pestilence take thee, knave,” cried Assueton, “couldst thou not have set them down to us at once, without stirring up our appetites to greater keenness by thine enumeration of the good things that are gone? Come, come, despatch—our hunger is beyond nicety.”Sir John Assueton now sat down to put in practice that patience of hunger, the exercise of which was one of the chief virtues of knighthood. As for Sir Patrick Hepborne, his attention was so entirely absorbed by a conversation that ensued at the adjoining table, to which the Bishop’s people had retired, that he altogether forgot his wants.“And was it thy luck to see the Lady Eleanore de Selby, Master Barton?” demanded one of the persons of the dialogue; “Fame speaketh largely of her perfections.”[26]“Yea, Foster, I did indeed behold her,” replied the other, who seemed to be a person of more consequence than the rest. “When I entered the Castle-hall this morning, to receive the commands of my Lord the Bishop, she was seated between him and her father. They were alone, and the old knight was urging something to her in round soldier-like terms; but I gathered not the purport of his speech, for he broke off abruptly as I appeared.”“And is she so rare a beauty as folks do call her?” demanded Foster.“Verily, so much loveliness did never bless these eyes before,” replied Barton. “Yet was the sunshine of her face disturbed by clouds. Tear-drops, too, had dimmed the lustre of her charms. But methought they were more the offspring of a haughty spirit than of an afflicted heart.”“Nay, of a truth, they do say that she lacketh not haughtiness,” observed Foster. “’Tis whispered that she hath already scorned some noble knights who would fain have wedded the heiress of the rich Sir Walter de Selby.”“Nay, I warrant me she hath had suitors enow, and those no mean ones,” replied Barton. “What thinkest thou of Sir Rafe Piersie, brother to the gallant Hotspur? Marry, they say that he deigns to woo her with right serious intent.”“Sayest thou so?” exclaimed Foster; “then must the old knight’s gold have glittered in the young knight’s eyes, that a proud-blooded Piersie should even him thus to the daughter of him who is but a soldier of Fortune.”“Ay, and welcome, I ween, would the old knight’s hard-won wealth be to the empty coffers of a younger brother who hath never spared expense,” replied Barton.“Yea, and high, I wot, mought Sir Walter’s hoar head be held with such a gallant for his son-in-law,” observed Foster again.“Trust me,” said Barton, “he would joyfully part with all the golden fruits he hath gleaned from Scottish fields, to see this solitary scion from his old stock grafted on the goodly and towering tree of Northumberland. But they say that the Lady Eleanore is so hard to win, that she even scorns this high alliance; and if I might guess at matters the which to know are beyond my reach, I should say, hark ye, that this visit of our Right Reverend Lord Bishop to Sir Walter de Selby, hath something in it of the nature of an ambassage from the Piersie touching this same affair.”“I do well know our Right Reverend Lord’s affection for that house,” said Foster.[27]“Nay, he doth stand related to the Piersie in no very distant degree,” replied Barton.“Perchance this marriage treaty then had something to do with the lady’s tears,” observed Foster.“Doubtless,” said Barton. “But I mistake if she carrieth not a high brow that will be ill to bend. Her doting father hath been ever too foolishly fond of her to thwart her will, till it hath waxed too strong for his opposing. She will never yield, I promise thee.”“Then hath our Bishop lost his travel,” said Foster. “But when returneth our Reverend Lord homeward?”“His present orders are for to-morrow,” replied Barton.“How sayst thou, Assueton?” said Hepborne, in a whisper to his friend, after the conversation between the two strangers had dropped; “how sayst thou now? Did I right, think ye, to yield to thine importunity, to shun the hospitality of Norham Castle, that we might hostel it so vilely here i’ the nale of the Norham Tower? Dost thou not grieve for thy folly?”“Why, faith,” replied Assueton, “to thee it may be cause of some regret; and I may grieve for thee, seeing that thou, an idolater of woman’s beauty, hast missed worshipping before the footstool of this haughty damsel. Thou mightest have caught a shred of ribbon from her fair hand, perchance, to have been treasured and worn in thy helmet; but, for mine own particular part, I despise such toys. Rough, unribboned steel, and the joyous neighing of my war-steed, are to me more pleasing than the gaudy paraments and puling parlance of love-sick maidens.”“Nay, then, I do confess that my desire to behold this rare beauty hath much grown by what I have heard,” replied Hepborne. “Would that thou hadst been less indolently disposed, my friend. We might have been even now in the Castle; and ere we should have left it, who knows but we might have rescued this distressed damosel from an alliance she detesteth. Even after all these protestations to the contrary, thine icy heart mought have been thawed by the fire of her eyes, and the adventure mought have been thine own.”“St. Andrew forbid!” replied Assueton. “I covet no such emprise. I trust my heart is love-proof. Have I not stood before the lightning-glances of the demoiselles of Paris, and may I not hold my breastplate to be good armour against all else?”“Nay, boast not of this unknightly duresse of thine, Assueton,” replied Hepborne. “Trust me, thou wilt fall when thine hour cometh. But, by St. Baldrid, I would give this golden[28]chain from my neck—nay, I would give ten times its worth, to be blessed with but a sight of her.”“Ay,” said Assueton, “thou art like the moth, and wouldst hover round the lamp-fire till thy wings were singed.”“Pshaw, Sir Adamant,” said Hepborne, “thou knowest I have skimmed through many a festal hall, blazing with bright eyes, and yet are my opinions as whole as thine. But I am not insensible to woman’s charms as thou art; and to behold so bright a star, perdie, I should care little to risk being scorched by coming within the range of its rays.”“Nay, then, I do almost repent me that I hindered thee from thy design of quartering in the Castle,” said Assueton. “Thou mightest have levied new war on our ancient and natural foemen, by snatching an affianced bride from the big house of Northumberland.”“Depardieux, but it were indeed a triumph, and worthy of a Scottish knight, to carry off the Lady Eleanore de Selby by her own consent from the proud Piersie,” said Hepborne. “But ’tis well enow to jest of.”Whilst this dialogue was going on between the two friends, their esquires entered the place. Mortimer Sang, after reconnoitring the different tables, and perceiving that there were no convenient places vacant, except at that occupied by the attendants of the Bishop, went towards it, followed by his comrade Roger Riddel.“By your good leave, courteous gentlemen,” said Sang, with a bow, at the same time filling up an empty space with his person; “I hope no objection to our joining your good company? Here, tapster,” cried he, at the same time throwing money on the table, “bring in a flagon of Rhenish, that we may wash away the dryness of new acquaintance.”This cheering introduction of the two esquires was received with a smiling welcome on the part of those to whom it was addressed.“Come ye from the south, Sir Squire?” demanded Barton, after the wine had silently circulated, to the great inward satisfaction of the partakers.“Ay, truly, from the south, indeed,” replied Sang, lifting the flagon to his head.“Then was I right, Richard, after all,” said Barton, addressing one of his fellows. “Did I not tell thee that these strangers had none of the loutish Scot in their gait?”“Loutish Scot!” cried Sang, taking the flagon from his lips, and starting up fiercely; “What mean ye by loutish Scot?”[29]Barton eyed the tall figure, broad chest, and sinewy arms of the Scottish esquire.“Nay, I meant thee not offence, Sir Squire,” replied he.“Ha!” said Sang, regaining his good-humour; “then I take no offence where none is meant. Your Scot and your Southern are born foes to fight in fair field; yet I see no just cause against their drinking together in good fellowship when the times be fitting, albeit they may be called upon anon to crack each other’s sconces in battle broil. Thine hand,” said he, stretching his right across the table to the Bishop’s man, whilst he poised the flagon with his left. “Peraunter thou be’st a soldier, though of a truth that garb of thine would speak thee to be as much of a clerk as an esquire; but, indeed, an thy trade be arms, I am bold to say, that Scotland doth not hold a man who will do thee the petites politesses of the skirmish more handsomely than I shall, should chance ever throw us against each other. Meanwhile my hearty service to thee.”“Spoke like a true man,” said Roger Riddel, taking the flagon from his friend. “Here, tapster, we lack wine.”“Nay, Roger,” said Sang, “but we cannot drink thus fasting. What a murrain keeps that knave with the——Ha! he comes. Why, holy St. Andrew, what meanest thou, villain, by putting down this flinty skim-milk? Caitiff, dost take us for ostriches, to digest iron? Saw I not hogs’ livers a-frying for our supper?”“Nay, good master Squire,” said the flaxen-polled lad of a tapster, “sure mistress says that the livers be meat for your masters.”“Meat for our masters, sirrah!” replied Sang; “and can the hostel of Master Sylvester Kyle, famed from the Borders to the Calais Straits—can this far-famed house, I say, afford nothing better for a brace of Scottish knights, whose renown hath filled the world from Cattiness to the land of Egypt, than a fried hog’s liver? Avoid, sinner, avoid; out of my way, and let me go talk to this same hostess.”So saying, he strode over the bench, and, kicking the rushes before him in his progress towards the door, made directly for the kitchen.

It was in the latter part of the fourteenth century that Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton—two young Scottish knights, who had been serving their novitiate of chivalry under the banners of Charles the Sixth of France, and who had bled their maiden lances against the Flemings at Rosebarque—were hastening towards the Border separating England from their native country. A truce then subsisting betwixt the kingdoms that divided Britain had enabled the two friends to land in Kent, whence they were permitted to prosecute their journey through the dominions of Richard II., attended by a circumscribed retinue of some ten or a dozen horsemen.

“These tedious leagues of English ground seem to lengthen under our travel,” said Sir John Assueton, breaking a silence that was stealing upon their march with the descending shades of evening. “Dost thou not long for one cheering glance of the silver Tweed, ere its stream shall have been forsaken by the last glimmer of twilight?”

“In sooth, I should be well contented to behold it,” replied Hepborne. “The night droops fast, and our jaded palfreys already lag their ears from weariness. Even our unbacked war-steeds, albeit they have carried no heavier burden than their trappings, have natheless lost some deal of their morning’s metal, and, judging from their sobered paces, methinks they would gladly exchange their gay chamfronts for the more vulgar hempen-halters of some well-littered stable.”[18]

“Depardieux, but I have mine own sympathy with them,” said Assueton. “Saidst thou not that we should lie at Norham to-night?”

“Methought to cast the time and the distance so,” replied Hepborne; “and by those lights that twinkle from yonder dark mass, rising against that yellow streak in the sky, I should judge that I have not greatly missed in meting our day’s journey to that of the sun. Look between those groups of trees—nay, more to the right, over that swelling bank—that, if I mistake not, is the keep of Norham Castle, and those are doubtless the torches of the warders moving along the battlements. The watch must be setting ere this. Let us put on.”

“Thou dost not mean to crave hospitality from the captain of the strength, dost thou?” demanded Assueton.

“Such was my purpose,” replied Hepborne; “and the rather, that the good old knight, Sir Walter de Selby, hath a fair fame for being no churlish host.”

“Nay, if thou lovest me, Hepborne, let us shun the Castle,” said Assueton. “I have, ’tis true, heard of this same Sir Walter de Selby; and the world lies if he be not, indeed, as thou sayst, a hospitable old knight. But they say he hath damsels about him; and thou knowest I love not to doff mine armour only to don the buckram of etiquette; and to have mine invention put upon the rack to minister to woman’s vanity. Let us then to the village hostel, I entreat thee.”

“This strange unknightly disease of thine doth grow on thee, Assueton,” said Hepborne, laughing. “I have, indeed, heard that the widowed Sir Walter was left with one peerless daughter, who is doubtless the pride of her father’s hall; nay, I confess to thee, my friend, that the much-bruited tale of her beauty hath had its own share in begetting my desire to lodge me in Norham; but since thou wilt have it so, I am content to pleasure thee, trusting that this my ready penance of self-denial may count against the heavy score of my sins. But stay;—What may this be that lies fluttering here among the gorse?”

“Meseems it a wounded hawk,” said Assueton, stooping from his horse to look at it.

“In truth, ’tis indeed a fair falcon,” said Hepborne’s esquire, Mortimer Sang, as he dismounted to pick it up. “He gasps as if he were dying. Ha! by’r Lady, but he hath nommed a plump partridge; see here, it is dead in his talons.”

“He hath perchance come by some hurt in the swooping,” said Hepborne; “Canst thou discover any wound in him?”

“Nay, I can see nothing amiss in him,” replied Sang.[19]

“I’ll warrant me, a well-reclaimed falcon,” said Hepborne, taking him from his esquire; “ay, and the pet of some fair damsel too, if I may guess from his silken jesses. But hold—he reviveth. I will put him here in the bosom of my surcoat, and so foster the small spark of life that may yet remain in him.”

At this moment their attention was arrested by the sound of voices; and, by the meagre light that now remained, they could descry two ladies, mounted on palfreys, and followed by two or three male attendants, who came slowly from behind a wooded knoll, a little to the left of the path before them. Their eyes were thrown on the ground, and they seemed to be earnestly engaged in looking for something they had lost.

“Alas, my poor bird!” said one of the ladies, “I fear I shall never see thee more.”

“Mary, ’tis vain to look for him by this lack of light,” said an esquire.

“Do thou thy duty and seek for him, Master Turnberry,” said the second lady, in a haughty tone.

“A murrain on’t!” said the esquire again; “this comes of casting a hawk at a fowl at sundown.”

“I tell thee he must be hereabouts,” said the second lady again; “it was over these trees that I saw him stoop.”

“Stoop! ay, I’ll be sworn I saw him stoop,” said the esquire. “But an I saw him not dash his brains ’gainst one of those gnarled elms, my name is not Thomas, and I have no eyes for falconry. He’s amortised, I promise thee.”

“Silence, Master Turnberry,” said the same lady again; “thou givest thy tongue larger license than doth well beseem thee.”

“By the Rood, but ’tis well to call silence,” replied the esquire, sulkily, “and to me too who did verily steal these two hours’ sport of hawking for thee at mine own proper peril.”

“Ay, stolen indeed were they on thy part, Master Turnberry,” replied the same lady; “but forget not that they were honestly bought of thee on ours.”

“Nay, then, bought or not,” said the esquire, “the last nail’s breadth of thy merchandize hath been unrolled to thee. We must e’en clip short, and haste us to Norham, else will Sir Walter’s grey beard become redder than a comet’s tail with ire. Thou knowest this has been but a testy day with him.”

“Peace with thy impudence, sir knave,” said the same lady hotly. “Dost thou dare thus to speak in presence of the Lady Eleanore de Selby? A greybeard’s ire shall never——”[20]

“Nay, talk not so,” said the first lady, mildly interrupting her. “The honest squire equeary hath reason. Though it grieveth me to lose my poor falcon thus, we must e’en give him up, and haste us to the Castle.”

“Stay, stay, fair damsel,” cried Hepborne, urging his steed forward from the hollow bushy path where he and his party had hitherto remained concealed, from dread of alarming the ladies, a precaution which he now entirely forgot in his eagerness to approach her, whose person and manners had already bewitched him. “Stay, stay—fly not, lady—your hawk—your falcon!”

But the sudden appearance of armed men had so filled the ladies with alarm, that they had fled at his first word; and he now saw himself opposed by sturdy Squire Turnberry, who being too much taken by surprise to catch the knight’s meaning, and taking it for granted that his purpose was hostile, wheeled his horse round, and planting himself firmly in the midst of the path, at the head of the grooms, couched his hunting-spear, as if determined to prevent pursuit.

“What, ho! sir stranger knight—what seek ye, in the fiend’s name?” demanded the squire, sternly.

“Credit me no evil,” said Sir Patrick. “It galleth me sore that mine intemperate rudeness should have so frayed these beauteous damsels. Mine intent was but to restore the fair lady’s lost falcon, the which it was our chance to pick up in this hollow way. He had ta’en some unseen hurt in swooping at this partridge, which he had nommed.”

“Nay, by the mass, but I thought as much,” said the squire.

“Tell the lovely mistress of this fair bird, that Sir Patrick Hepborne willingly submits him to what penance she may enjoin for the alarm he caused her,” said the knight; “and tell, too, that he gave life to her expiring falcon, by cherishing it in his bosom.”

“I give thee thanks in mine own name, and that of the lady who owneth the hawk,” said the esquire. “Trust me, thy sin will be forgotten in the signal service thou hast done her. The bird, methinks, rouseth him as if there were no longer evil in him.”

“Yea, he proyneth and manteleth him as if rejoicing that he shall again embrace his lady’s wrist with his sengles,” said the knight. “Happy bird! depardieux, but he is to be envied. Tell his fair mistress, that if the small service it hath been my good fortune to render her, may merit aught of boon at her hands, let my reward be mine enlistment in that host of gallant knights who may have vowed devotion to her will.”[21]

“Sir Knight,” said the squire, “I will bear thy courteous message to her who owneth the falcon; and if I tarry not longer to give the greater store of thanks, ’tis that the Lady Eleanore de Selby hath spurred away so fast, that I must have a fiend’s flight if I can catch her.” And turning his horse with these words he tarried not for further parlance.

“’Tis a strange adventure, Assueton,” said Hepborne to his friend, as they pursued their journey; “to meet thus with the peerless Eleanore de Selby at the very moment she formed the subject of our discourse.”

“’Tis whimsical enow,” said Assueton, drily; “yet it is nothing marvellous.”

“Albeit that the growing darkness left me but to guess at the excellence of her features, from the elegance of her person,” continued Hepborne, “yet do I confess myself more than half enamoured of her by very intuition. Didst thou observe that her attendant who talked so forwardly, though not devoid of grace, showed in her superior presence but as a mere mortal beside a goddess?”

“Nay,” replied Assueton, “though I do rarely measure or weigh the points of women, and am more versant in those of a battle-steed, yet methought that the attendant, as thou callest her, had the more noble port of the two.”

“Fie on thy judgment, Assueton,” cried Hepborne; “to prefer the saucy, pert demeanour of an over-indulged hand-maid, to the dignified deportment of gentle birth. The Lady Eleanore de Selby—she, I mean, in the reddish-coloured mantle, she who wept for the hawk—was as far above her companion in the elegance of her air, as heaven is above earth.”

“May be so,” replied Assueton with perfect indifference. “’Tis a question not worth the mooting.”

“To thee, perhaps, it may be of little interest,” said Hepborne; “but I could be well contented to be permitted to solve it in Norham Castle. Why wert thou born with feelings so much at war with what beseemeth a knight, as to make thee eschew all converse with those fair beings, the sun of whose beauty shineth but to brace up the otherwise damp and flaccid nerves of chivalrous adventure?”

“Nay, thou mightest as well demand of me why my raven locks are not as fair as thine,” said Assueton with a smile; “yea, or bid him who is born blind to will to see.”

“By Saint Baldrid, but I do pity thee as much as if thou wert blind,” said Hepborne. “Nay, what is it but to be blind, yea, to want every sense, to be thus unmoved with——”[22]

“Ha! see where the broad bosom of Tweed at last glads our eyes, glistening yonder with the pale light that still lingers in the west,” exclaimed Assueton, overjoyed to avail himself of so happy an opportunity of interrupting his friend’s harangue.

“Yonder farther shadowy bank is Scotland—our country,” cried Hepborne, with deep feeling.

“God’s blessing on her hardy soil!” said Assueton, with enthusiasm.

“Amen!” said Hepborne. “To her shall we henceforth devote our arms, long enow wielded in foreign broils, where, in truth, heart did hardly go with hand.”

“But where lieth the hamlet of Norham?” inquired Assueton.

“Seest thou not where a few feeble rays are shed from its scattered tenements on the hither meadow below?” replied Hepborne. “Nay, thou mayest dimly descry the church yonder, sanctified by the shelter it did of erst yield to the blessed remains of the holy St. Cuthbert, what time the impious Danes drove them from Lindisferne.”

“But what, methinks, is most to thy present purpose, Sir Knight,” observed Mortimer Sang, “yonder brighter glede proceedeth, if I rightly guess, from the blazing hearth of Master Sylvester Kyle, as thirsty a tapster as ever broached a barrel, and one who, if he be yet alive, hath hardly, I wot, his make on either side the Border, for knavery and sharp wit.”

“Pray heaven his sharp wit may not have soured his ale,” muttered Roger Riddel, the laconic esquire of Sir John Assueton.

They now hastened down the hollow way that led to the village and soon found themselves in its simple street.

“Ay,” exclaimed Sang, “by St. Andrew, but old Kyle’s gate is right hospitably open. I promise ye, ’tis a good omen for Border quiet to find it so. So please thee, Sir Knight, shall I advance and give note of thine approach?”

“Do so,” said Hepborne, to the esquire, who immediately cantered forward.

“Ho! house there!” cried Sang, halting in the gateway. “Come forth, Monsieur, mine host of the hostel of Norham Tower. Where art thou, Mr. Sylvester Kyle? Where be thine hostlers, drawers, and underskinkers? Why do not all appear to do themselves honour by waiting on two most puissant knights, for I talk not of their esquires, or the other gentlemen soldiers of pregnant prowess, of the very least of whom it were an honour to undo the spur?”[23]

By the time that Sang had ended his summons, the party were at the gate, and had leisure to survey the premises. A rude wall of considerable length faced the irregular street of the village, having the gateway in the centre. The thatch-roofed buildings within formed the other three sides of the quadrangular court. Those to the right were occupied as stables, and in those to the left were the kitchen, and various other domestic offices; whilst the middle part was entirely taken up by one large room, from whence gleamed the light of a great fire, that burned on a hearth in the midst, shedding around a common comfort on the motley parties of noisy ale-drinkers seated at different tables.

“What, ho! Sylvester, I say—what a murrain keeps thee?” cried Sang, although the portly form of the vintner already appeared within the aperture of the doorway, like a goodly portrait in a frame, his carbuncled face vying in lustre with the red flare of the torch he held high in his hand. “Gramercy, Master Kyle, so thou hast come at last. By the mass, but that paunch of thine is a right fair warrant for the goodness of thine ale, yet it will be well that it do come quicker when it be called for than thou hast.”

“Heyday, what a racket thou dost make, gaffer horseman!” cried Kyle. “But the emptiest vessel doth ever make the most din.”

“Tut, man, thou hast hit it for once with thy fool’s head,” replied Sang. “I am, as thou sayest, at this present, in very sober earnest, an empty vessel; yea, and for that matter, so are we all. But never trust me and we make not a din till we be filled. The sooner thou stoppest our music, then, the better for thine ears, seeing that if we be forced to pipe thus, and that thou dancest not more quickly to our call, thou mayest perchance lose them.”

“By the mass, but thy music is marvellously out of tune, good fellow,” replied the publican. “Thy screeching is like that of a cracked rebeck, the neck of which must be hard griped, and most cruelly pinched, ere its tone be softened. But of what strength is thy company?” continued he, whirling his torch around so as to obtain a general view of the group of horsemen. “By St. Cuthbert, I wish there may be stabling for ye all.”

“Stabling for us all, sir knave?” cried Sang; “marry, thou dost speak as if we were a herd of horses.”

“Cry you mercy, noble esquire,” rejoined Kyle. “An thou beest an ass, indeed, a halter and a hook at the gate-cheek may[24]serve thy turn, and so peraunter I may find room for the rest.”

A smothered laugh among his comrades proclaimed Squire Sang’s defeat. The triumphant host ran to hold Sir Patrick Hepborne’s stirrup.

“By the Rood,” cried the squire, as he dismounted, with a good-natured chuckle at his own discomfiture—“by the Rood, but the rogue hath mastered me for this bout. But verily my wit is fasting, whilst his, I warrant, hath the full spirit of his potent ale in’t. Never trust me but I shall be even with him anon.”

“Master Kyle,” said Assueton, to their host, as he ushered his guests into the common room, “we should be glad to see some food. The rising sun looked upon our last meal; so bestir thyself, I pr’ythee, goodman, and let us know as soon as may be how we are to fare.”

“Room there, sirs, for two valiant knights,” cried Kyle, getting rid of the question by addressing himself to a party seated at a table near the hearth; “room, I say, gentlemen. What, are ye stocks, my masters?”

“Nay, treat not the good people so rudely,” said Hepborne, as some eight or ten persons were hastily vacating their places; “there is room enow for all. Go not thou, at least, old man,” continued he, addressing a minstrel who was following the rest,his snowy locks and beard hanging luxuriantly around a countenance which showed all the freshness of a green old age; “sit thee down, I do beseech thee, and vouchsafe us thy winning discourse. Where is the chevalier to whom a bard may not do honour?”

The minstrel’s heart was touched by Sir Patrick’s kind words; his full hazel eye beamed on him with gratitude; he put his hand to his breast, and modestly bowed his head.

“My time is already spent, most gentle knight,” said he. “Ere this I am looked for at the Castle; yet, ere I go hence, let me drink this cup of thanks for thy courtesy. To thee I wish tender love of fairest lady; and may thy lance, and the lance of thy brave companion, never be couched but to conquer.” And so draining the draught to the bottom, he again bowed, and immediately retired.

“So, Master Kyle,” said Assueton to the host, who returned at this moment, after having ascertained the country and quality of his new guests, “what hast thou in thy buttery?”

“Of a truth, Sir Knight, we are now but ill provided for sike guests,” replied Kyle. “Had it been thy luck to have sojourned here yestere’en, indeed, I wot ye mought ha’ been feasted.[25]But arrives me my Lord Bishop of Durham at the Castle this morning; down comes me the seneschal with his buttery-men, and whips me off a whole beeve’s carcase; then in pour me the people of my Lord Bishop—clerks, lacqueys, and grooms; bolt goes me a leg of mutton here—crack goes me a venison pasty there—gobble goes me a salmon in this corner, whilst a whole flock of pullets are riven asunder in that; so that there has been nothing from sunrise till sundown but wagging of jaws.”

“Marry, these church-followers are wont to be stout knights of the trencher,” said Assueton, with a smile. “But let us have a supper from what may be left thee, and that without more ado.”

“Anon, courteous Sir Knight,” said Master Kyle, with a grin. “But, as I was a-saying, there hath been such stuffing; nay ye may know by the clinking of their cans that the rogues drink not fasting. By the mass, ’tis easy to guess from the seas of ale they are swallowing, what mountains of good provender they have to float in their stomachs. Why, yonder lantern-jaws i’ the corner, with a mouth that opens as if he would swallow another Jonas, and wangs like the famine-ground fangs of a starving wolf—that same fellow devoured me a couple of fat capons single-head; and that other churl——”

“Have done with thine impertinence, villain, said Assueton, interrupting him; “have done with thine impertinence, I say, and let us straightway have such fare as thou canst give, or by St. Andrew——”

“Nay, then, sweet sir,” replied the host, “there be yet reserved some delicate pig’s liver for myself and Mrs. Kyle, but they shall be forthwith cheerfully yielded to thy necessities.”

“Pestilence take thee, knave,” cried Assueton, “couldst thou not have set them down to us at once, without stirring up our appetites to greater keenness by thine enumeration of the good things that are gone? Come, come, despatch—our hunger is beyond nicety.”

Sir John Assueton now sat down to put in practice that patience of hunger, the exercise of which was one of the chief virtues of knighthood. As for Sir Patrick Hepborne, his attention was so entirely absorbed by a conversation that ensued at the adjoining table, to which the Bishop’s people had retired, that he altogether forgot his wants.

“And was it thy luck to see the Lady Eleanore de Selby, Master Barton?” demanded one of the persons of the dialogue; “Fame speaketh largely of her perfections.”[26]

“Yea, Foster, I did indeed behold her,” replied the other, who seemed to be a person of more consequence than the rest. “When I entered the Castle-hall this morning, to receive the commands of my Lord the Bishop, she was seated between him and her father. They were alone, and the old knight was urging something to her in round soldier-like terms; but I gathered not the purport of his speech, for he broke off abruptly as I appeared.”

“And is she so rare a beauty as folks do call her?” demanded Foster.

“Verily, so much loveliness did never bless these eyes before,” replied Barton. “Yet was the sunshine of her face disturbed by clouds. Tear-drops, too, had dimmed the lustre of her charms. But methought they were more the offspring of a haughty spirit than of an afflicted heart.”

“Nay, of a truth, they do say that she lacketh not haughtiness,” observed Foster. “’Tis whispered that she hath already scorned some noble knights who would fain have wedded the heiress of the rich Sir Walter de Selby.”

“Nay, I warrant me she hath had suitors enow, and those no mean ones,” replied Barton. “What thinkest thou of Sir Rafe Piersie, brother to the gallant Hotspur? Marry, they say that he deigns to woo her with right serious intent.”

“Sayest thou so?” exclaimed Foster; “then must the old knight’s gold have glittered in the young knight’s eyes, that a proud-blooded Piersie should even him thus to the daughter of him who is but a soldier of Fortune.”

“Ay, and welcome, I ween, would the old knight’s hard-won wealth be to the empty coffers of a younger brother who hath never spared expense,” replied Barton.

“Yea, and high, I wot, mought Sir Walter’s hoar head be held with such a gallant for his son-in-law,” observed Foster again.

“Trust me,” said Barton, “he would joyfully part with all the golden fruits he hath gleaned from Scottish fields, to see this solitary scion from his old stock grafted on the goodly and towering tree of Northumberland. But they say that the Lady Eleanore is so hard to win, that she even scorns this high alliance; and if I might guess at matters the which to know are beyond my reach, I should say, hark ye, that this visit of our Right Reverend Lord Bishop to Sir Walter de Selby, hath something in it of the nature of an ambassage from the Piersie touching this same affair.”

“I do well know our Right Reverend Lord’s affection for that house,” said Foster.[27]

“Nay, he doth stand related to the Piersie in no very distant degree,” replied Barton.

“Perchance this marriage treaty then had something to do with the lady’s tears,” observed Foster.

“Doubtless,” said Barton. “But I mistake if she carrieth not a high brow that will be ill to bend. Her doting father hath been ever too foolishly fond of her to thwart her will, till it hath waxed too strong for his opposing. She will never yield, I promise thee.”

“Then hath our Bishop lost his travel,” said Foster. “But when returneth our Reverend Lord homeward?”

“His present orders are for to-morrow,” replied Barton.

“How sayst thou, Assueton?” said Hepborne, in a whisper to his friend, after the conversation between the two strangers had dropped; “how sayst thou now? Did I right, think ye, to yield to thine importunity, to shun the hospitality of Norham Castle, that we might hostel it so vilely here i’ the nale of the Norham Tower? Dost thou not grieve for thy folly?”

“Why, faith,” replied Assueton, “to thee it may be cause of some regret; and I may grieve for thee, seeing that thou, an idolater of woman’s beauty, hast missed worshipping before the footstool of this haughty damsel. Thou mightest have caught a shred of ribbon from her fair hand, perchance, to have been treasured and worn in thy helmet; but, for mine own particular part, I despise such toys. Rough, unribboned steel, and the joyous neighing of my war-steed, are to me more pleasing than the gaudy paraments and puling parlance of love-sick maidens.”

“Nay, then, I do confess that my desire to behold this rare beauty hath much grown by what I have heard,” replied Hepborne. “Would that thou hadst been less indolently disposed, my friend. We might have been even now in the Castle; and ere we should have left it, who knows but we might have rescued this distressed damosel from an alliance she detesteth. Even after all these protestations to the contrary, thine icy heart mought have been thawed by the fire of her eyes, and the adventure mought have been thine own.”

“St. Andrew forbid!” replied Assueton. “I covet no such emprise. I trust my heart is love-proof. Have I not stood before the lightning-glances of the demoiselles of Paris, and may I not hold my breastplate to be good armour against all else?”

“Nay, boast not of this unknightly duresse of thine, Assueton,” replied Hepborne. “Trust me, thou wilt fall when thine hour cometh. But, by St. Baldrid, I would give this golden[28]chain from my neck—nay, I would give ten times its worth, to be blessed with but a sight of her.”

“Ay,” said Assueton, “thou art like the moth, and wouldst hover round the lamp-fire till thy wings were singed.”

“Pshaw, Sir Adamant,” said Hepborne, “thou knowest I have skimmed through many a festal hall, blazing with bright eyes, and yet are my opinions as whole as thine. But I am not insensible to woman’s charms as thou art; and to behold so bright a star, perdie, I should care little to risk being scorched by coming within the range of its rays.”

“Nay, then, I do almost repent me that I hindered thee from thy design of quartering in the Castle,” said Assueton. “Thou mightest have levied new war on our ancient and natural foemen, by snatching an affianced bride from the big house of Northumberland.”

“Depardieux, but it were indeed a triumph, and worthy of a Scottish knight, to carry off the Lady Eleanore de Selby by her own consent from the proud Piersie,” said Hepborne. “But ’tis well enow to jest of.”

Whilst this dialogue was going on between the two friends, their esquires entered the place. Mortimer Sang, after reconnoitring the different tables, and perceiving that there were no convenient places vacant, except at that occupied by the attendants of the Bishop, went towards it, followed by his comrade Roger Riddel.

“By your good leave, courteous gentlemen,” said Sang, with a bow, at the same time filling up an empty space with his person; “I hope no objection to our joining your good company? Here, tapster,” cried he, at the same time throwing money on the table, “bring in a flagon of Rhenish, that we may wash away the dryness of new acquaintance.”

This cheering introduction of the two esquires was received with a smiling welcome on the part of those to whom it was addressed.

“Come ye from the south, Sir Squire?” demanded Barton, after the wine had silently circulated, to the great inward satisfaction of the partakers.

“Ay, truly, from the south, indeed,” replied Sang, lifting the flagon to his head.

“Then was I right, Richard, after all,” said Barton, addressing one of his fellows. “Did I not tell thee that these strangers had none of the loutish Scot in their gait?”

“Loutish Scot!” cried Sang, taking the flagon from his lips, and starting up fiercely; “What mean ye by loutish Scot?”[29]

Barton eyed the tall figure, broad chest, and sinewy arms of the Scottish esquire.

“Nay, I meant thee not offence, Sir Squire,” replied he.

“Ha!” said Sang, regaining his good-humour; “then I take no offence where none is meant. Your Scot and your Southern are born foes to fight in fair field; yet I see no just cause against their drinking together in good fellowship when the times be fitting, albeit they may be called upon anon to crack each other’s sconces in battle broil. Thine hand,” said he, stretching his right across the table to the Bishop’s man, whilst he poised the flagon with his left. “Peraunter thou be’st a soldier, though of a truth that garb of thine would speak thee to be as much of a clerk as an esquire; but, indeed, an thy trade be arms, I am bold to say, that Scotland doth not hold a man who will do thee the petites politesses of the skirmish more handsomely than I shall, should chance ever throw us against each other. Meanwhile my hearty service to thee.”

“Spoke like a true man,” said Roger Riddel, taking the flagon from his friend. “Here, tapster, we lack wine.”

“Nay, Roger,” said Sang, “but we cannot drink thus fasting. What a murrain keeps that knave with the——Ha! he comes. Why, holy St. Andrew, what meanest thou, villain, by putting down this flinty skim-milk? Caitiff, dost take us for ostriches, to digest iron? Saw I not hogs’ livers a-frying for our supper?”

“Nay, good master Squire,” said the flaxen-polled lad of a tapster, “sure mistress says that the livers be meat for your masters.”

“Meat for our masters, sirrah!” replied Sang; “and can the hostel of Master Sylvester Kyle, famed from the Borders to the Calais Straits—can this far-famed house, I say, afford nothing better for a brace of Scottish knights, whose renown hath filled the world from Cattiness to the land of Egypt, than a fried hog’s liver? Avoid, sinner, avoid; out of my way, and let me go talk to this same hostess.”

So saying, he strode over the bench, and, kicking the rushes before him in his progress towards the door, made directly for the kitchen.

Back to IndexNext