Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

Pondered the youth his doubts again;

  Again, as though his thoughts he read,

  The knight look’d sternly down and said,

  “My squire and my foot-page I missed

  At night-fall, when the woods betwixt.

  But they perchance may shelter find,

  From this bitter-blowing wind,

  In the deep hollow of some hill,

  Till the dawn break, and the storm be still.”

  XXVII.

  “But the wolf bays in the blast afar;

  Sir knight, how may they scape such war?

  I hear him now — he nearer howls!

  Mercy! mercy! save their souls!”

  “Hark!” said the knight, and stood aghast;

  It was no wolf-howl in the blast;

  It was a blood-hound’s dreadful bay,

  The stranger heard, with such dismay —

  The blood-hound at the tower below;

  That over pathless hill and dale,

  Had tracked a murderer in the gale,

  And came to claim his master’s foe.

  While listening to the lengthen’d yell,

  The stranger seemed to hear his knell.

  “A blood-hound loose, and at this hour!

  Your rest, sir knight, had ill been kept;

  Nor one within these gates had slept,

  Had I been in my distant tower.”

  The page he lighted a lamp on high;

  The stranger stifled scarce a sigh,

  That heavily for utterance pressed.

  He heard the page’s steps descend,

  And go where the long chambers bend,

  Down to the halls, and th’ outer walls.

  The page knew not the chance he ran;

  He was marked with the blood of a murder’d man!

  XXVIII.

  The knight, he listened in silent dread,

  Till now, the blood-hound’s voice was stilled;

  But soon a low voice near him sped,

  That every nerve with horror thrilled.

  He looked the way that lone voice came,

  And saw, by the lamp’s tall spiring flame,

  A portraiture on the wall beneath,

  Of noble dame, that seemed to breathe.

  Robed in sable weeds was she:

  The gleam fell on that lady’s brow;

  There, written dimly, you might see,

  The characters of hopeless woe.

  XXIX.

  Soon as that lady’s face he saw,

  All other dread his heart forsook;

  He gazed with fixt and frenzied awe,

  And vainly tried away to look:

  For to his fearful sight it seemed,

  As though her eyes on his were bent;

  And, where the pale flame wavering gleamed,

  As if her varying cheek were blent

  With lights and shades of death;

  While round her lips a grim smile drew,

  And the rose paled that on them blew;

  And, with faint lingering breath,

  “Prepare,” she said, “thy hour is nigh!

  Unpitying, thou hast seen me die;

  Unpitied be thy mortal sigh!”

  XXX.

  He heard the words — the words alone;

  He heard not that deep solemn groan;

  He heard not the clang of the ‘larum bell,

  Nor from the gates that horn-blast swell;

  Nor heard the many-trampling hoofs,

  Nor voices calling in the gale,

  And ringing round the castle roofs,

  Till they made the ‘battled raven quail;

  Nor heard the funeral shriek, that broke

  Through every hall and lofty tower;

  He heard alone the words she spoke.

  XXXI.

  Nor saw he in the court below,

  By the torches’ umbered glow,

  Borne upon his bleeding bier,

  With wounds unclosed and open eyes,

  A warrior stretched in death draw near;

  Nor heard the loud and louder cries,

  This piteous sight of horror drew

  From every friend and vassal true.

  But he knew that voice at his chamber-door.

  And straight the witch-veil of glamour

  Falls, and his wonder-trance is o’er.

  He hears his summons in that sound;

  It is the bark of the true blood-hound.

  True to his murdered lord is he;

  He has traced the steps he could not see —

  Traced them o’er darkened miles and miles.,

  O’er glen and mountain, wood and moor,

  Through all their swift and winding wiles,

  Till he stopped before his master’s door,

  And bayed the murderer in his bower.

  XXXII.

  The castle gates were strait unbarred,

  And he sprang before his bleeding lord;

  He passed the page unheeded by,

  And tracked the stranger’s steps on high;

  Till at the door, that closed him in,

  Loud and dread became his din.

  The doors are burst, and the spectre-light

  Betrayeth the form of the blood-tracked knight:

  He was armed all over in coat of mail,

  But nothing did steel that night avail;

  He fell a torn corpse, beside that chair,

  Whereunto the page did late appear,

  By the dark glamour-art revealed,

  His murdered lord with lance and shield.

  The murderer fell, and his death-wound found

  In the terrible fangs of the true blood-hound.

  Here the voice of the minstrel ceased; and, after striking a few notes of his harp, full and deep, he rested with a look of sorrow. His eyes dwelt on the Lady Barbara — but she heeded him not; but sat with head inclined, as if still listening to his dismal tale. There followed a dread silence in the room, as of expectation of that which was to follow. Some there were, who said the ditty was already ended; yet they would fain have heard something of the pitiful history of that unhappy lady, whose portraiture was in the tower-chamber, and would have known what was the guilty motive of the knight against the Lord of Eglamore; and how it chanced he came so unwittingly to his castle. Others there were then present, who, having noticed the young Gaston de Blondeville to be ill at ease, the while the minstrel sung, and being, perchance, already moved by the merchant’s strange accusation, scrupled not to think the story touched him nearly; and that Pierre rested, not because his ditty was at an end, or from weariness; but that he doubted whether it would be well to proceed to the second part.

  However this may be, he needed not have stayed his strain, for Sir Gaston was no longer in the chamber. Whether Pierre knew this or not, he began once more to strike upon the harp; when, on a sudden, the King’s trumpets were heard blowing up near the stair; and anon, his Highness entered the bower, it being almost time that he should go to his rest for “all-night.”

  There was no more harping; Pierre tuning not up his second fit; and belike, if his Highness had been there at first, he would have bidden him to shorten his ballad by one-half.

  The King looked about for Sir Gaston; and, espying him not, asked wherefore he was not there; but, before any answer could be given, the knight had returned, and now approached his Highness. He was then commanded to dance a round with the Lady Barbara, and he obeyed; but many there noted the sadness on his brow, though his steps were light and gay.

  A more pleasureful sight could not be than the Queen’s bower, as it was at that time, where she sat in estate, under a cloth of gold, her ladies standing about her chair, and her maidens on either hand, below the steps of her throne; and two young damsels of surpassing beauty and richly bedight, sitting on the first step, at her feet; the same, that were used so to sit, when her Highness kept state in the great hall at festivals.

  Behind them, half encircling the throne, stood twen
ty household esquires, holding great wax torches, right richly beseen in the King’s livery, and proud to wear it, gentils as they were, as I said before, and of ancient families in the countries from whence they came.

  The arched roof was curiously wrought in that fashion, which King Henry had newly brought into favour; and, besides these lights, a great crystal lamp, that hung from the roof, shone over the chamber and upon the goodly assemblage, as they looked upon the Lady Barbara, passing so winningly in the dance. That night, the Earl of Richmond bore the Queen’s spice-plate, and Sir Philip de Kinton her cup.

  When the Lady Barbara had ended her dance, the Queen called her to her chair; and, making her take of the sweetmeats from her own plate, spoke commendable words to her, as did his Highness King Henry. Then the Queen, turning to the Lady Gloucester, took from her hands a girdle, richly beset with jewels, and, clasping it on the Lady Barbara, kissed her, and bade her wear it ever, for her sake and for her honour. Her Highness then stretched out her hand to Sir Gaston, who, kneeling, put it to his lips. “May you, Sir knight,” said her Highness, “as well deserve this lady, as she deserves this token of my regard!”

  Then, the King said many gracious things, and seemed so merry of heart, that he made all around him gladsome; till, the Voide being ended, he went forth with the Queen, the trumpets blowing before them; and the chamber was then speedily avoided for all night.

  While these things were passing in the chambers of estate, there were divers wassailings and merriments making in other places of the castle. In the great hall were feasting and revelling, but not of estate. There were tumblers and jugglers and morrice-dancers and mimicks and mummers, with pipings and blowings, that made the roofs ring.

  The monks at the priory heard them afar, while at the last even-song, and long after; and well I wote, that had it not been the King’s castle, there had been some rebuke, as indeed due, for such noise made. The Prior in his chamber sat alone; listening, I guess, in gloomy mood to the revelry; and, all that night, only Edmund the monk and mass Peter with him: he came not forth to midnight-song.

  But now I must return, and so must ye that hear, or read, to the castle. In the hall there was a dancer on stilts, playing the while on a recorder; there were dancers on one leg, and dancers upon the head; but that which most rejoiced many of the beholders, were the disguisings and the quaint antics of the mummers. There came a whole troop, some wearing the heads of asses, some of bulls, some of calves, some of cats, who brayed and kicked, bellowed and tossed, scratched and mewed, to the very life. Others, like stags and hares, hounds and apes, kept not so pertinently to their pretended natures, but marched on with solemn state, as much as might be, hand in hand, as if they had been loving friends and neighbours; yet each with a dagger stuck in his girdle. And others again, with fools’ girdles and bells hanging to them; tossing their heads, and cutting such strange capers, to the noise of pipes and drums, as made the sides of many to shake with laughter, and roused up every hawk on perch there to shake his bells in concert.

  But all this was child’s play, though it was often done before the worshipfullest estates, in comparison of the sayer’s art; which, when he could be heard between whiles, when the loud revelry paused and held breath, was marvellous to hear: and, as soon as those mad-heads caught the words of that tale-teller, sooth to say, they soon were still and hushed, as though no living soul but he breathed there; listening to his dismal tradey, with tears in their eyes, or quaking for fear of the strange things he told them. He, the while, with solemn visage, showing as though he himself believed all the marvels he related, and not showing roguish smiles, as some do, kept on always to the far end of his long tale: though some learned clerks would oft-times comment to their neighbours upon his marvels, as if he had purported lofty matter worth their notice, and did not merely strive to while an idle tide away.

  In other parts of the castle were those gentils and honest gentlewomen, that, misliking the loud revelry of the hall, drew together in chambers apart; and delighted themselves with histories of times past, the sad hopes of lovers, or the deeds of brave knights, or otherwise in singing and harping, after their own manner.

  In the lower hall too was feasting, and the mirth did not stop short of the “Kuchane,” so that every man to the lowest degree was joyous; and each chamber and tower rung with song, or laughter, save the prison tower of the poor merchant. He, as he lay on his pallet-bed, heard those sounds of music and jollity, in confused uproar rising through the courts, while his heart was stricken with fear and sadness; for, whether he were right or not in believing Sir Gaston to be the murderer of his friend, it is certain, that he had seen his friend murdered, and that too, as he had said, in the woods of Ardenn.

  He was, at this time, far from his home and friends, and had been travelling, over these parts a lonesome stranger, along the foss-way from Lincoln, southward; having been on his merchandize into the north seas, and having landed on the eastern coast. Coming again to that place, where, a few years back, he had buried his friend, the remembrance of him broke out in fresh grief; and, hearing that the King was coming to keep festival in Kenilworth, he resolved to break the matter to him; as well as to adventure to tell him, the times were such it was no longer safe to journey in any part of his kingdom.

  The most audacious robberies, certes, were then committed at noonday with impunity; nay, the very thieves themselves feared not to be seen walking about, little attempt being made to seize them, or, in any wise, to suppress these scandalous outrages. Not only then did the sad fall of his friend, but also the fearful condition of the living, urge the merchant to make the truth known to the king.

  With this design he had rested at Kenilworth, but not at the house where he had formerly suffered such affliction; and, on the King’s arrival, had gone forth in the crowd to behold him, though he had not intended to present his petition in that time of turmoil. But, when he saw near his Highness, riding as it were in the top of favour, the very man, whom he thought to be the slayer of his kinsman; when he beheld that look, which he felt to dart into his heart, and to revive there all the horror he had felt at the aspect of the murderer, at the moment when his friend had been stricken down — then it was, that, overcome by the strength of his feelings, he dropped down senseless in the castle court, as hath been related.

  And now, what had he gained by his courageous demand of justice? Suspicion, contempt, fear, grief, a prison, and, perhaps, death. Yet did he not repent the effort he had made, so honest was his grief for the fate of his kinsman; so much was his mind possessed with the notion, that he had accused his very murderer; so confident was he that he was performing a duty; and, what is more, so sure was he, that to perform his duty in this world is the wisest, the most truly cunning thing a man can contrive to do. Whether his suspicions concerning the knight were just or not; these, his conclusions touching his own conduct, none but fools, or villains, — that is, none but fools — will deny.

  Thus he lay on his pallet, alike deprived of sleep by the jollity of others and by his own grievous reflections. A lamp burned beside him, but it served only to show the forlornness of his condition, in this high and distant tower. Sometimes, he would rise and look through his grated window upon the inner court of the castle, listening there awhile to the distant minstrelsy and to the confusion of numberless voices, footsteps and closing doors, that rose from many a chamber below. Anon, a torch-bearer would pass the court, a page, perhaps, or a yeoman; and would show the gloomy towers above and the steps of the guest he led at their feet. But, this passed, nothing could the prisoner see, save here and there, a lamp burning through a casement of glass (and a goodly show there was of such windows now in this castle) like stars through a clouded sky; but mostly the glorious beams of the great hall, that struck through the windows and lighted the air above. Once he heard the trumpets blow, and thought the King was coming forth, and once he fancied he saw, in the person of one who followed a torch-bearer, Sir Gaston himself. Then turned he from t
he casement, looked no more, and fell upon his pallet.

  At last, every distant sound grew fainter; the noise of the dancers ceased; then the minstrelsy sunk low; the voices of the hall revellers became few; he heard less frequently the doors opened and shut; and then he heard the fastening of bolts and bars: and, afar off, the castle gates closed for the night; and soon all grew still, as though no living creature inhabited there.

  And thus it kept, until the wayte piped his second watch in all the courts. Then the stranger arose, and, looking again through his grate, saw him well, by the light his groom carried, piping the hour. And, when the man had finished his saye, he went round the court, his boy-groom holding up the torch, while he tried every door, and found that all was safe. By this light too, he perceived the wardour’s men on guard; but no living being else was seen. The windows of the great hall were dark; and, the torch being gone, nothing glimmered through the night, save one great star, which wizards say is evil. It stayed, at this hour, right over King Henry’s lodgings; but for whom it watched, who was there that might tell? The prisoner knew the star, and all that was thought of it, and he betook him to his pallet groaning heavily.

  He had not long been there, when, as he thought, a voice near him spoke his name. Now, there was a small grate looked out from his chamber upon the stair; and thence the voice seemed to come. The prisoner, raising himself from his pallet, turned, and saw there the figure of a man passing away. He kept his eyes fixed, for some space, upon the grate, but the figure appeared no more, and he sunk again on his pallet.

  The voice, faint and passing as it was, had thrilled him with dread. Whose it was, wherefore it had called him by a name known but to few, and had then passed away, without communing with him, he tried in vain to understand; yet seemed it not wholly new to him.

  THE THIRD DAY. I.

  Here was a drawing of the inside of the great hall, with the King and Queen holding festival. In the background was a sketch, of what seemed to be a pageant acted there; and yet the spectators appeared to be looking on, with an interest too serious for so trifling a performance. In the margin, also, was drawn, the chapel before mentioned, with a marriage ceremony at the porch.