Complete Works of Bram Stoker

by Bram Stoker

  Then he remained silent for a time, but it was not the silence of reflection; it was that of exhaustion, and, as such, was not likely to last long; nor did it, for, in the course of another five minutes, he called out loudly.

  Perhaps he thought there might be a remote chance that some one traversing the meadows would hear him; and yet, if he had duly considered the matter, which he was not in a fitting frame of mind to do, he would have recollected that, in choosing a dungeon among the underground vaults of these ruins, he had, by experiment, made certain that no cry, however loud, from where he lay, could reach the upper air. And thus had this villain, by the very precautions which he had himself taken to ensure the safe custody of another, been his own greatest enemy.

  “Help! help! help!” he cried frantically “Varney! Charles Holland! have mercy upon me, and do not leave me here to starve! Help, oh, Heaven! Curses on all your heads — curses! Oh, mercy — mercy — mercy!”

  In suchlike incoherent expressions did he pass some hours, until, what with exhaustion and a raging thirst that came over him, he could not utter another word, but lay the very picture of despair and discomfited malice and wickedness.

  CHAPTER LXIX.

  FLORA BANNERWORTH AND HER MOTHER. — THE EPISODE OF CHIVALRY.

  Gladly we turn from such a man as Marchdale to a consideration of the beautiful and accomplished Flora Bannerworth, to whom we may, without destroying in any way the interest of our plot, predict a much happier destiny than, probably, at that time, she considers as at all likely to be hers.

  She certainly enjoyed, upon her first removal from Bannerworth Hall, greater serenity of mind than she had done there; but, as we have already remarked of her, the more her mind was withdrawn, by change of scene, from the horrible considerations which the attack of the vampyre had forced upon her, the more she reverted to the fate of Charles Holland, which was still shrouded in so much gloom.

  She would sit and converse with her mother upon that subject until she worked up her feelings to a most uncomfortable pitch of excitement, and then Mrs. Bannerworth would get her younger brother to join them, who would occasionally read to her some compositions of his own, or of some favourite writer whom he thought would amuse her.

  It was on the very evening when Sir Francis Varney had made up his mind to release Charles Holland, that young Bannerworth read to his sister and his mother the following little chivalric incident, which he told them he had himself collated from authentic sources: —

  “The knight with the green shield,” exclaimed one of a party of men-at-arms, who were drinking together at an ancient hostel, not far from Shrewsbury — ”the knight with the green shield is as good a knight as ever buckled on a sword, or wore spurs.” — ”Then how comes it he is not one of the victors in the day’s tournament?” exclaimed another. — ”By the bones of Alfred!” said a third, “a man must be judged of by his deserts, and not by the partiality of his friends. That’s my opinion, friends.” — ”And mine, too,” said another.

  “That is all very true, and my opinion would go with yours, too; but not in this instance. Though you may accuse me of partiality, yet I am not so; for I have seen some of the victors of to-day by no means forward in the press of battle-men who, I will not say feared danger, but who liked it not so well but they avoided it as much as possible.”

  “Ay, marry, and so have I. The reason is, ‘tis much easier to face a blunted lance, than one with a spear-head; and a man may practise the one and thrive in it, but not the other; for the best lance in the tournament is not always the best arm in the battle.”

  “And that is the reason of my saying the knight with the green shield was a good knight. I have seen him in the midst of the melee, when men and horses have been hurled to the ground by the shock; there he has behaved himself like a brave knight, and has more than once been noticed for it.”

  “But how canne he to be so easily overthrown to-day? That speaks something.” — ”His horse is an old one.”

  “So much the better,” said another; “he’s used to his work, and as cunning as an old man.” — ”But he has been wounded more than once, and is weakened very much: besides, I saw him lose his footing, else he had overthrown his opponent.

  “He did not seem distressed about his accident, at all events, but sat contented in the tent.” — ”He knows well that those who know him will never attribute his misadventure either to want of courage or conduct; moreover, he seems to be one of those who care but little for the opinion of men who care nothing for him.”

  “And he’s right. Well, dear comrades, the health of Green Knight, or the Knight with a Green Shield, for that’s his name, or the designation he chooses to go by.” — ”A health to the Knight with the Green Shield!” shouted the men-at-arms, as they lifted their cups on high.

  “Who is he?” inquired one of the men-at-arms, of him who had spoken favourably of the stranger. — ”I don’t know.”

  “And yet you spoke favourably of him a few seconds back, and said what a brave knight he was!” — ”And so I uphold him to be; but, I tell you what, friend, I would do as much for the greatest stranger I ever met. I have seen him fight where men and horses have bit the dust in hundreds; and that, in my opinion, speaks out for the man and warrior; he who cannot, then, fight like a soldier, had better tilt at home in the castle-yard, and there win ladies’ smiles, but not the commendation of the leader of the battle.”

  “That’s true: I myself recollect very well Sir Hugh de Colbert, a very accomplished knight in the castle-yard; but his men were as fine a set of fellows as ever crossed a horse, to look at, but they proved deficient at the moment of trial; they were broken, and fled in a moment, and scarce one of them received a scratch.”

  “Then they hadn’t stood the shock of the foeman?” — ”No; that’s certain.”

  “But still I should like to know the knight, — to know his name very well.” — ”I know it not; he has some reason for keeping it secret, I suppose; but his deeds will not shame it, be it what it may. I can bear witness to more than one foeman falling beneath his battle-axe.”

  “Indeed!” — ”Yes; and he took a banner from the enemy in the last battle that was fought.”

  “Ah, well! he deserves a better fortune to-morrow. Who is to be the bridegroom of the beautiful Bertha, daughter of Lord de Cauci?” — ”That will have to be decided: but it is presumed that Sir Guthrie de Beaumont is the intended.”

  “Ah! but should he not prove the victor?” — ”It’s understood; because it’s known he is intended by the parents of the lady, and none would be ungallant enough to prevail against him, — save on such conditions as would not endanger the fruits of victory.”

  “No?” — ”Certainly not; they would lay the trophies at the foot of the beauty worshipped by the knights at the tournament.”

  “So, triumphant or not, he’s to be the bridegroom; bearing off the prize of valour whether or no, — in fact, deserve her or not, — that’s the fact.” — ”So it is, so it is.”

  “And a shame, too, friends; but so it is now; but yet, if the knight’s horse recovers from the strain, and is fit for work to-morrow, it strikes me that the Green Shield will give some work to the holiday knight.”

  There had been a grand tournament held near Shrewsbury Castle, in honour of the intended nuptials of the beautiful Lady Bertha de Cauci. She was the only daughter of the Earl de Cauci, a nobleman of some note; he was one of an ancient and unblemished name, and of great riches.

  The lady was beautiful, but, at the same time, she was an unwilling bride, — every one could see that; but the bridegroom cared not for that. There was a sealed sorrow on her brow, — a sorrow that seemed sincere and lasting; but she spoke not of it to any one, — her lips were seldom parted. She loved another. Yes; she loved one who was far away, fighting in the wars of his country, — one who was not so rich in lands as her present bridegroom.

  When he left her, she remembered his promise; it was, to fight on till h
e earned a fortune, or name that should give him some right to claim her hand, even from her imperious father. But alas! he came not; and what could she do against the commands of one who would be obeyed? Her mother, too, was a proud, haughty woman, one whose sole anxiety was to increase the grandeur and power of her house by such connections.

  Thus it was pressed on by circumstances, she could no longer hold out, more especially as she heard nothing of her knight. She knew not where he was, or indeed if he were living or dead. She knew not he was never named. This last circumstance, indeed, gave her pain; for it assured her that he whom she loved had been unable to signalize himself from among other men. That, in fact, he was unknown in the annals of fame, as well as the probability that he had been slain in some of the earlier skirmishes of the war. This, if it had happened, caused her some pain to think upon; not but such events were looked upon with almost indifference by females, save in such cases where their affections were engaged, as on this occasion. But the event was softened by the fact that men were continually falling by the hand of man in such encounters, but at the same time it was considered an honourable and praiseworthy death for a soldier. He was wounded, but not with the anguish we now hear of; for the friends were consoled by the reflection that the deceased warrior died covered with glory.

  Bertha, however, was young, and as yet she knew not the cause of her absent knight’s silence, or why he had not been heard of among the most forward in the battle.

  “Heaven’s will be done,” she exclaimed; “what can I do? I must submit to my father’s behests; but my future life will be one of misery and sorrow.”

  She wept to think of the past, and to dream of the future; both alike were sorrowful to think upon — no comfort in the past and no joy in the future.

  Thus she wept and sorrowed on the night of the first tournament; there was to be a second, and that was to be the grand one, where her intended bridegroom was to show himself off in her eyes, and take his part in the sport.

  Bertha sat late — she sat sorrowing by the light of the lamps and the flickering flame of the fire, as it rose and fell on the hearth and threw dancing shadows on the walls.

  “Oh, why, Arthur Home, should you thus be absent? Absent, too, at such a time when you are more needed than ever. Alas, alas! you may no longer be in the land of the living. Your family is great and your name known — your own has been spoken with commendation from the lips of your friend; what more of fame do you need? but I am speaking without purpose. Heaven have mercy on me.”

  As she spoke she looked up and saw one of her women in waiting standing by.

  “Well, what would you?” — ”My lady, there is one who would speak with you,” said the hand-maiden.

  “With me?” — ”Yes, my lady; he named you the Lady Bertha de Cauci.”

  “Who and what is he?” she inquired, with something like trepidation, of the maiden. — ”I know not, my lady.”

  “But gave he not some token by which I might know who I admit to my chamber?” — ”None,” replied the maiden.

  “And what does he bear by way of distinguishing himself? What crest or device doth he bear?” — ”Merely a green shield.”

  “The unsuccessful knight in the tournament to-day. Heaven’s! what can he desire with me; he is not — no, no, it cannot be — it cannot be.” — ”Will you admit him, lady?”

  “Indeed, I know not what to do; but yet he may have some intelligence to give me. Yes, yes, admit him; but first throw some logs on the fire.”

  The attendant did as she was desired, and then quitted the room for the purpose of admitting the stranger knight with the green shield. In a few moments she could hear the stride of the knight as he entered the apartment, and she thought the step was familiar to her ear — she thought it was the step of Sir Arthur Home, her lover. She waited anxiously to see the door open, and then the stranger entered. His form and bearing was that of her lover, but his visor was down, and she was unable to distinguish the features of the stranger.

  His armour was such as had seen many a day’s hard wear, and there were plenty of marks of the battle about him. His travel-worn accoutrements were altogether such as bespoke service in the field.

  “Sir, you desired to see me; say wherefore you do so, and if it is news you bring.” The knight answered not, but pointed to the female attendant, as if he desired she would withdraw. “You may retire,” said Bertha; “be within call, and let me know if I am threatened with interruption.”

  The attendant retired, and then the knight and lady were left alone. The former seemed at a loss how to break silence for some moments, and then he said, —

  “Lady — — ” — ”Oh, Heavens! ‘tis he!” exclaimed Bertha, as she sprang to her feet; “it is Sir Arthur Home!”

  “It is,” exclaimed the knight, pulling up his visor, and dropping on one knee he encircled his arm round the waist of the lady, and at the same moment he pressed her lips to his own.

  The first emotion of joy and surprise over, Bertha checked her transports, and chid the knight for his boldness.

  “Nay, chide me not, dear Bertha; lam what I was when I left you, and hope to find you the same.”

  “Am I not?” said Bertha. — ”Truly I know not, for you seem more beautiful than you were then; I hope that is the only change.”

  “If there be a change, it is only such as you see. Sorrow and regret form the principal causes.” — ”I understand you.”

  “My intended nuptials — — ” — ”Yes, I have heard all. I came here but late in the morning; and my horse was jaded and tired, and my impatience to attend the tournament caused me a disaster which it is well it came not on the second day.”

  “It is, dear Arthur. How is it I never heard your name mentioned, or that I received no news from any one about you during the wars that have ended?” — ”I had more than one personal enemy, Bertha; men who would have been glad to see me fall, and who, in default of that, would not have minded bribing an assassin to secure my death for them at any risk whatever.”

  “Heavens! and how did you escape such a death from such people, Arthur?” — ”By adopting such a device as that I wear. The Knight of the Green Shield I’m called.”

  “I saw you to-day in the tournament.” — ”And there my tired and jaded horse gave way; but to-morrow I shall have, I hope, a different fortune.”

  “I hope so too.” — ”I will try; my arm has been good in battle, and I see not why it should be deficient in peaceful jousts.”

  “Certainly not. What fortune have you met with since you left England?” — ”I was of course known but to a few; among those few were the general under whom I served and my more immediate officers, who I knew would not divulge my secret.”

  “And they did not?” — ”No; kept it nobly, and kept their eyes upon me in battle; and I have reaped a rich harvest in force, honour, and riches, I assure you.”

  “Thank Heaven!” said Bertha. — ”Bertha, if I be conqueror, may I claim you in the court-yard before all the spectators?”

  “You may,” said Bertha, and she hung her head. — ”Moreover,” said Sir Arthur, “you will not make a half promise, but when I demand you, you will at once come down to me and accept me as your husband; if I be the victor then he cannot object to the match.”

  “But he will have many friends, and his intended bride will have many more, so that you may run some danger among so many enemies.” — ”Never fear for me, Bertha, because I shall have many friends of distinction there too — many old friends who are tried men in battle, and whose deeds are a glory and honour to them; besides, I shall have my commander and several gentlemen who would at once interfere in case any unfair advantage was attempted to be taken of my supposed weakness.”

  “Have you a fresh horse?” inquired Bertha. — ”I have, or shall have by the morning; but promise me you will do what I ask you, and then my arm will be nerved to its utmost, and I am sure to be victorious.”

  “I do promise,” said Ber
tha; “I hope you may be as successful as you hope to be, Arthur; but suppose fortune should declare against you; suppose an accident of any kind were to happen, what could be done then?” — ”I must be content to hide myself for ever afterwards, as a defeated knight; how can I appear before your friends as the claimant of your hand?”

  “I will never have any other.” — ”But you will be forced to accept this Guthrie de Beaumont, your father’s chosen son-in-law.”

  “I will seek refuge in a cloister.” — ”Will you fly with me, Bertha, to some sequestered spot, where we can live in each others society?”

  “Yes,” said Bertha, “anything, save marriage with Guthrie de Beaumont.” — ”Then await the tournament of to-morrow,” said Sir Arthur, “and then this may be avoided; in the meantime, keep up a good heart and remember I am at hand.”

  These two lovers parted for the present, after a protracted interview, Bertha to her chamber, and the Knight of the Green Shield to his tent.

  The following morning was one of great preparation; the lists had been enlarged, and the seats made more commodious, for the influx of visitors appeared to be much greater than had been anticipated.

  Moreover, there were many old warriors of distinction to be present, which made the bridegroom look pale and feel uncomfortable as to the results of the tournament. The tilting was to begin at an early hour, and then the feasting and revelry would begin early in the evening, after the tilting had all passed off.

  In that day’s work there were many thrown from their saddles, and many broke their lances. The bridegroom tilted with several knights, and came off victorious, or without disadvantage to either.

  The green knight, on the contrary, tilted with but few, and always victorious, and such matches were with men who had been men of some name in the wars, or at least in the tilt yard.