Rebecca and Rowena

by William Makepeace Thackeray

he could neither ride, nor strike a blow with sword or axe, as he had

  been enabled to do in the old times in Palestine: and finally in the

  twenty-fifth assault, in which they had very nearly carried the place,

  and in which onset Ivanhoe slew seven, and his Majesty six, of the sons

  of the Count de Chalus, its defender, Ivanhoe almost did for himself,

  by planting his banner before the King's upon the wall; and only

  rescued himself from utter disgrace by saving his Majesty's life

  several times in the course of this most desperate onslaught.

  Then the luckless knight's very virtues (as, no doubt, my respected

  readers know,) made him enemies amongst the men nor was Ivanhoe liked

  by the women frequenting the camp of the gay King Richard. His young

  Queen, and a brilliant court of ladies, attended the pleasure-loving

  monarch. His Majesty would transact business in the morning, then

  fight severely from after breakfast till about three o'clock in the

  afternoon from which time, until after midnight, there was nothing but

  jigging and singing, feasting and revelry, in the royal tents. Ivanhoe,

  who was asked as a matter of ceremony, and forced to attend these

  entertainments, not caring about the blandishments of any of the ladies

  present, looked on at their ogling and dancing with a countenance as

  glum as an undertaker's, and was a perfect wet-blanket in the midst of

  the festivities. His favorite resort and conversation were with a

  remarkably austere hermit, who lived in the neighborhood of Chalus, and

  with whom Ivanhoe loved to talk about Palestine, and the Jews, and

  other grave matters of import, better than to mingle in the gayest

  amusements of the court of King Richard. Many a night, when the Queen

  and the ladies were dancing quadrilles and polkas (in which his

  Majesty, who was enormously stout as well as tall, insisted upon

  figuring, and in which he was about as graceful as an elephant dancing

  a hornpipe). Ivanhoe would steal away from the ball, and come and have

  a night's chat under the moon with his reverend friend. It pained him

  to see a man of the King's age and size dancing about with the young

  folks. They laughed at his Majesty whilst they flattered him: the

  pages and maids of honor mimicked the royal mountebank almost to his

  face; and, if Ivanhoe ever could have laughed, he certainly would one

  night when the King, in light-blue satin inexpressibles, with his hair

  in powder, chose to dance the minuet de la cour with the little Queen

  Berangeria.

  Then, after dancing, his Majesty must needs order a guitar, and begin

  to sing. He was said to compose his own songs words and music but

  those who have read Lord Campobello's "Lives of the Lord Chancellors"

  are aware that there was a person by the name of Blondel, who, in fact,

  did all the musical part of the King's performances; and as for the

  words, when a king writes verses, we may be sure there will be plenty

  of people to admire his poetry. His Majesty would sing you a ballad,

  of which he had stolen every idea, to an air that was ringing on all

  the barrel-organs of Christendom, and, turning round to his courtiers,

  would say, "How do you like that? I dashed it off this morning." Or,

  "Blondel, what do you think of this movement in B flat?" or what not;

  and the courtiers and Blondel, you may be sure, would applaud with all

  their might, like hypocrites as they were.

  One evening -it was the evening of the 27th March, 1199, indeed his

  Majesty, who was in the musical mood, treated the court with a quantity

  of his so-called composition, until the people were fairly tired of

  clapping with their hands and laughing in their sleeves. First he sang

  an original air and poem, beginning

  Cherries nice, cherries nice, nice, come choose,

  Fresh and fair ones, who'll refuse? " &c.

  The which he was ready to take his affidavit he had composed the day

  before yesterday. Then he sang an equally _original heroic melody, of

  which the chorus was

  Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the sea,

  For Britons never, never, never slaves shall be," &c.

  The courtiers applauded this song as they did the other, all except

  Ivanhoe, who sat without clanging a muscle of his features, until the

  King questioned him, when the knight, with a bow said "he thought he

  had heard something very like the air and the words elsewhere." His

  Majesty scowled at him a savage glance from under his red bush

  eyebrows; but Ivanhoe had saved the royal life that day, and the King,

  therefore, with difficulty controlled his indignation.

  Well," said he, "by St. Richard and St. George, but ye never heard

  this song, for I composed it this very afternoon as I took my bath

  after the melee. Did I not, Blondel?"

  Blondel, of course, was ready to take an affidavit that his Majesty had

  done as he said, and the King, thrumming on his guitar with his great

  red fingers and thumbs, began to sing out of tune and as follows:

  COMMANDERS OF THE FAITHFUL.

  "The Pope he is a happy man,

  His Palace is the Vatican,

  And there he sits and drains his can:

  The Pope he is a happy man.

  I often say when I'm at home,

  I'd like to be the Pope of Rome.

  "And then there's Sultan Saladin,

  That Turkish Soldan full of sin;

  He has a hundred wives at least,

  By which his pleasure is increased:

  I've often wished, I hope no sin,

  That I were Sultan Saladin.

  "But no, the Pope no wife may choose,

  And so I would not wear his shoes;

  No wine may drink the proud Paynim,

  And so I'd rather not be him:

  My wife, my wine, I love I hope,

  And would be neither Turk nor Pope."

  Encore! Encore! Bravo! Bis! Everybody applauded the King's song

  with all his might: everybody except Ivanhoe, who preserved his

  abominable gravity; and when asked aloud by Roger de Backbite whether

  he had heard that too, said firmly, "Yes, Roger de Backbite; and so

  hast thou if thou da rest but tell the truth."

  "Now, by St. Cicely, may I never touch gittern again," bawled the King

  in a fury, "if every note, word, and thought be not mine; may I die in

  to-morrow's onslaught if the song be not my song. Sing thyself,

  Wilfrid of the Lanthorn Jaws; thou could' st sing a good song in old

  times." And with his might, and with a forced laugh, the King, who

  loved brutal practical jests, flung his guitar at the head of

  Ivanhoe.

  Sir Wilfrid caught it gracefully with one hand, and making an elegant

  bow to the sovereign, began to chant as follows:

  KING CANUTE.

  King Canute was weary-hearted; he had reigned for years a score,

  Battling, struggling, pushing, fighting, killing much and robbing

  more;

  And he thought upon his actions, walking by the wild seashore.

  ""Twixt the Chancellor and Bishop walked the King with steps sedate,

  Chamberlains and grooms came after, silver sticks and gold sticks

  great,

  Chaplains, aides-de-camp, and pages, all the officers of state.

 
"Sliding after like his shadow, pausing when he chose to pause,

  If a frown his face contracted, straight the courtiers dropped their

  jaws;

  If to laugh the King was minded, out they burst in loud hee-haws.

  But that day a something vexed him, that was clear to old and young:

  Thrice his Grace had yawned at table, when his favorite glee men

  sung,

  Once the Queen would have consoled him, but he bade her hold her

  tongue.

  "Something ails my gracious master," cried the Keeper of the Seal.

  "Sure, my lord, it is the lampreys served at dinner, or the veal?"

  "Psha!" exclaimed the angry monarch. "Keeper, 'tis not that I feel.

  "Tis the heart, and not the dinner, fool, that doth my rest impair:

  Can a King be great as I am, prithee, and yet know no care?

  Oh, I'm sick, and tired, and weary." Someone cried, "The King's

  arm-chair!"

  "Then towards the lackeys turning, quick my Lord the Keeper nodded,

  Straight the King's great chair was brought him, by two footmen

  able-bodied

  Languidly he sank into it: it was comfortably wadded.

  ""Leading on my fierce companions," cried he, 'over storm and brine,

  I have fought and I have conquered! Where was glory like to mine?

  Loudly all the courtiers echoed: "Where is glory like to thine?"

  "What avail me all my kingdoms? Weary am I now, and old;

  Those fair sons I have begotten, long to see me dead and cold;

  Would I were, and quiet buried, underneath the silent mould!

  "Oh, remorse, the writhing serpent! at my bosom tears and bites;

  Horrid, horrid things I look on, though I put out all the lights;

  Ghosts of ghastly recollections troop about my bed of nights.

  ""Cities burning, convents blazing, red with sacrilegious fires;

  Mothers weeping, virgins screaming, vainly for their slaughtered

  sires." "Such a tender conscience," cries the Bishop, 'every one

  admires.

  ""But for such unpleasant bygones, cease, my gracious lord, to

  search,

  They're forgotten and forgiven by our Holy Mother Church;

  Never, never does she leave her benefactors in the lurch.

  ""Look! the land is crowned with minsters, which your Grace's bounty

  raised;

  Abbeys filled with holy men, where you and Heaven are daily praised:

  You, my lord, to think of dying? on my conscience I'm amazed!"

  "Nay, I feel," replied King Canute, 'that my end is drawing near."

  "Don't say so," exclaimed the courtiers (striving each to squeeze a

  tear).

  "Sure your Grace is strong and lusty, and may live this fifty year."

  Live these fifty years the Bishop roared, with actions made to suit.

  Are you mad, my good Lord Keeper, thus to speak of King Canute!

  Men have lived a thousand years, and sure his Majesty will do't.

  ""Adam, Enoch, Lamech, Cainan, Mahaleel, Methusela,

  Lived nine hundred years apiece, and mayn't the King as well as

  they?"

  "Fervently," exclaimed the Keeper, 'fervently I trust he may."

  ""He to die?" resumed the Bishop. "He a mortal like to us?

  Death was not for him intended, though _communis _omnibus:

  Keeper, you are irreligious, for to talk and cavil thus.

  ""With his wondrous skill in hearing ne'er a doctor can compete,

  Loathsome lepers, if he touch them, start up clean upon their feet;

  Surely he could raise the dead up, did his Highness think it meet.

  ""Did not once the Jewish captain stay the sun upon the hill,

  And, the while he slew the foemen, bid the silver moon stand still?

  So, no doubt, could gracious Canute, if it were his sacred will."

  ""Might I stay the sun above us, good Sir Bishop?" Canute cried;

  "Could I bid the silver moon to pause upon her heavenly ride?

  If the moon obeys my orders, sure I can command the tide.

  ""Will the advancing waves obey me, Bishop, if I make the sign?"

  Said the Bishop, bowing lowly, "Land and sea, my lord, are thine."

  Canute turned towards the ocean "Back!" he said, 'thou foaming brine

  "From the sacred shore I stand on, I command thee to retreat;

  Venture not, thou stormy rebel, to approach thy master's seat:

  Ocean, be thou still! I bid thee come not nearer to my feet!

  But the sullen ocean answered with a louder, deeper roar,

  And the rapid waves drew nearer, falling sounding on the shore;

  Back the Keeper and the Bishop, back the King and courtiers bore.

  "And he sternly bade them never more to kneel to human clay,

  But alone to praise and worship That which earth and seas obey:

  And his golden crown of empire never wore he from that day.

  King Canute is dead and gone: Parasites exist al way

  At this ballad, which, to be sure, was awfully long, and as grave as a

  sermon, some of the courtiers tittered, some yawned, and some affected

  to be asleep and snore outright. But Roger de Backbite thinking to

  curry favor with the King by this piece of vulgarity, his Majesty

  fetched him a knock on the nose and a buffet on the ear, which, I

  warrant me, wakened Master Roger; to whom the King said, "Listen and be

  civil, slave Wilfrid is singing about thee. Wilfrid, thy ballad is

  long, but it is to the purpose, and I have grown cool during thy

  homily. Give me thy hand, honest friend. Ladies, good night.

  Gentlemen, we give the grand assault to-morrow; when I promise thee,

  Wilfrid, thy banner shall not be before mine." And the King, giving

  his arm to her Majesty, retired into the private pavilion.

  CHAPTER III.

  ST. GEORGE FOR ENGLAND.

  WHILST the royal Richard and his court were feasting in the camp

  outside the walls of Chalus, they of the castle were in the most

  miserable plight that may be conceived. Hunger, as well as the fierce

  assaults of the besiegers, had made dire ravages in the place. The

  garrison's provisions of corn and cattle, their very horses, dogs, and

  donkeys had been eaten up so that it might well be said by Wamba "that

  famine, as well as slaughter, had thinned the garrison." When the men

  of Chalus came on the walls to defend it against the scaling-parties of

  King Richard, they were like so many skeletons in armor; they could

  hardly pull their bowstrings at last, or pitch down stones on the heads

  of his Majesty's party, so weak had their arms become; and the gigantic

  Count of Chalus -a warrior as redoubtable for his size and strength as

  Richard Plantagenet himself was scarcely able to lift up his battle-axe

  upon the day of that last assault, when Sir Wilfrid of Ivanhoe ran him

  through the but we are advancing matters.

  What should prevent me from describing the agonies of hunger which the

  Count (a man of large appetite) suffered in company with his heroic

  sons and garrison? Nothing, but that Dante has already done the

  business in the notorious history of Count Ugolino: so that my efforts

  might be considered as mere imitations. Why should I not, if I were

  minded to revel in horrifying details, show you how the famished

  garrison drew lots, and ate themselves during the siege; and how the

  unlucky lot falling upon the Countess of Chalus, that heroic woman,

  taking an affectionate leave of her family, ca
used her large caldron in

  the castle kitchen to be set a-boiling, had onions, carrots and herbs,

  pepper and salt made ready, to make a savory soup, as the French like

  it; and when all things were quite completed, kissed her children,

  jumped into the caldron from off a kitchen stool, and so was stewed

  down in her flannel bed-gown? Dear friends, it is not from want of

  imagination, or from having no turn for the terrible or pathetic, that

  I spare you these details. I could give you some description that

  would spoil your dinner and night's rest, and make your hair stand on

  end. But why harrow your feelings? Fancy all the tortures and horrors

  that possibly can occur in a beleaguered and famished castle: fancy the

  Meetings of men who know that no more quarter will be given them than

  they would get if they were peaceful Hungarian citizens kidnapped and

  brought to trial by his Majesty the Emperor of Austria; and then let us

  rush on to the breach and prepare once more to meet the assault of

  dreadful King Richard and his men.

  On the 29th of March in the year 1199, the good King, having copiously

  partaken of breakfast, caused his trumpets to blow, and advanced with

  his host upon the breach of the castle of Chalus. Arthur de Pendennis

  bore his banner; Wilfrid of Ivanhoe fought on the King's right hand.

  Molyneux, Bishop of Bullocksmithy, doffed crosier and mitre for that

  day, and though fat and pursy, panted up the breach with the most

  resoute spirit, roaring out war-cries and curses, and wielding a

  prodigious mace of iron, with which he did good execution. Roger de

  Backbite was forced to come in attendance upon the sovereign, but took

  care to keep in the rear of his august master, and to shelter behind

  his huge triangular shield as much as possible. Many lords of note

  followed the King and bore the ladders; and as they were placed against

  the wall, the air was perfectly dark with the shower of arrows which

  the French archers poured out at the besiegers, and the cataract of

  stones, kettles, boot jacks chests of drawers, crockery, umbrellas, con

  greve-rockets, bombshells, bolts and arrows and other missiles which

  the desperate garrison flung out on the storming-party. The King

  received a copper coal-scuttle right over his eyes, and a mahogany

  wardrobe was discharged at his morion, which would have felled an ox,

  and would have done for the King had not Ivanhoe warded it off

  skilfully. Still they advanced, the warriors falling around them like

  grass beneath the scythe of the mower.

  The ladders were placed in spite of the hail of death raining round:

  the King and Ivanhoe were, of course, the first to mount them. Chalus

  stood in the breach, borrowing strength from despair; and roaring out,

  - "Ha! Plantagenet, St. Barbacue for Chalus!" he dealt the King a

  crack across the helmet with his battle-axe, which shore off the gilt

  lion and crown that surmounted the steel cap. The King bent and reeled

  back; the besiegers were dismayed; the garrison and the Count of Chalus

  set up a shout of triumph: but it was premature.

  As quick as thought Ivanhoe was into the Count with a thrust in tierce,

  which took him just at the joint of the armor, and ran him through as

  clean as a spit does a partridge. Uttering a horrid shriek, he fell

  back writhing; the King recovering staggered up the parapet; the rush

  of knights followed, and the union-jack was planted triumphantly on the

  walls, just as Ivanhoe, but we must leave him for a moment.