Ivanhoe (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Walter Scott

  “Pax vobiscum,” said the Jester, entering the apartment; “the blessing of St. Dunstan, St. Denis, St. Duthoc, and all other saints whatsoever, be upon ye and about ye.”

  “Enter freely,” answered Cedric to the supposed friar; “with what intent art thou come hither?”

  “To bid you prepare yourselves for death,” answered the Jester.

  “It is impossible!” replied Cedric, starting. “Fearless and wicked as they are, they dare not attempt such open and gratuitous cruelty!”

  “Alas!” said the Jester, “to restrain them by their sense of humanity is the same as to stop a runaway horse with a bridle of silk thread. Bethink thee, therefore, noble Cedric, and you also, gallant Athelstane, what crimes you have committed in the flesh; for this very day will ye be called to answer at a higher tribunal.”

  “Hearest thou this, Athelstane?” said Cedric. “We must rouse up our hearts to this last action, since better it is we should die like men than live like slaves.”

  “I am ready,” answered Athelstane, “to stand the worst of their malice, and shall walk to my death with as much composure as ever I did to my dinner.”

  “Let us then unto our holy gear, father,” said Cedric.

  “Wait yet a moment, good uncle,” said the Jester, in his natural tone; “better look long before you leap in the dark.”

  “By my faith,” said Cedric, “I should know that voice!”

  “It is that of your trusty slave and jester,” answered Wamba, throwing back his cowl. “Had you taken a fool’s advice formerly, you would not have been here at all. Take a fool’s advice now, and you will not be here long.”

  “How mean’st thou, knave?” answered the Saxon.

  “Even thus,” replied Wamba; “take thou this frock and cord, which are all the orders I ever had, and march quietly out of the castle, leaving me your cloak and girdle to take the long leap in thy stead.”

  “Leave thee in my stead!” said Cedric, astonished at the proposal ; “why, they would hang thee, my poor knave.”

  “E’en let them do as they are permitted,” said Wamba; “I trust—no disparagement to your birth—that the son of Witless may hang in a chain with as much gravity as the chain hung upon his ancestor the alderman.”

  “Well, Wamba,” answered Cedric, “for one thing will I grant thy request. And that is, if thou wilt make the exchange of garments with Lord Athelstane instead of me.”

  “No, by St. Dunstan,” answered Wamba; “there were little reason in that. Good right there is that the son of Witless should suffer to save the son of Hereward; but little wisdom there were in his dying for the benefit of one whose fathers were strangers to his.”

  “Villain,” said Cedric, “the fathers of Athelstane were monarchs of England!”

  “They might be whomsoever they pleased,” replied Wamba; “but my neck stands too straight upon my shoulders to have it twisted for their sake. Wherefore, good my master, either take my proffer yourself or suffer me to leave this dungeon as free as I entered.”

  “Let the old tree wither,” continued Cedric, “so the stately hope of the forest be preserved. Save the noble Athelstane, my trusty Wamba! it is the duty of each who has Saxon blood in his veins. Thou and I will abide together the utmost rage of our injurious oppressors, while he, free and safe, shall arouse the awakened spirits of our countrymen to avenge us.”

  “Not so, father Cedric,” said Athelstane, grasping his hand, for, when roused to think or act, his deeds and sentiments were not unbecoming his high race—“not so,” he continued; “I would rather remain in this hall a week without food save the prisoner’s stinted loaf, or drink save the prisoner’s measure of water, than embrace the opportunity to escape which the slave’s untaught kindness has purveyed for his master.”

  “You are called wise men, sira,” said the Jester, “and I a crazed fool; but, uncle Cedric and cousin Athelstane, the fool shall decide this controversy for ye, and save ye the trouble of straining courtesies any farther. I am like John-a-Duck’s mare, that will let no man mount her but John-a-Duck. I came to save my master, and if he will not consent, basta!dd I can but go away home again. Kind service cannot be chucked from hand to hand like a shuttlecock or stool-ball.de I’ll hang for no man but my own born master.”

  “Go, then, noble Cedric,” said Athelstane, “neglect not this opportunity. Your presence without may encourage friends to our rescue; your remaining here would ruin us all.”

  “And is there any prospect, then, of rescue from without?” said Cedric, looking to the Jester.

  “Prospect, indeed!” echoed Wamba; “let me tell you, when you fill my cloak, you are wrapped in a general’s cassock. Five hundred men are there without, and I was this morning one of their chief leaders. My fool’s cap was a casque, and my bauble a truncheon. Well, we shall see what good they will make by exchanging a fool for a wise man. Truly, I fear they will lose in valour what they may gain in discretion. And so farewell, master, and be kind to poor Gurth and his dog Fangs; and let my cockscomb hang in the hall at Rotherwood, in memory that I flung away my life for my master, like a faithful—fool.” The last word came out with a sort of double expression, betwixt jest and earnest.

  The tears stood in Cedric’s eyes. “Thy memory shall be preserved,” he said, “while fidelity and affection have honour upon earth! But that I trust I shall find the means of saving Rowena, and thee, Athelstane, and thee also, my poor Wamba, thou shouldst not overbear me in this matter.”

  The exchange of dress was now accomplished, when a sudden doubt struck Cedric.

  “I know no language,” he said, “but my own, and a few words of their mincing Norman. How shall I bear myself like a reverend brother?”

  “The spell lies in two words,” replied Wamba. “Pax vobiscum will answer all queries. If you go or come, eat or drink, bless or ban, Pax vobiscum carries you through it all. It is as useful to a friar as a broomstick to a witch, or a wand to a conjurer. Speak it but thus, in a deep grave tone—Pax vobiscum—it is irresistible. Watch and ward,df knight and squire, foot and horse, it acts as a charm upon them all. I think, if they bring me out to be hanged to-morrow, as is much to be doubted they may, I will try its weight upon the finisher of the sentence.”

  “If such prove the case,” said his master, “my religious orders are soon taken—Pax vobiscum. I trust I shall remember the password. Noble Athelstane, farewell; and farewell, my poor boy, whose heart might make amends for a weaker head; I will save you, or return and die with you. The royal blood of our Saxon kings shall not be spilt while mine beats in my veins; nor shall one hair fall from the head of the kind knave who risked himself for his master, if Cedric’s peril can prevent it. Farewell.”

  “Farewell, noble Cedric,” said Athelstane; “remember, it is the true part of a friar to accept refreshment, if you are offered any.”

  “Farewell, uncle,” added Wamba; “and remember Pax vobiscum.”

  Thus exhorted, Cedric sallied forth upon his expedition; and it was not long ere he had occasion to try the force of that spell which his Jester had recommended as omnipotent. In a low-arched and dusky passage, by which he endeavoured to work his way to the hall of the castle, he was interrupted by a female form.

  “Pax vobiscum!” said the pseudo friar, and was endeavouring to hurry past, when a soft voice replied, “Et vobis; quœso, domine reverendissime, pro misericordia vestra.”dg

  “I am somewhat deaf,” replied Cedric, in good Saxon, and at the same time muttered to himself, “A curse on the fool and his Pax vobiscum! I have lost my javelin at the first cast.”

  It was, however, no unusual thing for a priest of those days to be deaf of his Latin ear, and this the person who now addressed Cedric knew full well.

  “I pray you of dear love, reverend father,” she replied in his own language, “that you will deign to visit with your ghostly comfort a wounded prisoner of this castle, and have such compassion upon him and us as thy holy office teaches. Never shall good deed so
highly advantage thy convent.”

  “Daughter,” answered Cedric, much embarrassed, “my time in this castle will not permit me to exercise the duties of mine office. I must presently forth: there is life and death upon my speed.”

  “Yet, father, let me entreat you by the vow you have taken on you,” replied the suppliant, “not to leave the oppressed and endangered without counsel or succour.”

  “May the fiend fly away with me, and leave me in Ifrindh with the souls of Odin and of Thor!” answered Cedric, impatiently, and would probably have proceeded in the same tone of total departure from his spiritual character, when the colloquy was interrupted by the harsh voice of Urfried, the old crone of the turret.

  “How, minion,” said she to the female speaker, “is this the manner in which you requite the kindness which permitted thee to leave thy prison-cell yonder? Puttest thou the reverend man to use ungracious language to free himself from the importunities of a Jewess?”

  “A Jewess!” said Cedric, availing himself of the information to get clear of their interruption. “Let me pass, woman! stop me not at your peril. I am fresh from my holy office, and would avoid pollution.”

  “Come this way, father,” said the old hag, “thou art a stranger in this castle, and canst not leave it without a guide. Come hither, for I would speak with thee. And you, daughter of an accursed race, go to the sick man’s chamber, and tend him until my return; and woe betide you if you again quit it without my permission!”

  Rebecca retreated. Her importunities had prevailed upon Urfried to suffer her to quit the turret, and Urfried had employed her services where she herself would most gladly have paid them, by the bedside of the wounded Ivanhoe. With an understanding awake to their dangerous situation, and prompt to avail herself of each means of safety which occurred, Rebecca had hoped something from the presence of a man of religion, who, she learned from Urfried, had penetrated into this godless castle. She watched the return of the supposed ecclesiastic, with the purpose of addressing him, and interesting him in favour of the prisoners; with what imperfect success the reader has been just acquainted.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  Fond wretch! and what canst thou relate,

  But deeds of sorrow, shame, and sin?

  Thy deeds are proved—thou know’st thy fate;

  But come, thy tale! begin—begin.

  But I have griefs of other kind,

  Troubles and sorrows more severe;

  Give me to ease my tortured mind,

  Lend to my woes a patient ear;

  And let me, if I may not find

  A friend to help, find one to hear.

  CRABBE’S Hall of Justice1

  When Urfried had with clamours and menaces driven Rebecca back to the apartment from which she had sallied, she proceeded to conduct the unwilling Cedric into a small apartment, the door of which she heedfully secured. Then fetching from a cupboard a stoup of wine and two flagons, she placed them on the table, and said in a tone rather asserting a fact than asking a question, “Thou art Saxon, father. Deny it not,” she continued, observing that Cedric hastened not to reply; “the sounds of my native language are sweet to mine ears, though seldom heard save from the tongues of the wretched and degraded serfs on whom the proud Normans impose the meanest drudgery of this dwelling. Thou art a Saxon, father—a Saxon, and, save as thou art a servant of God, a freeman. Thine accents are sweet in mine ear.”

  “Do not Saxon priests visit this castle, then?” replied Cedric; “it were, methinks, their duty to comfort the outcast and oppressed children of the soil.”

  “They come not; or if they come, they better love to revel at the boards of their conquerors,” answered Urfried, “than to hear the groans of their countrymen; so, at least, report speaks of them, of myself I can say little. This castle, for ten years, has opened to no priest save the debauched Norman chaplain who partook the nightly revels of Front-de-Bœuf, and he has been long gone to render an account of his stewardship.di But thou art a Saxon—a Saxon priest, and I have one question to ask of thee.”

  “I am a Saxon,” answered Cedric, “but unworthy, surely, of the name of priest. Let me begone on my way. I swear I will return, or send one of our fathers more worthy to hear your confession.”

  “Stay yet a while,” said Urfried; “the accents of the voice which thou hearest now will soon be choked with the cold earth, and I would not descend to it like the beast I have lived. But wine must give me strength to tell the horrors of my tale.” She poured out a cup, and drank it with a frightful avidity, which seemed desirous of draining the last drop in the goblet. “It stupifies,” she said, looking upwards as she finished her draught, “but it cannot cheer. Partake it, father, if you would hear my tale without sinking down upon the pavement.” Cedric would have avoided pledging her in this ominous conviviality, but the sign which she made to him expressed impatience and despair. He complied with her request, and answered her challenge in a large wine-cup; she then proceeded with her story, as if appeased by his complaisance.

  “I was not born,” she said, “father, the wretch that thou now seest me. I was free, was happy, was honoured, loved, and was beloved. I am now a slave, miserable and degraded, the sport of my masters’ passions while I had yet beauty, the object of their contempt, scorn, and hatred, since it has passed away. Dost thou wonder, father, that I should hate mankind, and, above all, the race that has wrought this change in me? Can the wrinkled decrepit hag before thee, whose wrath must vent itself in impotent curses, forget she was once the daughter of the noble thane of Torquilstone, before whose frown a thousand vassals trembled.”

  “Thou the daughter of Torquil Wolfganger!” said Cedric, receding as he spoke; “thou—thou—the daughter of that noble Saxon, my father’s friend and companion in arms!”

  “Thy father’s friend!” echoed Urfried; “then Cedric called the Saxon stands before me, for the noble Hereward of Rotherwood had but one son, whose name is well known among his countrymen. But if thou art Cedric of Rotherwood, why this religious dress? Hast thou too despaired of saving thy country, and sought refuge from oppression in the shade of the convent?”

  “It matters not who I am,” said Cedric; “proceed, unhappy woman, with thy tale of horror and guilt! Guilt there must be; there is guilt even in thy living to tell it.”

  “There is—there is,” answered the wretched woman, “deep, black, damning guilt—guilt that lies like a load at my breast—guilt that all the penitential fires of hereafter cannot cleanse. Yes, in these halls, stained with the noble and pure blood of my father and my brethren—in these very halls, to have lived the paramour of their murderer, the slave at once and the partaker of his pleasures, was to render every breath which I drew of vital air a crime and a curse.”

  “Wretched woman!” exclaimed Cedric. “And while the friends of thy father—while each true Saxon heart, as it breathed a requiem for his soul, and those of his valiant sons, forgot not in their prayers the murdered Ulrica—while all mourned and honoured the dead, thou hast lived to merit our hate and execration—lived to unite thyself with the vile tyrant who murdered thy nearest and dearest, who shed the blood of infancy rather than a male of the noble house of Torquil Wolfganger should survive—with him hast thou lived to unite thyself, and in the bands of lawless love!”

  “In lawless bands, indeed, but not in those of love!” answered the hag; “love will sooner visit the regions of eternal doom than those unhallowed vaults. No; with that at least I cannot reproach myself: hatred to Front-de-Bœuf and his race governed my soul most deeply, even in the hour of his guilty endearments.”

  “You hated him, and yet you lived,” replied Cedric; “wretch! was there no poniard—no knife—no bodkin!dj Well was it for thee, since thou didst prize such an existence, that the secrets of a Norman castle are like those of the grave. For had I but dreamed of the daughter of Torquil living in foul communion with the murderer of her father, the sword of a true Saxon had found thee out even in the arms of thy para
mour!”

  “Wouldst thou indeed have done this justice to the name of Torquil?” said Ulrica, for we may now lay aside her assumed name of Urfried; “thou art then the true Saxon report speaks thee! for even within these accursed walls, where, as thou well sayest, guilt shrouds itself in inscrutable mystery—even there has the name of Cedric been sounded; and I, wretched and degraded, have rejoiced to think that there yet breathed an avenger of our unhappy nation. I also have had my hours of vengeance. I have fomented the quarrels of our foes, and heated drunken revelry into murderous broil. I have seen their blood flow—I have heard their dying groans! Look on me, Cedric; are there not still left on this foul and faded face some traces of the features of Torquil?”

  “Ask me not of them, Ulrica,” replied Cedric, in a tone of grief mixed with abhorrence; “these traces form such a resemblance as arises from the grave of the dead when a fiend has animated the lifeless corpse.”

  “Be it so,” answered Ulrica; “yet wore these fiendish features the mask of a spirit of light when they were able to set at variance the elder Front-de-Bœuf and his son Reginald! The darkness of hell should hide what followed; but revenge must lift the veil, and darkly intimate what it would raise the dead to speak aloud. Long had the smouldering fire of discord glowed between the tyrant father and his savage son; long had I nursed, in secret, the unnatural hatred; it blazed forth in an hour of drunken wassail, and at his own board fell my oppressor by the hand of his own son: such are the secrets these vaults conceal! Rend asunder, ye accursed arches,” she added, looking up towardsthe roof, “and bury in your fall all who are conscious of the hideous mystery!”