by Walter Scott
CHAPTER XLIII
Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom, That they may break his foaming courser's back, And throw the rider headlong in the lists, A caitiff recreant! --Richard II
Our scene now returns to the exterior of the Castle, or Preceptory, ofTemplestowe, about the hour when the bloody die was to be cast for thelife or death of Rebecca. It was a scene of bustle and life, as if thewhole vicinity had poured forth its inhabitants to a village wake, orrural feast. But the earnest desire to look on blood and death, is notpeculiar to those dark ages; though in the gladiatorial exercise ofsingle combat and general tourney, they were habituated to the bloodyspectacle of brave men falling by each other's hands. Even in our owndays, when morals are better understood, an execution, a bruising match,a riot, or a meeting of radical reformers, collects, at considerablehazard to themselves, immense crowds of spectators, otherwise littleinterested, except to see how matters are to be conducted, or whetherthe heroes of the day are, in the heroic language of insurgent tailors,flints or dunghills.
The eyes, therefore, of a very considerable multitude, were bent on thegate of the Preceptory of Templestowe, with the purpose of witnessingthe procession; while still greater numbers had already surrounded thetiltyard belonging to that establishment. This enclosure was formed ona piece of level ground adjoining to the Preceptory, which had beenlevelled with care, for the exercise of military and chivalrous sports.It occupied the brow of a soft and gentle eminence, was carefullypalisaded around, and, as the Templars willingly invited spectators tobe witnesses of their skill in feats of chivalry, was amply suppliedwith galleries and benches for their use.
On the present occasion, a throne was erected for the Grand Master atthe east end, surrounded with seats of distinction for the Preceptorsand Knights of the Order. Over these floated the sacred standard, called"Le Beau-seant", which was the ensign, as its name was the battle-cry,of the Templars.
At the opposite end of the lists was a pile of faggots, so arrangedaround a stake, deeply fixed in the ground, as to leave a space for thevictim whom they were destined to consume, to enter within the fatalcircle, in order to be chained to the stake by the fetters which hungready for that purpose. Beside this deadly apparatus stood four blackslaves, whose colour and African features, then so little known inEngland, appalled the multitude, who gazed on them as on demons employedabout their own diabolical exercises. These men stirred not, exceptingnow and then, under the direction of one who seemed their chief, toshift and replace the ready fuel. They looked not on the multitude. Infact, they seemed insensible of their presence, and of every thing savethe discharge of their own horrible duty.
And when, in speech with each other, they expanded their blubber lips,and showed their white fangs, as if they grinned at the thoughts of theexpected tragedy, the startled commons could scarcely help believingthat they were actually the familiar spirits with whom the witch hadcommuned, and who, her time being out, stood ready to assist in herdreadful punishment. They whispered to each other, and communicated allthe feats which Satan had performed during that busy and unhappy period,not failing, of course, to give the devil rather more than his due.
"Have you not heard, Father Dennet," quoth one boor to another advancedin years, "that the devil has carried away bodily the great Saxon Thane,Athelstane of Coningsburgh?"
"Ay, but he brought him back though, by the blessing of God and SaintDunstan."
"How's that?" said a brisk young fellow, dressed in a green cassockembroidered with gold, and having at his heels a stout lad bearing aharp upon his back, which betrayed his vocation. The Minstrel seemedof no vulgar rank; for, besides the splendour of his gaily braidereddoublet, he wore around his neck a silver chain, by which hung the"wrest", or key, with which he tuned his harp. On his right arm was asilver plate, which, instead of bearing, as usual, the cognizance orbadge of the baron to whose family he belonged, had barely the wordSHERWOOD engraved upon it.--"How mean you by that?" said the gayMinstrel, mingling in the conversation of the peasants; "I came to seekone subject for my rhyme, and, by'r Lady, I were glad to find two."
"It is well avouched," said the elder peasant, "that after Athelstane ofConingsburgh had been dead four weeks--"
"That is impossible," said the Minstrel; "I saw him in life at thePassage of Arms at Ashby-de-la-Zouche."
"Dead, however, he was, or else translated," said the younger peasant;"for I heard the Monks of Saint Edmund's singing the death's hymn forhim; and, moreover, there was a rich death-meal and dole at the Castleof Coningsburgh, as right was; and thither had I gone, but for MabelParkins, who--"
"Ay, dead was Athelstane," said the old man, shaking his head, "and themore pity it was, for the old Saxon blood--"
"But, your story, my masters--your story," said the Minstrel, somewhatimpatiently.
"Ay, ay--construe us the story," said a burly Friar, who stood besidethem, leaning on a pole that exhibited an appearance between a pilgrim'sstaff and a quarter-staff, and probably acted as either when occasionserved,--"Your story," said the stalwart churchman; "burn not daylightabout it--we have short time to spare."
"An please your reverence," said Dennet, "a drunken priest came to visitthe Sacristan at Saint Edmund's---"
"It does not please my reverence," answered the churchman, "that thereshould be such an animal as a drunken priest, or, if there were, thata layman should so speak him. Be mannerly, my friend, and conclude theholy man only wrapt in meditation, which makes the head dizzy and footunsteady, as if the stomach were filled with new wine--I have felt itmyself."
"Well, then," answered Father Dennet, "a holy brother came to visit theSacristan at Saint Edmund's--a sort of hedge-priest is the visitor,and kills half the deer that are stolen in the forest, who loves thetinkling of a pint-pot better than the sacring-bell, and deems a flitchof bacon worth ten of his breviary; for the rest, a good fellow anda merry, who will flourish a quarter-staff, draw a bow, and dance aCheshire round, with e'er a man in Yorkshire."
"That last part of thy speech, Dennet," said the Minstrel, "has savedthee a rib or twain."
"Tush, man, I fear him not," said Dennet; "I am somewhat old and stiff,but when I fought for the bell and ram at Doncaster--"
"But the story--the story, my friend," again said the Minstrel.
"Why, the tale is but this--Athelstane of Coningsburgh was buried atSaint Edmund's."
"That's a lie, and a loud one," said the Friar, "for I saw him borne tohis own Castle of Coningsburgh."
"Nay, then, e'en tell the story yourself, my masters," said Dennet,turning sulky at these repeated contradictions; and it was with somedifficulty that the boor could be prevailed on, by the request ofhis comrade and the Minstrel, to renew his tale.--"These two 'sober'friars," said he at length, "since this reverend man will needs havethem such, had continued drinking good ale, and wine, and what not,for the best part for a summer's day, when they were aroused by adeep groan, and a clanking of chains, and the figure of the deceasedAthelstane entered the apartment, saying, 'Ye evil shep-herds!--'"
"It is false," said the Friar, hastily, "he never spoke a word."
"So ho! Friar Tuck," said the Minstrel, drawing him apart from therustics; "we have started a new hare, I find."
"I tell thee, Allan-a-Dale," said the Hermit, "I saw Athelstane ofConingsburgh as much as bodily eyes ever saw a living man. He had hisshroud on, and all about him smelt of the sepulchre--A butt of sack willnot wash it out of my memory."
"Pshaw!" answered the Minstrel; "thou dost but jest with me!"
"Never believe me," said the Friar, "an I fetched not a knock at himwith my quarter-staff that would have felled an ox, and it glidedthrough his body as it might through a pillar of smoke!"
"By Saint Hubert," said the Minstrel, "but it is a wondrous tale, andfit to be put in metre to the ancient tune, 'Sorrow came to the oldFriar.'"
"Laugh, if ye list," said Friar Tuck; "but an ye catch me singingon such a theme, may the next ghost or devil carry
me off with himheadlong! No, no--I instantly formed the purpose of assisting at somegood work, such as the burning of a witch, a judicial combat, or thelike matter of godly service, and therefore am I here."
As they thus conversed, the heavy bell of the church of Saint Michael ofTemplestowe, a venerable building, situated in a hamlet at some distancefrom the Preceptory, broke short their argument. One by one the sullensounds fell successively on the ear, leaving but sufficient spacefor each to die away in distant echo, ere the air was again filledby repetition of the iron knell. These sounds, the signal of theapproaching ceremony, chilled with awe the hearts of the assembledmultitude, whose eyes were now turned to the Preceptory, expecting theapproach of the Grand Master, the champion, and the criminal.
At length the drawbridge fell, the gates opened, and a knight, bearingthe great standard of the Order, sallied from the castle, preceded bysix trumpets, and followed by the Knights Preceptors, two and two, theGrand Master coming last, mounted on a stately horse, whose furniturewas of the simplest kind. Behind him came Brian de Bois-Guilbert, armedcap-a-pie in bright armour, but without his lance, shield, and sword,which were borne by his two esquires behind him. His face, though partlyhidden by a long plume which floated down from his barrel-cap, borea strong and mingled expression of passion, in which pride seemed tocontend with irresolution. He looked ghastly pale, as if he had notslept for several nights, yet reined his pawing war-horse with thehabitual ease and grace proper to the best lance of the Order of theTemple. His general appearance was grand and commanding; but, looking athim with attention, men read that in his dark features, from which theywillingly withdrew their eyes.
On either side rode Conrade of Mont-Fitchet, and Albert de Malvoisin,who acted as godfathers to the champion. They were in their robesof peace, the white dress of the Order. Behind them followed otherCompanions of the Temple, with a long train of esquires and pages cladin black, aspirants to the honour of being one day Knights of the Order.After these neophytes came a guard of warders on foot, in the samesable livery, amidst whose partisans might be seen the pale form of theaccused, moving with a slow but undismayed step towards the scene of herfate. She was stript of all her ornaments, lest perchance there shouldbe among them some of those amulets which Satan was supposed to bestowupon his victims, to deprive them of the power of confession even whenunder the torture. A coarse white dress, of the simplest form, had beensubstituted for her Oriental garments; yet there was such an exquisitemixture of courage and resignation in her look, that even in this garb,and with no other ornament than her long black tresses, each eye weptthat looked upon her, and the most hardened bigot regretted the fatethat had converted a creature so goodly into a vessel of wrath, and awaged slave of the devil.
A crowd of inferior personages belonging to the Preceptory followed thevictim, all moving with the utmost order, with arms folded, and looksbent upon the ground.
This slow procession moved up the gentle eminence, on the summit ofwhich was the tiltyard, and, entering the lists, marched once aroundthem from right to left, and when they had completed the circle, made ahalt. There was then a momentary bustle, while the Grand Master and allhis attendants, excepting the champion and his godfathers, dismountedfrom their horses, which were immediately removed out of the lists bythe esquires, who were in attendance for that purpose.
The unfortunate Rebecca was conducted to the black chair placed near thepile. On her first glance at the terrible spot where preparations weremaking for a death alike dismaying to the mind and painful to thebody, she was observed to shudder and shut her eyes, praying internallydoubtless, for her lips moved though no speech was heard. In the spaceof a minute she opened her eyes, looked fixedly on the pile as if tofamiliarize her mind with the object, and then slowly and naturallyturned away her head.
Meanwhile, the Grand Master had assumed his seat; and when the chivalryof his order was placed around and behind him, each in his due rank,a loud and long flourish of the trumpets announced that the Courtwere seated for judgment. Malvoisin, then, acting as godfather of thechampion, stepped forward, and laid the glove of the Jewess, which wasthe pledge of battle, at the feet of the Grand Master.
"Valorous Lord, and reverend Father," said he, "here standeth the goodKnight, Brian de Bois-Guilbert, Knight Preceptor of the Order of theTemple, who, by accepting the pledge of battle which I now lay at yourreverence's feet, hath become bound to do his devoir in combat thisday, to maintain that this Jewish maiden, by name Rebecca, hath justlydeserved the doom passed upon her in a Chapter of this most Holy Orderof the Temple of Zion, condemning her to die as a sorceress;--here, Isay, he standeth, such battle to do, knightly and honourable, if such beyour noble and sanctified pleasure."
"Hath he made oath," said the Grand Master, "that his quarrel is justand honourable? Bring forward the Crucifix and the 'Te igitur'."
"Sir, and most reverend father," answered Malvoisin, readily, "ourbrother here present hath already sworn to the truth of his accusationin the hand of the good Knight Conrade de Mont-Fitchet; and otherwise heought not to be sworn, seeing that his adversary is an unbeliever, andmay take no oath."
This explanation was satisfactory, to Albert's great joy; for the wilyknight had foreseen the great difficulty, or rather impossibility, ofprevailing upon Brian de Bois-Guilbert to take such an oath before theassembly, and had invented this excuse to escape the necessity of hisdoing so.
The Grand Master, having allowed the apology of Albert Malvoisin,commanded the herald to stand forth and do his devoir. The trumpetsthen again flourished, and a herald, stepping forward, proclaimedaloud,--"Oyez, oyez, oyez.--Here standeth the good Knight, Sir Briande Bois-Guilbert, ready to do battle with any knight of free blood, whowill sustain the quarrel allowed and allotted to the Jewess Rebecca, totry by champion, in respect of lawful essoine of her own body; and tosuch champion the reverend and valorous Grand Master here present allowsa fair field, and equal partition of sun and wind, and whatever elseappertains to a fair combat." The trumpets again sounded, and there wasa dead pause of many minutes.
"No champion appears for the appellant," said the Grand Master. "Go,herald, and ask her whether she expects any one to do battle for herin this her cause." The herald went to the chair in which Rebecca wasseated, and Bois-Guilbert suddenly turning his horse's head toward thatend of the lists, in spite of hints on either side from Malvoisin andMont-Fitchet, was by the side of Rebecca's chair as soon as the herald.
"Is this regular, and according to the law of combat?" said Malvoisin,looking to the Grand Master.
"Albert de Malvoisin, it is," answered Beaumanoir; "for in this appealto the judgment of God, we may not prohibit parties from having thatcommunication with each other, which may best tend to bring forth thetruth of the quarrel."
In the meantime, the herald spoke to Rebecca in these terms:--"Damsel,the Honourable and Reverend the Grand Master demands of thee, if thouart prepared with a champion to do battle this day in thy behalf, or ifthou dost yield thee as one justly condemned to a deserved doom?"
"Say to the Grand Master," replied Rebecca, "that I maintain myinnocence, and do not yield me as justly condemned, lest I become guiltyof mine own blood. Say to him, that I challenge such delay as his formswill permit, to see if God, whose opportunity is in man's extremity,will raise me up a deliverer; and when such uttermost space is passed,may His holy will be done!" The herald retired to carry this answer tothe Grand Master.
"God forbid," said Lucas Beaumanoir, "that Jew or Pagan should impeachus of injustice!--Until the shadows be cast from the west to theeastward, will we wait to see if a champion shall appear for thisunfortunate woman. When the day is so far passed, let her prepare fordeath."
The herald communicated the words of the Grand Master to Rebecca, whobowed her head submissively, folded her arms, and, looking up towardsheaven, seemed to expect that aid from above which she could scarcepromise herself from man. During this awful pause, the voice ofBois-Guilbert broke upon her ear--it was but a whisper, y
et it startledher more than the summons of the herald had appeared to do.
"Rebecca," said the Templar, "dost thou hear me?"
"I have no portion in thee, cruel, hard-hearted man," said theunfortunate maiden.
"Ay, but dost thou understand my words?" said the Templar; "for thesound of my voice is frightful in mine own ears. I scarce know on whatground we stand, or for what purpose they have brought us hither.--Thislisted space--that chair--these faggots--I know their purpose, and yetit appears to me like something unreal--the fearful picture of a vision,which appals my sense with hideous fantasies, but convinces not myreason."
"My mind and senses keep touch and time," answered Rebecca, "and tellme alike that these faggots are destined to consume my earthly body, andopen a painful but a brief passage to a better world."
"Dreams, Rebecca,--dreams," answered the Templar; "idle visions,rejected by the wisdom of your own wiser Sadducees. Hear me, Rebecca,"he said, proceeding with animation; "a better chance hast thou for lifeand liberty than yonder knaves and dotard dream of. Mount thee behind meon my steed--on Zamor, the gallant horse that never failed his rider.I won him in single fight from the Soldan of Trebizond--mount, I say,behind me--in one short hour is pursuit and enquiry far behind--a newworld of pleasure opens to thee--to me a new career of fame. Let themspeak the doom which I despise, and erase the name of Bois-Guilbert fromtheir list of monastic slaves! I will wash out with blood whatever blotthey may dare to cast on my scutcheon."
"Tempter," said Rebecca, "begone!--Not in this last extremity canst thoumove me one hair's-breadth from my resting place--surrounded as I am byfoes, I hold thee as my worst and most deadly enemy--avoid thee, in thename of God!"
Albert Malvoisin, alarmed and impatient at the duration of theirconference, now advanced to interrupt it.
"Hath the maiden acknowledged her guilt?" he demanded of Bois-Guilbert;"or is she resolute in her denial?"
"She is indeed resolute," said Bois-Guilbert.
"Then," said Malvoisin, "must thou, noble brother, resume thy placeto attend the issue--The shades are changing on the circle of thedial--Come, brave Bois-Guilbert--come, thou hope of our holy Order, andsoon to be its head."
As he spoke in this soothing tone, he laid his hand on the knight'sbridle, as if to lead him back to his station.
"False villain! what meanest thou by thy hand on my rein?" said SirBrian, angrily. And shaking off his companion's grasp, he rode back tothe upper end of the lists.
"There is yet spirit in him," said Malvoisin apart to Mont-Fitchet,"were it well directed--but, like the Greek fire, it burns whateverapproaches it."
The Judges had now been two hours in the lists, awaiting in vain theappearance of a champion.
"And reason good," said Friar Tuck, "seeing she is a Jewess--and yet,by mine Order, it is hard that so young and beautiful a creature shouldperish without one blow being struck in her behalf! Were she ten timesa witch, provided she were but the least bit of a Christian, myquarter-staff should ring noon on the steel cap of yonder fierceTemplar, ere he carried the matter off thus."
It was, however, the general belief that no one could or would appearfor a Jewess, accused of sorcery; and the knights, instigated byMalvoisin, whispered to each other, that it was time to declare thepledge of Rebecca forfeited. At this instant a knight, urging his horseto speed, appeared on the plain advancing towards the lists. Ahundred voices exclaimed, "A champion! a champion!" And despite theprepossessions and prejudices of the multitude, they shouted unanimouslyas the knight rode into the tiltyard. The second glance, however, servedto destroy the hope that his timely arrival had excited. His horse,urged for many miles to its utmost speed, appeared to reel from fatigue,and the rider, however undauntedly he presented himself in the lists,either from weakness, weariness, or both, seemed scarce able to supporthimself in the saddle.
To the summons of the herald, who demanded his rank, his name, andpurpose, the stranger knight answered readily and boldly, "I am a goodknight and noble, come hither to sustain with lance and sword the justand lawful quarrel of this damsel, Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York;to uphold the doom pronounced against her to be false and truthless, andto defy Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert, as a traitor, murderer, and liar; asI will prove in this field with my body against his, by the aid of God,of Our Lady, and of Monseigneur Saint George, the good knight."
"The stranger must first show," said Malvoisin, "that he is good knight,and of honourable lineage. The Temple sendeth not forth her championsagainst nameless men."
"My name," said the Knight, raising his helmet, "is better known, mylineage more pure, Malvoisin, than thine own. I am Wilfred of Ivanhoe."
"I will not fight with thee at present," said the Templar, in a changedand hollow voice. "Get thy wounds healed, purvey thee a better horse,and it may be I will hold it worth my while to scourge out of thee thisboyish spirit of bravado."
"Ha! proud Templar," said Ivanhoe, "hast thou forgotten that twice didstthou fall before this lance? Remember the lists at Acre--remember thePassage of Arms at Ashby--remember thy proud vaunt in the halls ofRotherwood, and the gage of your gold chain against my reliquary, thatthou wouldst do battle with Wilfred of Ivanhoe, and recover the honourthou hadst lost! By that reliquary and the holy relic it contains, Iwill proclaim thee, Templar, a coward in every court in Europe--in everyPreceptory of thine Order--unless thou do battle without farther delay."
Bois-Guilbert turned his countenance irresolutely towards Rebecca, andthen exclaimed, looking fiercely at Ivanhoe, "Dog of a Saxon! take thylance, and prepare for the death thou hast drawn upon thee!"
"Does the Grand Master allow me the combat?" said Ivanhoe.
"I may not deny what thou hast challenged," said the Grand Master,"provided the maiden accepts thee as her champion. Yet I would thouwert in better plight to do battle. An enemy of our Order hast thou everbeen, yet would I have thee honourably met with."
"Thus--thus as I am, and not otherwise," said Ivanhoe; "it is thejudgment of God--to his keeping I commend myself.--Rebecca," said he,riding up to the fatal chair, "dost thou accept of me for thy champion?"
"I do," she said--"I do," fluttered by an emotion which the fear ofdeath had been unable to produce, "I do accept thee as the champion whomHeaven hath sent me. Yet, no--no--thy wounds are uncured--Meet not thatproud man--why shouldst thou perish also?"
But Ivanhoe was already at his post, and had closed his visor, andassumed his lance. Bois-Guilbert did the same; and his esquire remarked,as he clasped his visor, that his face, which had, notwithstanding thevariety of emotions by which he had been agitated, continued during thewhole morning of an ashy paleness, was now become suddenly very muchflushed.
The herald, then, seeing each champion in his place, uplifted his voice,repeating thrice--"Faites vos devoirs, preux chevaliers!" After thethird cry, he withdrew to one side of the lists, and again proclaimed,that none, on peril of instant death, should dare, by word, cry, oraction, to interfere with or disturb this fair field of combat. TheGrand Master, who held in his hand the gage of battle, Rebecca's glove,now threw it into the lists, and pronounced the fatal signal words,"Laissez aller".
The trumpets sounded, and the knights charged each other in full career.The wearied horse of Ivanhoe, and its no less exhausted rider, wentdown, as all had expected, before the well-aimed lance and vigoroussteed of the Templar. This issue of the combat all had foreseen; butalthough the spear of Ivanhoe did but, in comparison, touch the shieldof Bois-Guilbert, that champion, to the astonishment of all who beheldit reeled in his saddle, lost his stirrups, and fell in the lists.
Ivanhoe, extricating himself from his fallen horse, was soon on foot,hastening to mend his fortune with his sword; but his antagonist arosenot. Wilfred, placing his foot on his breast, and the sword's pointto his throat, commanded him to yield him, or die on the spot.Bois-Guilbert returned no answer.
"Slay him not, Sir Knight," cried the Grand Master, "unshriven andunabsolved--kill not body and soul! We allow him
vanquished."
He descended into the lists, and commanded them to unhelm the conqueredchampion. His eyes were closed--the dark red flush was still on hisbrow. As they looked on him in astonishment, the eyes opened--but theywere fixed and glazed. The flush passed from his brow, and gave way tothe pallid hue of death. Unscathed by the lance of his enemy, he haddied a victim to the violence of his own contending passions.
"This is indeed the judgment of God," said the Grand Master, lookingupwards--"'Fiat voluntas tua!'"
