Ivanhoe, Walter Scott [the lemonade war series txt] 📗

one of the forest glades with the

same slow pace and listless and indifferent manner which had

procured him the epithet of the Black Sluggard. After he had

been summoned twice by sound of trumpet, and proclamation of the

heralds, it became necessary to name another to receive the

honours which had been assigned to him. Prince John had now no

further excuse for resisting the claim of the Disinherited

Knight, whom, therefore, he named the champion of the day.

Through a field slippery with blood, and encumbered with broken

armour and the bodies of slain and wounded horses, the marshals

of the lists again conducted the victor to the foot of Prince

John’s throne.

“Disinherited Knight,” said Prince John, “since by that title

only you will consent to be known to us, we a second time award

to you the honours of this tournament, and announce to you your

right to claim and receive from the hands of the Queen of Love

and Beauty, the Chaplet of Honour which your valour has justly

deserved.” The Knight bowed low and gracefully, but returned

no answer.

While the trumpets sounded, while the heralds strained their

voices in proclaiming honour to the brave and glory to the victor

---while ladies waved their silken kerchiefs and embroidered

veils, and while all ranks joined in a clamorous shout of

exultation, the marshals conducted the Disinherited Knight across

the lists to the foot of that throne of honour which was occupied

by the Lady Rowena.

On the lower step of this throne the champion was made to kneel

down. Indeed his whole action since the fight had ended, seemed

rather to have been upon the impulse of those around him than

from his own free will; and it was observed that he tottered as

they guided him the second time across the lists. Rowena,

descending from her station with a graceful and dignified step,

was about to place the chaplet which she held in her hand upon

the helmet of the champion, when the marshals exclaimed with one

voice, “It must not be thus---his head must be bare.” The knight

muttered faintly a few words, which were lost in the hollow of

his helmet, but their purport seemed to be a desire that his

casque might not be removed.

Whether from love of form, or from curiosity, the marshals paid

no attention to his expressions of reluctance, but unhelmed him

by cutting the laces of his casque, and undoing the fastening of

his gorget. When the helmet was removed, the well-formed, yet

sun-burnt features of a young man of twenty-five were seen,

amidst a profusion of short fair hair. His countenance was as

pale as death, and marked in one or two places with streaks of

blood.

Rowena had no sooner beheld him than she uttered a faint shriek;

but at once summoning up the energy of her disposition, and

compelling herself, as it were, to proceed, while her frame yet

trembled with the violence of sudden emotion, she placed upon the

drooping head of the victor the splendid chaplet which was the

destined reward of the day, and pronounced, in a clear and

distinct tone, these words: “I bestow on thee this chaplet, Sir

Knight, as the meed of valour assigned to this day’s victor:”

Here she paused a moment, and then firmly added, “And upon brows

more worthy could a wreath of chivalry never be placed!”

The knight stooped his head, and kissed the hand of the lovely

Sovereign by whom his valour had been rewarded; and then, sinking

yet farther forward, lay prostrate at her feet.

There was a general consternation. Cedric, who had been struck

mute by the sudden appearance of his banished son, now rushed

forward, as if to separate him from Rowena. But this had been

already accomplished by the marshals of the field, who, guessing

the cause of Ivanhoe’s swoon, had hastened to undo his armour,

and found that the head of a lance had penetrated his

breastplate, and inflicted a wound in his side.

CHAPTER XIII

“Heroes, approach!” Atrides thus aloud,

“Stand forth distinguish’d from the circling crowd,

Ye who by skill or manly force may claim,

Your rivals to surpass and merit fame.

This cow, worth twenty oxen, is decreed,

For him who farthest sends the winged reed.”

Iliad

The name of Ivanhoe was no sooner pronounced than it flew from

mouth to mouth, with all the celerity with which eagerness could

convey and curiosity receive it. It was not long ere it reached

the circle of the Prince, whose brow darkened as he heard the

news. Looking around him, however, with an air of scorn, “My

Lords,” said he, “and especially you, Sir Prior, what think ye of

the doctrine the learned tell us, concerning innate attractions

and antipathies? Methinks that I felt the presence of my

brother’s minion, even when I least guessed whom yonder suit of

armour enclosed.”

“Front-de-Boeuf must prepare to restore his fief of Ivanhoe,”

said De Bracy, who, having discharged his part honourably in the

tournament, had laid his shield and helmet aside, and again

mingled with the Prince’s retinue.

“Ay,” answered Waldemar Fitzurse, “this gallant is likely to

reclaim the castle and manor which Richard assigned to him, and

which your Highness’s generosity has since given to

Front-de-Boeuf.”

“Front-de-Boeuf,” replied John, “is a man more willing to swallow

three manors such as Ivanhoe, than to disgorge one of them. For

the rest, sirs, I hope none here will deny my right to confer the

fiefs of the crown upon the faithful followers who are around me,

and ready to perform the usual military service, in the room of

those who have wandered to foreign Countries, and can neither

render homage nor service when called upon.”

The audience were too much interested in the question not to

pronounce the Prince’s assumed right altogether indubitable.

“A generous Prince!---a most noble Lord, who thus takes upon

himself the task of rewarding his faithful followers!”

Such were the words which burst from the train, expectants all of

them of similar grants at the expense of King Richard’s followers

and favourites, if indeed they had not as yet received such.

Prior Aymer also assented to the general proposition, observing,

however, “That the blessed Jerusalem could not indeed be termed a

foreign country. She was ‘communis mater’---the mother of all

Christians. But he saw not,” he declared, “how the Knight of

Ivanhoe could plead any advantage from this, since he” (the

Prior) “was assured that the crusaders, under Richard, had never

proceeded much farther than Askalon, which, as all the world

knew, was a town of the Philistines, and entitled to none of the

privileges of the Holy City.”

Waldemar, whose curiosity had led him towards the place where

Ivanhoe had fallen to the ground, now returned. “The gallant,”

said he, “is likely to give your Highness little disturbance, and

to leave Front-de-Boeuf in the quiet possession of his gains—he

is severely wounded.”

“Whatever becomes of him,” said Prince John, “he is victor of the

day; and were he tenfold our enemy, or the devoted friend of our

brother, which is perhaps the same, his wounds must be looked to

---our own physician shall attend him.”

A stern smile curled the Prince’s lip as he spoke. Waldemar

Fitzurse hastened to reply, that Ivanhoe was already removed from

the lists, and in the custody of his friends.

“I was somewhat afflicted,” he said, “to see the grief of the

Queen of Love and Beauty, whose sovereignty of a day this event

has changed into mourning. I am not a man to be moved by a

woman’s lament for her lover, but this same Lady Rowena

suppressed her sorrow with such dignity of manner, that it could

only be discovered by her folded hands, and her tearless eye,

which trembled as it remained fixed on the lifeless form before

her.”

“Who is this Lady Rowena,” said Prince John, “of whom we have

heard so much?”

“A Saxon heiress of large possessions,” replied the Prior Aymer;

“a rose of loveliness, and a jewel of wealth; the fairest among a

thousand, a bundle of myrrh, and a cluster of camphire.”

“We shall cheer her sorrows,” said Prince John, “and amend her

blood, by wedding her to a Norman. She seems a minor, and must

therefore be at our royal disposal in marriage.---How sayst thou,

De Bracy? What thinkst thou of gaining fair lands and livings,

by wedding a Saxon, after the fashion of the followers of the

Conqueror?”

“If the lands are to my liking, my lord,” answered De Bracy, “it

will be hard to displease me with a bride; and deeply will I hold

myself bound to your highness for a good deed, which will fulfil

all promises made in favour of your servant and vassal.”

“We will not forget it,” said Prince John; “and that we may

instantly go to work, command our seneschal presently to order

the attendance of the Lady Rowena and her company---that is, the

rude churl her guardian, and the Saxon ox whom the Black Knight

struck down in the tournament, upon this evening’s banquet.---De

Bigot,” he added to his seneschal, “thou wilt word this our

second summons so courteously, as to gratify the pride of these

Saxons, and make it impossible for them again to refuse;

although, by the bones of Becket, courtesy to them is casting

pearls before swine.”

Prince John had proceeded thus far, and was about to give the

signal for retiring from the lists, when a small billet was put

into his hand.

“From whence?” said Prince John, looking at the person by whom it

was delivered.

“From foreign parts, my lord, but from whence I know not” replied

his attendant. “A Frenchman brought it hither, who said, he had

ridden night and day to put it into the hands of your highness.”

The Prince looked narrowly at the superscription, and then at the

seal, placed so as to secure the flex-silk with which the billet

was surrounded, and which bore the impression of three

fleurs-de-lis. John then opened the billet with apparent

agitation, which visibly and greatly increased when he had

perused the contents, which were expressed in these words:

“Take heed to yourself for the Devil is unchained!”

The Prince turned as pale as death, looked first on the earth,

and then up to heaven, like a man who has received news that

sentence of execution has been passed upon him. Recovering from

the first effects of his surprise, he took Waldemar Fitzurse and

De Bracy aside, and put the billet into their hands successively.

“It means,” he added, in a faltering voice, “that my brother

Richard has obtained his freedom.”

“This may be a false alarm, or a forged letter,” said De Bracy.

“It is France’s own hand and seal,” replied Prince John.

“It is time, then,” said Fitzurse, “to draw our party to a head,

either at York, or some other centrical place. A few days later,

and it will be indeed too late. Your highness must break short

this present mummery.”

“The yeomen and commons,” said De Bracy, “must not be dismissed

discontented, for lack of their share in the sports.”

“The day,” said Waldemar, “is not yet very far spent---let the

archers shoot a few rounds at the target, and the prize be

adjudged. This will be an abundant fulfilment of the Prince’s

promises, so far as this herd of Saxon serfs is concerned.”

“I thank thee, Waldemar,” said the Prince; “thou remindest me,

too, that I have a debt to pay to that insolent peasant who

yesterday insulted our person. Our banquet also shall go forward

to-night as we proposed. Were this my last hour of power, it

should be an hour sacred to revenge and to