Ivanhoe, Walter Scott [the lemonade war series txt] 📗
- Author: Walter Scott
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enjoying straw, darkness, and chains, in some distant convent
cell, stunned with exorcisms, and drenched with holy water, to
expel the foul fiend which hath obtained dominion over thee.
Thou must to the lists, Brian, or thou art a lost and dishonoured
man.”
“I will break forth and fly,” said Bois-Guilbert---“fly to some
distant land, to which folly and fanaticism have not yet found
their way. No drop of the blood of this most excellent creature
shall be spilled by my sanction.”
“Thou canst not fly,” said the Preceptor; “thy ravings have
excited suspicion, and thou wilt not be permitted to leave the
Preceptory. Go and make the essay---present thyself before the
gate, and command the bridge to be lowered, and mark what answer
thou shalt receive.---Thou are surprised and offended; but is it
not the better for thee? Wert thou to fly, what would ensue but
the reversal of thy arms, the dishonour of thine ancestry, the
degradation of thy rank?---Think on it. Where shall thine old
companions in arms hide their heads when Brian de Bois-Guilbert,
the best lance of the Templars, is proclaimed recreant, amid the
hisses of the assembled people? What grief will be at the Court
of France! With what joy will the haughty Richard hear the news,
that the knight that set him hard in Palestine, and well-nigh
darkened his renown, has lost fame and honour for a Jewish girl,
whom he could not even save by so costly a sacrifice!”
“Malvoisin,” said the Knight, “I thank thee---thou hast touched
the string at which my heart most readily thrills!---Come of it
what may, recreant shall never be added to the name of
Bois-Guilbert. Would to God, Richard, or any of his vaunting
minions of England, would appear in these lists! But they will
be empty---no one will risk to break a lance for the innocent,
the forlorn.”
“The better for thee, if it prove so,” said the Preceptor; “if no
champion appears, it is not by thy means that this unlucky damsel
shall die, but by the doom of the Grand Master, with whom rests
all the blame, and who will count that blame for praise and
commendation.”
“True,” said Bois-Guilbert; “if no champion appears, I am but a
part of the pageant, sitting indeed on horseback in the lists,
but having no part in what is to follow.”
“None whatever,” said Malvoisin; “no more than the armed image of
Saint George when it makes part of a procession.”
“Well, I will resume my resolution,” replied the haughty Templar.
“She has despised me---repulsed me---reviled me---And wherefore
should I offer up for her whatever of estimation I have in the
opinion of others? Malvoisin, I will appear in the lists.”
He left the apartment hastily as he uttered these words, and the
Preceptor followed, to watch and confirm him in his resolution;
for in Bois-Guilbert’s fame he had himself a strong interest,
expecting much advantage from his being one day at the head of
the Order, not to mention the preferment of which Mont-Fitchet
had given him hopes, on condition he would forward the
condemnation of the unfortunate Rebecca. Yet although, in
combating his friend’s better feelings, he possessed all the
advantage which a wily, composed, selfish disposition has over a
man agitated by strong and contending passions, it required all
Malvoisin’s art to keep Bois-Guilbert steady to the purpose he
had prevailed on him to adopt. He was obliged to watch him
closely to prevent his resuming his purpose of flight, to
intercept his communication with the Grand Master, lest he should
come to an open rupture with his Superior, and to renew, from
time to time, the various arguments by which he endeavoured to
show, that, in appearing as champion on this occasion,
Bois-Guilbert, without either accelerating or ensuring the fate
of Rebecca, would follow the only course by which he could save
himself from degradation and disgrace.
CHAPTER XL
Shadows avaunt!---Richard’s himself again.
Richard III
When the Black Knight---for it becomes necessary to resume the
train of his adventures---left the Trysting-tree of the generous
Outlaw, he held his way straight to a neighbouring religious
house, of small extent and revenue, called the Priory of Saint
Botolph, to which the wounded Ivanhoe had been removed when the
castle was taken, under the guidance of the faithful Gurth, and
the magnanimous Wamba. It is unnecessary at present to mention
what took place in the interim betwixt Wilfred and his deliverer;
suffice it to say, that after long and grave communication,
messengers were dispatched by the Prior in several directions,
and that on the succeeding morning the Black Knight was about to
set forth on his journey, accompanied by the jester Wamba, who
attended as his guide.
“We will meet,” he said to Ivanhoe, “at Coningsburgh, the castle
of the deceased Athelstane, since there thy father Cedric holds
the funeral feast for his noble relation. I would see your
Saxon kindred together, Sir Wilfred, and become better acquainted
with them than heretofore. Thou also wilt meet me; and it shall
be my task to reconcile thee to thy father.”
So saying, he took an affectionate farewell of Ivanhoe, who
expressed an anxious desire to attend upon his deliverer. But
the Black Knight would not listen to the proposal.
“Rest this day; thou wilt have scarce strength enough to travel
on the next. I will have no guide with me but honest Wamba, who
can play priest or fool as I shall be most in the humour.”
“And I,” said Wamba, “will attend you with all my heart. I would
fain see the feasting at the funeral of Athelstane; for, if it be
not full and frequent, he will rise from the dead to rebuke cook,
sewer, and cupbearer; and that were a sight worth seeing.
Always, Sir Knight, I will trust your valour with making my
excuse to my master Cedric, in case mine own wit should fail.”
“And how should my poor valour succeed, Sir Jester, when thy
light wit halts?---resolve me that.”
“Wit, Sir Knight,” replied the Jester, “may do much. He is a
quick, apprehensive knave, who sees his neighbours blind side,
and knows how to keep the lee-gage when his passions are blowing
high. But valour is a sturdy fellow, that makes all split. He
rows against both wind and tide, and makes way notwithstanding;
and, therefore, good Sir Knight, while I take advantage of the
fair weather in our noble master’s temper, I will expect you to
bestir yourself when it grows rough.”
“Sir Knight of the Fetterlock, since it is your pleasure so to be
distinguished,” said Ivanhoe, “I fear me you have chosen a
talkative and a troublesome fool to be your guide. But he knows
every path and alley in the woods as well as e’er a hunter who
frequents them; and the poor knave, as thou hast partly seen, is
as faithful as steel.”
“Nay,” said the Knight, “an he have the gift of showing my road,
I shall not grumble with him that he desires to make it pleasant.
---Fare thee well, kind Wilfred---I charge thee not to attempt to
travel till to-morrow at earliest.”
So saying, he extended his hand to Ivanhoe, who pressed it to his
lips, took leave of the Prior, mounted his horse, and departed,
with Wamba for his companion. Ivanhoe followed them with his
eyes, until they were lost in the shades of the surrounding
forest, and then returned into the convent.
But shortly after matin-song, he requested to see the Prior. The
old man came in haste, and enquired anxiously after the state of
his health.
“It is better,” he said, “than my fondest hope could have
anticipated; either my wound has been slighter than the effusion
of blood led me to suppose, or this balsam hath wrought a
wonderful cure upon it. I feel already as if I could bear my
corslet; and so much the better, for thoughts pass in my mind
which render me unwilling to remain here longer in inactivity.”
“Now, the saints forbid,” said the Prior, “that the son of the
Saxon Cedric should leave our convent ere his wounds were healed!
It were shame to our profession were we to suffer it.”
“Nor would I desire to leave your hospitable roof, venerable
father,” said Ivanhoe, “did I not feel myself able to endure the
journey, and compelled to undertake it.”
“And what can have urged you to so sudden a departure?” said the
Prior.
“Have you never, holy father,” answered the Knight, “felt an
apprehension of approaching evil, for which you in vain attempted
to assign a cause?---Have you never found your mind darkened,
like the sunny landscape, by the sudden cloud, which augurs a
coming tempest?---And thinkest thou not that such impulses are
deserving of attention, as being the hints of our guardian
spirits, that danger is impending?”
“I may not deny,” said the Prior, crossing himself, “that such
things have been, and have been of Heaven; but then such
communications have had a visibly useful scope and tendency. But
thou, wounded as thou art, what avails it thou shouldst follow
the steps of him whom thou couldst not aid, were he to be
assaulted?”
“Prior,” said Ivanhoe, “thou dost mistake---I am stout enough to
exchange buffets with any who will challenge me to such a traffic
---But were it otherwise, may I not aid him were he in danger, by
other means than by force of arms? It is but too well known that
the Saxons love not the Norman race, and who knows what may be
the issue, if he break in upon them when their hearts are
irritated by the death of Athelstane, and their heads heated by
the carousal in which they will indulge themselves? I hold his
entrance among them at such a moment most perilous, and I am
resolved to share or avert the danger; which, that I may the
better do, I would crave of thee the use of some palfrey whose
pace may be softer than that of my ‘destrier’.”*
“Destrier”---war-horse.“Surely,” said the worthy churchman; “you shall have mine own
ambling jennet, and I would it ambled as easy for your sake as
that of the Abbot of Saint Albans. Yet this will I say for
Malkin, for so I call her, that unless you were to borrow a ride
on the juggler’s steed that paces a hornpipe amongst the eggs,
you could not go a journey on a creature so gentle and
smooth-paced. I have composed many a homily on her back, to the
edification of my brethren of the convent, and many poor
Christian souls.”
“I pray you, reverend father,” said Ivanhoe, “let Malkin be got
ready instantly, and bid Gurth attend me with mine arms.”
“Nay, but fair sir,” said the Prior, “I pray you to remember that
Malkin hath as little skill in arms as her master, and that I
warrant not her enduring the sight or weight of your full
panoply. O, Malkin, I promise you, is a beast of judgment, and
will contend against any undue weight---I did but borrow the
‘Fructus Temporum’ from the priest of Saint Bees, and I promise
you she would not stir from the gate until I had exchanged the
huge volume for my little breviary.”
“Trust me, holy father,” said Ivanhoe, “I will not distress her
with too much weight; and if she calls a combat with me, it is
odds but she has the worst.”
This reply was made while Gurth was buckling on the Knight’s
heels a pair of large gilded spurs, capable of convincing any
restive horse that his best safety lay in being conformable to
the will of his rider.
The deep and sharp rowels with
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