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

which Ivanhoe’s heels were now

armed, began to make the worthy Prior repent of his courtesy, and

ejaculate,---“Nay, but fair sir, now I bethink me, my Malkin

abideth not the spur---Better it were that you tarry for the mare

of our manciple down at the Grange, which may be had in little

more than an hour, and cannot but be tractable, in respect that

she draweth much of our winter fire-wood, and eateth no corn.”

“I thank you, reverend father, but will abide by your first

offer, as I see Malkin is already led forth to the gate. Gurth

shall carry mine armour; and for the rest, rely on it, that as I

will not overload Malkin’s back, she shall not overcome my

patience. And now, farewell!”

Ivanhoe now descended the stairs more hastily and easily than his

wound promised, and threw himself upon the jennet, eager to

escape the importunity of the Prior, who stuck as closely to his

side as his age and fatness would permit, now singing the praises

of Malkin, now recommending caution to the Knight in managing her.

“She is at the most dangerous period for maidens as well as

mares,” said the old man, laughing at his own jest, “being barely

in her fifteenth year.”

Ivanhoe, who had other web to weave than to stand canvassing a

palfrey’s paces with its owner, lent but a deaf ear to the

Prior’s grave advices and facetious jests, and having leapt on

his mare, and commanded his squire (for such Gurth now called

himself) to keep close by his side, he followed the track of the

Black Knight into the forest, while the Prior stood at the gate

of the convent looking after him, and ejaculating,---“Saint Mary!

how prompt and fiery be these men of war! I would I had not

trusted Malkin to his keeping, for, crippled as I am with the

cold rheum, I am undone if aught but good befalls her. And yet,”

said he, recollecting himself, “as I would not spare my own old

and disabled limbs in the good cause of Old England, so Malkin

must e’en run her hazard on the same venture; and it may be they

will think our poor house worthy of some munificent guerdon---or,

it may be, they will send the old Prior a pacing nag. And if

they do none of these, as great men will forget little men’s

service, truly I shall hold me well repaid in having done that

which is right. And it is now well-nigh the fitting time to

summon the brethren to breakfast in the refectory---Ah! I doubt

they obey that call more cheerily than the bells for primes and

matins.”

So the Prior of Saint Botolph’s hobbled back again into the

refectory, to preside over the stockfish and ale, which was just

serving out for the friars’ breakfast. Busy and important, he

sat him down at the table, and many a dark word he threw out, of

benefits to be expected to the convent, and high deeds of service

done by himself, which, at another season, would have attracted

observation. But as the stockfish was highly salted, and the ale

reasonably powerful, the jaws of the brethren were too anxiously

employed to admit of their making much use of their ears; nor do

we read of any of the fraternity, who was tempted to speculate

upon the mysterious hints of their Superior, except Father

Diggory, who was severely afflicted by the toothache, so that he

could only eat on one side of his jaws.

In the meantime, the Black Champion and his guide were pacing at

their leisure through the recesses of the forest; the good Knight

whiles humming to himself the lay of some enamoured troubadour,

sometimes encouraging by questions the prating disposition of his

attendant, so that their dialogue formed a whimsical mixture of

song and jest, of which we would fain give our readers some idea.

You are then to imagine this Knight, such as we have already

described him, strong of person, tall, broad-shouldered, and

large of bone, mounted on his mighty black charger, which seemed

made on purpose to bear his weight, so easily he paced forward

under it, having the visor of his helmet raised, in order to

admit freedom of breath, yet keeping the beaver, or under part,

closed, so that his features could be but imperfectly

distinguished. But his ruddy embrowned cheek-bones could be

plainly seen, and the large and bright blue eyes, that flashed

from under the dark shade of the raised visor; and the whole

gesture and look of the champion expressed careless gaiety and

fearless confidence---a mind which was unapt to apprehend danger,

and prompt to defy it when most imminent---yet with whom danger

was a familiar thought, as with one whose trade was war and

adventure.

The Jester wore his usual fantastic habit, but late accidents had

led him to adopt a good cutting falchion, instead of his wooden

sword, with a targe to match it; of both which weapons he had,

notwithstanding his profession, shown himself a skilful master

during the storming of Torquilstone. Indeed, the infirmity of

Wamba’s brain consisted chiefly in a kind of impatient

irritability, which suffered him not long to remain quiet in any

posture, or adhere to any certain train of ideas, although he was

for a few minutes alert enough in performing any immediate task,

or in apprehending any immediate topic. On horseback, therefore,

he was perpetually swinging himself backwards and forwards, now

on the horse’s ears, then anon on the very rump of the animal,

---now hanging both his legs on one side, and now sitting with

his face to the tail, moping, mowing, and making a thousand apish

gestures, until his palfrey took his freaks so much to heart, as

fairly to lay him at his length on the green grass---an incident

which greatly amused the Knight, but compelled his companion to

ride more steadily thereafter.

At the point of their journey at which we take them up, this

joyous pair were engaged in singing a virelai, as it was called,

in which the clown bore a mellow burden, to the better instructed

Knight of the Fetterlock. And thus run the ditty:---

Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun,

Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun,

Mists are dispersing, love, birds singing free,

Up in the morning, love, Anna-Marie.

Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn,

The hunter is winding blithe sounds on his horn,

The echo rings merry from rock and from tree,

‘Tis time to arouse thee, love, Anna-Marie.

Wamba.

O Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet,

Around my soft pillow while softer dreams flit,

For what are the joys that in waking we prove,

Compared with these visions, O, Tybalt, my love?

Let the birds to the rise of the mist carol shrill,

Let the hunter blow out his loud horn on the hill,

Softer sounds, softer pleasures, in slumber I prove,---

But think not I dreamt of thee, Tybalt, my love.

“A dainty song,” said Wamba, when they had finished their carol,

“and I swear by my bauble, a pretty moral!---I used to sing it

with Gurth, once my playfellow, and now, by the grace of God and

his master, no less than a freemen; and we once came by the

cudgel for being so entranced by the melody, that we lay in bed

two hours after sunrise, singing the ditty betwixt sleeping and

waking---my bones ache at thinking of the tune ever since.

Nevertheless, I have played the part of Anna-Marie, to please

you, fair sir.”

The Jester next struck into another carol, a sort of comic ditty,

to which the Knight, catching up the tune, replied in the like

manner.

Knight and Wamba.

There came three merry men from south, west, and north,

Ever more sing the roundelay;

To win the Widow of Wycombe forth,

And where was the widow might say them nay?

The first was a knight, and from Tynedale he came,

Ever more sing the roundelay;

And his fathers, God save us, were men of great fame,

And where was the widow might say him nay?

Of his father the laird, of his uncle the squire,

He boasted in rhyme and in roundelay;

She bade him go bask by his sea-coal fire,

For she was the widow would say him nay.

Wamba.

The next that came forth, swore by blood and by nails,

Merrily sing the roundelay;

Hur’s a gentleman, God wot, and hur’s lineage was of Wales,

And where was the widow might say him nay?

Sir David ap Morgan ap Griffith ap Hugh

Ap Tudor ap Rhice, quoth his roundelay

She said that one widow for so many was too few,

And she bade the Welshman wend his way.

But then next came a yeoman, a yeoman of Kent,

Jollily singing his roundelay;

He spoke to the widow of living and rent,

And where was the widow could say him nay?

Both.

So the knight and the squire were both left in the mire,

There for to sing their roundelay;

For a yeoman of Kent, with his yearly rent,

There never was a widow could say him nay.

“I would, Wamba,” said the knight, “that our host of the

Trysting-tree, or the jolly Friar, his chaplain, heard this thy

ditty in praise of our bluff yeoman.”

“So would not I,” said Wamba---“but for the horn that hangs at

your baldric.”

“Ay,” said the Knight,---“this is a pledge of Locksley’s

goodwill, though I am not like to need it. Three mots on this

bugle will, I am assured, bring round, at our need, a jolly band

of yonder honest yeomen.”

“I would say, Heaven forefend,” said the Jester, “were it not

that that fair gift is a pledge they would let us pass

peaceably.”

“Why, what meanest thou?” said the Knight; “thinkest thou that

but for this pledge of fellowship they would assault us?”

“Nay, for me I say nothing,” said Wamba; “for green trees have

ears as well as stone walls. But canst thou construe me this,

Sir Knight---When is thy wine-pitcher and thy purse better empty

than full?”

“Why, never, I think,” replied the Knight.

“Thou never deservest to have a full one in thy hand, for so

simple an answer! Thou hadst best empty thy pitcher ere thou

pass it to a Saxon, and leave thy money at home ere thou walk in

the greenwood.”

“You hold our friends for robbers, then?” said the Knight of the

Fetterlock.

“You hear me not say so, fair sir,” said Wamba; “it may relieve a

man’s steed to take of his mail when he hath a long journey to

make; and, certes, it may do good to the rider’s soul to ease him

of that which is the root of evil; therefore will I give no hard

names to those who do such services. Only I would wish my mail

at home, and my purse in my chamber, when I meet with these good

fellows, because it might save them some trouble.”

“WE are bound to pray for them, my friend, notwithstanding the

fair character thou dost afford them.”

“Pray for them with all my heart,” said Wamba; “but in the town,

not in the greenwood, like the Abbot of Saint Bees, whom they

caused to say mass with an old hollow oak-tree for his stall.”

“Say as thou list, Wamba,” replied the Knight, “these yeomen did

thy master Cedric yeomanly service at Torquilstone.”

“Ay, truly,” answered Wamba; “but that was in the fashion of

their trade with Heaven.”

“Their trade, Wamba! how mean you by that?” replied his

companion.

“Marry, thus,” said the Jester. “They make up a balanced account

with Heaven, as our old cellarer used to call his ciphering, as

fair as Isaac the Jew keeps with his debtors, and, like