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

will hang thee out to feed the ravens, from

the very pinnacle of thine own castle.---Let this knight have a

steed, Locksley, for I see your yeomen have caught those which

were running loose, and let him depart unharmed.”

“But that I judge I listen to a voice whose behests must not be

disputed,” answered the yeoman, “I would send a shaft after the

skulking villain that should spare him the labour of a long

journey.”

“Thou bearest an English heart, Locksley,” said the Black Knight,

“and well dost judge thou art the more bound to obey my behest

---I am Richard of England!”

At these words, pronounced in a tone of majesty suited to the

high rank, and no less distinguished character of Coeur-de-Lion,

the yeomen at once kneeled down before him, and at the same time

tendered their allegiance, and implored pardon for their

offences.

“Rise, my friends,” said Richard, in a gracious tone, looking on

them with a countenance in which his habitual good-humour had

already conquered the blaze of hasty resentment, and whose

features retained no mark of the late desperate conflict,

excepting the flush arising from exertion,---“Arise,” he said,

“my friends!---Your misdemeanours, whether in forest or field,

have been atoned by the loyal services you rendered my distressed

subjects before the walls of Torquilstone, and the rescue you

have this day afforded to your sovereign. Arise, my liegemen,

and be good subjects in future.---And thou, brave Locksley---”

“Call me no longer Locksley, my Liege, but know me under the

name, which, I fear, fame hath blown too widely not to have

reached even your royal ears---I am Robin Hood of Sherwood

Forest.”*

From the ballads of Robin Hood, we learn that this celebrated outlaw, when in disguise, sometimes assumed the name of Locksley, from a village where he was born, but where situated we are not distinctly told.

“King of Outlaws, and Prince of good fellows!” said the King,

“who hath not heard a name that has been borne as far as

Palestine? But be assured, brave Outlaw, that no deed done in

our absence, and in the turbulent times to which it hath given

rise, shall be remembered to thy disadvantage.”

“True says the proverb,” said Wamba, interposing his word, but

with some abatement of his usual petulance,---

“‘When the cat is away,

The mice will play.’”

“What, Wamba, art thou there?” said Richard; “I have been so long

of hearing thy voice, I thought thou hadst taken flight.”

“I take flight!” said Wamba; “when do you ever find Folly

separated from Valour? There lies the trophy of my sword, that

good grey gelding, whom I heartily wish upon his legs again,

conditioning his master lay there houghed in his place. It is

true, I gave a little ground at first, for a motley jacket does

not brook lance-heads, as a steel doublet will. But if I fought

not at sword’s point, you will grant me that I sounded the

onset.”

“And to good purpose, honest Wamba,” replied the King. “Thy good

service shall not be forgotten.”

“‘Confiteor! Confiteor!’”---exclaimed, in a submissive tone, a

voice near the King’s side---“my Latin will carry me no farther

---but I confess my deadly treason, and pray leave to have

absolution before I am led to execution!”

Richard looked around, and beheld the jovial Friar on his knees,

telling his rosary, while his quarter-staff, which had not been

idle during the skirmish, lay on the grass beside him. His

countenance was gathered so as he thought might best express the

most profound contrition, his eyes being turned up, and the

corners of his mouth drawn down, as Wamba expressed it, like the

tassels at the mouth of a purse. Yet this demure affectation of

extreme penitence was whimsically belied by a ludicrous meaning

which lurked in his huge features, and seemed to pronounce his

fear and repentance alike hypocritical.

“For what art thou cast down, mad Priest?” said Richard; “art

thou afraid thy diocesan should learn how truly thou dost serve

Our Lady and Saint Dunstan?---Tush, man! fear it not; Richard of

England betrays no secrets that pass over the flagon.”

“Nay, most gracious sovereign,” answered the Hermit, (well known

to the curious in penny-histories of Robin Hood, by the name of

Friar Tuck,) “it is not the crosier I fear, but the sceptre.

---Alas! that my sacrilegious fist should ever have been applied

to the ear of the Lord’s anointed!”

“Ha! ha!” said Richard, “sits the wind there?---In truth I had

forgotten the buffet, though mine ear sung after it for a whole

day. But if the cuff was fairly given, I will be judged by the

good men around, if it was not as well repaid---or, if thou

thinkest I still owe thee aught, and will stand forth for another

counterbuff---”

“By no means,” replied Friar Tuck, “I had mine own returned, and

with usury---may your Majesty ever pay your debts as fully!”

“If I could do so with cuffs,” said the King, “my creditors

should have little reason to complain of an empty exchequer.”

“And yet,” said the Friar, resuming his demure hypocritical

countenance, “I know not what penance I ought to perform for that

most sacrilegious blow!------”

“Speak no more of it, brother,” said the King; “after having

stood so many cuffs from Paynims and misbelievers, I were void of

reason to quarrel with the buffet of a clerk so holy as he of

Copmanhurst. Yet, mine honest Friar, I think it would be best

both for the church and thyself, that I should procure a license

to unfrock thee, and retain thee as a yeoman of our guard,

serving in care of our person, as formerly in attendance upon the

altar of Saint Dunstan.”

“My Liege,” said the Friar, “I humbly crave your pardon; and you

would readily grant my excuse, did you but know how the sin of

laziness has beset me. Saint Dunstan---may he be gracious to us!

---stands quiet in his niche, though I should forget my orisons

in killing a fat buck---I stay out of my cell sometimes a night,

doing I wot not what---Saint Dunstan never complains---a quiet

master he is, and a peaceful, as ever was made of wood.---But to

be a yeoman in attendance on my sovereign the King---the honour

is great, doubtless---yet, if I were but to step aside to comfort

a widow in one corner, or to kill a deer in another, it would be,

‘where is the dog Priest?’ says one. ‘Who has seen the accursed

Tuck?’ says another. ‘The unfrocked villain destroys more

venison than half the country besides,’ says one keeper; ‘And is

hunting after every shy doe in the country!’ quoth a second.

---In fine, good my Liege, I pray you to leave me as you found

me; or, if in aught you desire to extend your benevolence to me,

that I may be considered as the poor Clerk of Saint Dunstan’s

cell in Copmanhurst, to whom any small donation will be most

thankfully acceptable.”

“I understand thee,” said the King, “and the Holy Clerk shall

have a grant of vert and venison in my woods of Warncliffe.

Mark, however, I will but assign thee three bucks every season;

but if that do not prove an apology for thy slaying thirty, I am

no Christian knight nor true king.”

“Your Grace may be well assured,” said the Friar, “that, with the

grace of Saint Dunstan, I shall find the way of multiplying your

most bounteous gift.”

“I nothing doubt it, good brother,” said the King; “and as

venison is but dry food, our cellarer shall have orders to

deliver to thee a butt of sack, a runlet of Malvoisie, and three

hogsheads of ale of the first strike, yearly---If that will not

quench thy thirst, thou must come to court, and become acquainted

with my butler.”

“But for Saint Dunstan?” said the Friar---

“A cope, a stole, and an altar-cloth shalt thou also have,”

continued the King, crossing himself---“But we may not turn our

game into earnest, lest God punish us for thinking more on our

follies than on his honour and worship.”

“I will answer for my patron,” said the Priest, joyously.

“Answer for thyself, Friar,” said King Richard, something

sternly; but immediately stretching out his hand to the Hermit,

the latter, somewhat abashed, bent his knee, and saluted it.

“Thou dost less honour to my extended palm than to my clenched

fist,” said the Monarch; “thou didst only kneel to the one, and

to the other didst prostrate thyself.”

But the Friar, afraid perhaps of again giving offence by

continuing the conversation in too jocose a style---a false step

to be particularly guarded against by those who converse with

monarchs--- bowed profoundly, and fell into the rear.

At the same time, two additional personages appeared on the

scene.

CHAPTER XLI

All hail to the lordlings of high degree,

Who live not more happy, though greater than we!

Our pastimes to see,

Under every green tree,

In all the gay woodland, right welcome ye be.

Macdonald

The new comers were Wilfred of Ivanhoe, on the Prior of Botolph’s

palfrey, and Gurth, who attended him, on the Knight’s own

war-horse. The astonishment of Ivanhoe was beyond bounds, when

he saw his master besprinkled with blood, and six or seven dead

bodies lying around in the little glade in which the battle had

taken place. Nor was he less surprised to see Richard

surrounded by so many silvan attendants, the outlaws, as they

seemed to be, of the forest, and a perilous retinue therefore for

a prince. He hesitated whether to address the King as the Black

Knight-errant, or in what other manner to demean himself towards

him. Richard saw his embarrassment.

“Fear not, Wilfred,” he said, “to address Richard Plantagenet as

himself, since thou seest him in the company of true English

hearts, although it may be they have been urged a few steps aside

by warm English blood.”

“Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe,” said the gallant Outlaw, stepping

forward, “my assurances can add nothing to those of our

sovereign; yet, let me say somewhat proudly, that of men who have

suffered much, he hath not truer subjects than those who now

stand around him.”

“I cannot doubt it, brave man,” said Wilfred, “since thou art of

the number---But what mean these marks of death and danger? these

slain men, and the bloody armour of my Prince?”

“Treason hath been with us, Ivanhoe,” said the King; “but,

thanks to these brave men, treason hath met its meed---But, now I

bethink me, thou too art a traitor,” said Richard, smiling; “a

most disobedient traitor; for were not our orders positive, that

thou shouldst repose thyself at Saint Botolph’s until thy wound

was healed?”

“It is healed,” said Ivanhoe; “it is not of more consequence than

the scratch of a bodkin. But why, oh why, noble Prince, will you

thus vex the hearts of your faithful servants, and expose your

life by lonely journeys and rash adventures, as if it were of no

more value than that of a mere knight-errant, who has no interest

on earth but what lance and sword may procure him?”

“And Richard Plantagenet,” said the King, “desires no more fame

than his good lance and sword may acquire him---and Richard

Plantagenet is prouder of achieving an adventure, with only his

good sword, and his good arm to speed, than if he led to battle

a host of an hundred thousand armed men.”

“But your kingdom, my Liege,” said Ivanhoe, “your kingdom is

threatened with dissolution and civil war---your subjects menaced

with every species of evil, if deprived of their sovereign in

some of those dangers which it is your daily pleasure to incur,

and