Ivanhoe, Walter Scott [philippa perry book .txt] 📗

“What saith the devil!” interrupted Front-de-Boeuf; “or rather what dost thou say, Sir Priest? We have little time to hear texts from the holy fathers.”

“Sancta Maria!” ejaculated Father Ambrose, “how prompt to ire are these unhallowed laymen!⁠—But be it known to you, brave knights, that certain murderous caitiffs, casting behind them fear of God, and reverence of his church, and not regarding the bull of the holy see, Si quis, suadende Diabolo⁠—”

“Brother priest,” said the Templar, “all this we know or guess at⁠—tell us plainly, is thy master, the Prior, made prisoner, and to whom?”

“Surely,” said Ambrose, “he is in the hands of the men of Belial, infesters of these woods, and contemners of the holy text, ‘Touch not mine anointed, and do my prophets naught of evil.’ ”

“Here is a new argument for our swords, sirs,” said Front-de-Boeuf, turning to his companions; “and so, instead of reaching us any assistance, the Prior of Jorvaulx requests aid at our hands? a man is well helped of these lazy churchmen when he hath most to do!⁠—But speak out, priest, and say at once, what doth thy master expect from us?”

“So please you,” said Ambrose, “violent hands having been imposed on my reverend superior, contrary to the holy ordinance which I did already quote, and the men of Belial having rifled his mails and budgets, and stripped him of two hundred marks of pure refined gold, they do yet demand of him a large sum beside, ere they will suffer him to depart from their uncircumcised hands. Wherefore the reverend father in God prays you, as his dear friends, to rescue him, either by paying down the ransom at which they hold him, or by force of arms, at your best discretion.”

“The foul fiend quell the Prior!” said Front-de-Boeuf; “his morning’s drought has been a deep one. When did thy master hear of a Norman baron unbuckling his purse to relieve a churchman, whose bags are ten times as weighty as ours?⁠—And how can we do aught by valour to free him, that are cooped up here by ten times our number, and expect an assault every moment?”

“And that was what I was about to tell you,” said the monk, “had your hastiness allowed me time. But, God help me, I am old, and these foul onslaughts distract an aged man’s brain. Nevertheless, it is of verity that they assemble a camp, and raise a bank against the walls of this castle.”

“To the battlements!” cried De Bracy, “and let us mark what these knaves do without;” and so saying, he opened a latticed window which led to a sort of bartisan or projecting balcony, and immediately called from thence to those in the apartment⁠—“Saint Dennis, but the old monk hath brought true tidings!⁠—They bring forward mantelets and pavisses,31 and the archers muster on the skirts of the wood like a dark cloud before a hailstorm.”

Reginald Front-de-Boeuf also looked out upon the field, and immediately snatched his bugle; and, after winding a long and loud blast, commanded his men to their posts on the walls.

“De Bracy, look to the eastern side, where the walls are lowest⁠—Noble Bois-Guilbert, thy trade hath well taught thee how to attack and defend, look thou to the western side⁠—I myself will take post at the barbican. Yet, do not confine your exertions to any one spot, noble friends!⁠—we must this day be everywhere, and multiply ourselves, were it possible, so as to carry by our presence succour and relief wherever the attack is hottest. Our numbers are few, but activity and courage may supply that defect, since we have only to do with rascal clowns.”

“But, noble knights,” exclaimed Father Ambrose, amidst the bustle and confusion occasioned by the preparations for defence, “will none of ye hear the message of the reverend father in God Aymer, Prior of Jorvaulx?⁠—I beseech thee to hear me, noble Sir Reginald!”

“Go patter thy petitions to heaven,” said the fierce Norman, “for we on earth have no time to listen to them.⁠—Ho! there, Anselm I see that seething pitch and oil are ready to pour on the heads of these audacious traitors⁠—Look that the cross-bowmen lack not bolts.32⁠—Fling abroad my banner with the old bull’s head⁠—the knaves shall soon find with whom they have to do this day!”

“But, noble sir,” continued the monk, persevering in his endeavours to draw attention, “consider my vow of obedience, and let me discharge myself of my Superior’s errand.”

“Away with this prating dotard,” said Front-de Boeuf, “lock him up in the chapel, to tell his beads till the broil be over. It will be a new thing to the saints in Torquilstone to hear aves and paters; they have not been so honoured, I trow, since they were cut out of stone.”

“Blaspheme not the holy saints, Sir Reginald,” said De Bracy, “we shall have need of their aid today before yon rascal rout disband.”

“I expect little aid from their hand,” said Front-de-Boeuf, “unless we were to hurl them from the battlements on the heads of the villains. There is a huge lumbering Saint Christopher yonder, sufficient to bear a whole company to the earth.”

The Templar had in the meantime been looking out on the proceedings of the besiegers, with rather more attention than the brutal Front-de-Boeuf or his giddy companion.

“By the faith of mine order,” he said, “these men approach with more touch of discipline than could have been judged, however they come by it. See ye how dexterously they avail themselves of every cover which a tree or bush affords, and shun exposing themselves to the shot of our crossbows? I spy neither banner nor pennon among them, and yet will I gage my golden chain, that they are led on by some noble knight or gentleman, skilful in the practice of wars.”

“I espy him,” said De Bracy; “I see the waving of a knight’s crest, and the gleam of his armour. See yon tall man