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

Father Dennet,” quoth one boor to another advanced in years, “that the devil has carried away bodily the great Saxon Thane, Athelstane of Coningsburgh?”

“Ay, but he brought him back though, by the blessing of God and Saint Dunstan.”

“How’s that?” said a brisk young fellow, dressed in a green cassock embroidered with gold, and having at his heels a stout lad bearing a harp upon his back, which betrayed his vocation. The Minstrel seemed of no vulgar rank; for, besides the splendour of his gaily braidered doublet, he wore around his neck a silver chain, by which hung the wrest, or key, with which he tuned his harp. On his right arm was a silver plate, which, instead of bearing, as usual, the cognizance or badge of the baron to whose family he belonged, had barely the word Sherwood engraved upon it.⁠—“How mean you by that?” said the gay Minstrel, mingling in the conversation of the peasants; “I came to seek one subject for my rhyme, and, by’r Lady, I were glad to find two.”

“It is well avouched,” said the elder peasant, “that after Athelstane of Coningsburgh had been dead four weeks⁠—”

“That is impossible,” said the Minstrel; “I saw him in life at the Passage of Arms at Ashby-de-la-Zouche.”

“Dead, however, he was, or else translated,” said the younger peasant; “for I heard the Monks of Saint Edmund’s singing the death’s hymn for him; and, moreover, there was a rich death-meal and dole at the Castle of Coningsburgh, as right was; and thither had I gone, but for Mabel Parkins, who⁠—”

“Ay, dead was Athelstane,” said the old man, shaking his head, “and the more pity it was, for the old Saxon blood⁠—”

“But, your story, my masters⁠—your story,” said the Minstrel, somewhat impatiently.

“Ay, ay⁠—construe us the story,” said a burly Friar, who stood beside them, leaning on a pole that exhibited an appearance between a pilgrim’s staff and a quarterstaff, and probably acted as either when occasion served⁠—“Your story,” said the stalwart churchman; “burn not daylight about it⁠—we have short time to spare.”

“An please your reverence,” said Dennet, “a drunken priest came to visit the Sacristan at Saint Edmund’s⁠—”

“It does not please my reverence,” answered the churchman, “that there should be such an animal as a drunken priest, or, if there were, that a layman should so speak him. Be mannerly, my friend, and conclude the holy man only wrapt in meditation, which makes the head dizzy and foot unsteady, as if the stomach were filled with new wine⁠—I have felt it myself.”

“Well, then,” answered Father Dennet, “a holy brother came to visit the Sacristan at Saint Edmund’s⁠—a sort of hedge-priest is the visitor, and kills half the deer that are stolen in the forest, who loves the tinkling of a pint-pot better than the sacring-bell, and deems a flitch of bacon worth ten of his breviary; for the rest, a good fellow and a merry, who will flourish a quarterstaff, draw a bow, and dance a Cheshire round, with e’er a man in Yorkshire.”

“That last part of thy speech, Dennet,” said the Minstrel, “has saved thee a rib or twain.”

“Tush, man, I fear him not,” said Dennet; “I am somewhat old and stiff, but when I fought for the bell and ram at Doncaster⁠—”

“But the story⁠—the story, my friend,” again said the Minstrel.

“Why, the tale is but this⁠—Athelstane of Coningsburgh was buried at Saint Edmund’s.”

“That’s a lie, and a loud one,” said the Friar, “for I saw him borne to his own Castle of Coningsburgh.”

“Nay, then, e’en tell the story yourself, my masters,” said Dennet, turning sulky at these repeated contradictions; and it was with some difficulty that the boor could be prevailed on, by the request of his comrade and the Minstrel, to renew his tale.⁠—“These two sober friars,” said he at length, “since this reverend man will needs have them such, had continued drinking good ale, and wine, and whatnot, for the best part for a summer’s day, when they were aroused by a deep groan, and a clanking of chains, and the figure of the deceased Athelstane entered the apartment, saying, ‘Ye evil shepherds!⁠—’ ”

“It is false,” said the Friar, hastily, “he never spoke a word.”

“So ho! Friar Tuck,” said the Minstrel, drawing him apart from the rustics; “we have started a new hare, I find.”

“I tell thee, Allan-a-Dale,” said the Hermit, “I saw Athelstane of Coningsburgh as much as bodily eyes ever saw a living man. He had his shroud on, and all about him smelt of the sepulchre⁠—A butt of sack will not wash it out of my memory.”

“Pshaw!” answered the Minstrel; “thou dost but jest with me!”

“Never believe me,” said the Friar, “an I fetched not a knock at him with my quarterstaff that would have felled an ox, and it glided through his body as it might through a pillar of smoke!”

“By Saint Hubert,” said the Minstrel, “but it is a wondrous tale, and fit to be put in metre to the ancient tune, ‘Sorrow came to the old Friar.’ ”

“Laugh, if ye list,” said Friar Tuck; “but an ye catch me singing on such a theme, may the next ghost or devil carry me off with him headlong! No, no⁠—I instantly formed the purpose of assisting at some good work, such as the burning of a witch, a judicial combat, or the like matter of godly service, and therefore am I here.”

As they thus conversed, the heavy bell of the church of Saint Michael of Templestowe, a venerable building, situated in a hamlet at some distance from the Preceptory, broke short their argument. One by one the sullen sounds fell successively on the ear, leaving but sufficient space for each to die away in distant echo, ere the air was again filled by repetition of the iron knell. These sounds, the signal of the approaching ceremony, chilled with awe the hearts of the assembled multitude, whose eyes were now turned to the Preceptory, expecting the approach of the Grand Master, the champion, and