The world is daily growing older and wiser. Its institutions vary with its
years, and mark its growing wisdom; and none more so than its modes of
investigating truth, and ascertaining guilt or innocence. In its nonage,
when man was yet a fallible being, and doubted the accuracy of his own
intellect, appeals were made to heaven in dark and doubtful cases of
atrocious accusation.
The accused was required to plunge his hand in boiling oil, or to walk
across red-hot plowshares, or to maintain his innocence in armed fight and
listed field, in person or by champion. If he passed these ordeals
unscathed, he stood acquitted, and the result was regarded as a verdict
from on high.
It is somewhat remarkable that, in the gallant age of chivalry, the gentler
sex should have been most frequently the subjects of these rude trials and
perilous ordeals; and that, too, when assailed in their most delicate and
vulnerable part--their honor.
In the present very old and enlightened age of the world, when the human
intellect is perfectly competent to the management of its own concerns, and
needs no special interposition of heaven in its affairs, the trial by jury
has superseded these superhuman ordeals; and the unanimity of twelve
discordant minds is necessary to constitute a verdict. Such a unanimity
would, at first sight, appear also to require a miracle from heaven; but it
is produced by a simple device of human ingenuity. The twelve jurors are
locked up in their box, there to fast until abstinence shall have so
clarified their intellects that the whole jarring panel can discern the
truth, and concur in a unanimous decision. One point is certain, that truth
is one and is immutable--until the jurors all agree, they cannot all be
right.
It is not our intention, however, to discuss this great judicial point, or
to question the avowed superiority of the mode of investigating truth
adopted in this antiquated and very sagacious era. It is our object merely
to exhibit to the curious reader one of the most memorable cases of
judicial combat we find in the annals of Spain. It occurred at the bright
commencement of the reign, and in the youthful, and, as yet, glorious days,
of Roderick the Goth; who subsequently tarnished his fame at home by his
misdeeds, and, finally, lost his kingdom and his life on the banks of the
Guadalete, in that disastrous battle which gave up Spain a conquest to the
Moors. The following is the story:
There was once upon a time a certain duke of Lorraine, who was acknowledged
throughout his domains to be one of the wisest princes that ever lived. In
fact, there was no one measure adopted by him that did not astonish his
privy counselors and gentlemen in attendance; and he said such witty
things, and made such sensible speeches, that the jaws of his high
chamberlain were wellnigh dislocated from laughing with delight at one, and
gaping with wonder at the other.
This very witty and exceedingly wise potentate lived for half a century in
single blessedness; at length his courtiers began to think it a great pity
so wise and wealthy a prince should not have a child after his own
likeness, to inherit his talents and domains; so they urged him most
respectfully to marry, for the good of his estate, and the welfare of his
subjects.
He turned their advice over in his mind some four or five years, and then
sent forth emissaries to summon to his court all the beautiful maidens in
the land who were ambitious of sharing a ducal crown. The court was soon
crowded with beauties of all styles and complexions, from among whom he
chose one in the earliest budding of her charms, and acknowledged by all
the gentlemen to be unparalleled for grace and loveliness. The courtiers
extolled the duke to the skies for making such a choice, and considered it
another proof of his great wisdom. "The duke," said they, "is waxing a
little too old, the damsel, on the other hand, is a little too young; if
one is lacking in years, the other has a superabundance; thus a want on one
side is balanced by the excess on the other, and the result is a
well-assorted marriage."
The duke, as is often the case with wise men who marry rather late, and
take damsels rather youthful to their bosoms, became dotingly fond of his
wife, and very properly indulged her in all things. He was, consequently,
cried up by his subjects in general, and by the ladies in particular, as a
pattern for husbands; and, in the end, from the wonderful docility with
which he submitted to be reined and checked, acquired the amiable and
enviable appellation of Duke Philibert the wife-ridden.
There was only one thing that disturbed the conjugal felicity of this
paragon of husbands--though a considerable tine elapsed after his marriage,
there was still no prospect of an heir. The good duke left no means untried
to propitiate heaven. He made vows and pilgrimages, he fasted and he
prayed, but all to no purpose. The courtiers were all astonished at the
circumstance. They could not account for it. While the meanest peasant in
the country had sturdy brats by dozens, without putting up a prayer, the
duke wore himself to skin and bone with penances and fastings, yet seemed
further off from his object than ever.
At length, the worthy prince fell dangerously ill, and felt his end
approaching. He looked sorrowfully and dubiously upon his young and tender
spouse, who hung over him with tears and sobbings. "Alas!" said he, "tears
are soon dried from youthful eyes, and sorrow lies lightly on a youthful
heart. In a little while thou wilt forget in the arms of another husband
him who has loved thee so tenderly."
"Never! never!" cried the duchess. "Never will I cleave to another! Alas,
that my lord should think me capable of such inconstancy!"
The worthy and wife-ridden duke was soothed by her assurances; for he could
not brook the thought of giving her up even after he should be dead. Still
he wished to have some pledge of her enduring constancy:
"Far be it from me, my dearest wife," said he, "to control thee through a
long life. A year and a day of strict fidelity will appease my troubled
spirit. Promise to remain faithful to my memory for a year and a day, and I
will die in peace."
The duchess made a solemn vow to that effect, but the uxorious feelings of
the duke were not yet satisfied. "Safe bind, safe find," thought he; so he
made a will, bequeathing to her all his domains, on condition of her
remaining true to him for a year and a day after his decease; but, should
it appear that, within that time, she had in anywise lapsed from her
fidelity, the inheritance should go to his nephew, the lord of a
neighboring territory.
Having made his will, the good duke died and was buried. Scarcely was he in
his tomb, when his nephew came to take possession, thinking, as his uncle
had died without issue, the domains would be devised to him of course. He
was in a furious passion, when the will was produced, and the young widow
declared inheritor of the dukedom. As he was a violent, high-handed man,
and one of the sturdiest knights in the land, fears were entertained that
he might attempt to seize on the territories by force. He had, however, two
bachelor uncles for bosom counselors, swaggering, rakehelly old cavaliers,
who, having led loose and riotous lives, prided themselves upon knowing the
world, and being deeply experienced in human nature. "Prithee, man, be of
good cheer," said they, "the duchess is a young and buxom widow. She has
just buried our brother, who, God rest his soul! was somewhat too much
given to praying and fasting, and kept his pretty wife always tied to his
girdle. She is now like a bird from a cage. Think you she will keep her
vow? Pooh, pooh--impossible! Take our words for it--we know mankind, and,
above all, womankind. She cannot hold out for such a length of time; it is
not in womanhood--it is not in widowhood--we know it, and that's enough.
Keep a sharp lookout upon the widow, therefore, and within the twelvemonth
you will catch her tripping--and then the dukedom is your own."
The nephew was pleased with this counsel, and immediately placed spies
round the duchess, and bribed several of her servants to keep watch upon
her, so that she could not take a single step, even from one apartment of
her palace to another, without being observed. Never was young and
beautiful widow exposed to so terrible an ordeal.
The duchess was aware of the watch thus kept upon her. Though confident of
her own rectitude, she knew that it is not enough for a woman to be
virtuous--she must be above the reach of slander. For the whole term of her
probation, therefore, she proclaimed a strict non-intercourse with the
other sex. She had females for cabinet ministers and chamberlains, through
whom she transacted all her public and private concerns; and it is said
that never were the affairs of the dukedom so adroitly administered.
All males were rigorously excluded from the palace; she never went out of
its precincts, and whenever she moved about its courts and gardens she
surrounded herself with a bodyguard of young maids of honor, commanded by
dames renowned for discretion. She slept in a bed without curtains, placed
in the center of a room illuminated by innumerable wax tapers. Four ancient
spinsters, virtuous as Virginia, perfect dragons of watchfulness, who only
slept during the daytime, kept vigils throughout the night, seated in the
four corners of the room on stools without backs or arms, and with seats
cut in checkers of the hardest wood, to keep them from dozing.
Thus wisely and warily did the young duchess conduct herself for twelve
long months, and slander almost bit her tongue off in despair, at finding
no room even for a surmise. Never was ordeal more burdensome, or more
enduringly sustained.
The year passed away. The last, odd day, arrived, and a long, long day it
was. It was the twenty-first of June, the longest day in the year. It
seemed as if it would never come to an end. A thousand times did the
duchess and her ladies watch the sun from the windows of the palace, as he
slowly climbed the vault of heaven, and seemed still more slowly to roll
down. They could not help expressing their wonder, now and then, why the
duke should have tagged this supernumerary day to the end of the year, as
if three hundred and sixty-five days were not sufficient to try and task
the fidelity of any woman. It is the last grain that turns the scale--the
last drop that overflows the goblet--and the last moment of delay that
exhausts the patience. By the time the sun sank below the horizon, the
duchess was in a fidget that passed all bounds, and, though several hours
were yet to pass before the day regularly expired, she could not have
remained those hours in durance to gain a royal crown, much less a ducal
coronet. So she gave orders, and her palfrey, magnificently caparisoned,
was brought into the courtyard of the castle, with palfreys for all her
ladies in attendance. In this way she sallied forth, just as the sun had
gone down. It was a mission of piety--a pilgrim cavalcade to a convent at
the foot of a neighboring mountain--to return thanks to the blessed Virgin,
for having sustained her through this fearful ordeal.
The orisons performed, the duchess and her ladies returned, ambling gently
along the border of a forest. It was about that mellow hour of twilight
when night and day are mingled and all objects are indistinct. Suddenly,
some monstrous animal sprang from out a thicket, with fearful howlings. The
female bodyguard was thrown into confusion, and fled different ways. It was
some time before they recovered from their panic, and gathered once more
together; but the duchess was not to be found. The greatest anxiety was
felt for her safety. The hazy mist of twilight had prevented their
distinguishing perfectly the animal which had affrighted them. Some thought
it a wolf, others a bear, others a wild man of the woods. For upward of an
hour did they beleaguer the forest, without daring to venture in, and were
on the point of giving up the duchess as torn to pieces and devoured, when,
to their great joy, they beheld her advancing in the gloom, supported by a
stately cavalier.
He was a stranger knight, whom nobody knew. It was impossible to
distinguish his countenance in the dark; but all the ladies agreed that he
was of noble presence and captivating address. He had rescued the duchess
from the very fangs of the monster, which, he assured the ladies, was
neither a wolf, nor a bear, nor yet a wild man of the woods, but a
veritable fiery dragon, a species of monster peculiarly hostile to
beautiful females in the days of chivalry, and which all the efforts of
knight-errantry had not been able to extirpate.
The ladies crossed themselves when they heard of the danger from which they
had escaped, and could not enough admire the gallantry of the cavalier. The
duchess would fain have prevailed on her deliverer to accompany her to her
court; but he had no time to spare, being a knight-errant, who had many
adventures on hand, and many distressed damsels and afflicted widows to
rescue and relieve in various parts of the country. Taking a respectful
leave, therefore, he pursued his wayfaring, and the duchess and her train
returned to the palace. Throughout the whole way, the ladies were unwearied
in chanting the praises of the stranger knight, nay, many of them would
willingly have incurred the danger of the dragon to have enjoyed the happy
deliverance of the duchess. As to the latter, she rode pensively along, but
said nothing.
No sooner was the adventure of the wood made public than a whirlwind was
raised about the ears of the beautiful duchess. The blustering nephew of
the deceased duke went about, armed to the teeth, with a swaggering uncle
at each shoulder, ready to back him, and swore the duchess had forfeited
her domain. It was in vain that she called all the saints, and angels, and
her ladies in attendance into the bargain, to witness that she had passed a
year and a day of immaculate fidelity. One fatal hour remained to be
accounted for; and into the space of one little hour sins enough may be
conjured up by evil tongues to blast the fame of a whole life of virtue.
The two graceless uncles, who had seen the world, were ever ready to
bolster the matter through, and as they were brawny, broad-shouldered
warriors, and veterans in brawl as well as debauch, they had great sway
with the multitude. If any one pretended to assert the innocence of the
duchess, they interrupted him with a loud ha! ha! of derision. "A pretty
story, truly," would they cry, "about a wolf and a dragon, and a young
widow rescued in the dark by a sturdy varlet who dares not show his face in
the daylight. You may tell that to those who do not know human nature, for
our parts, we know the sex, and that's enough."
If, however, the other repeated his assertion, they would suddenly knit
their brows, swell, look big, and put their hands upon their swords. As few
people like to fight in a cause that does not touch their own interests,
the nephew and the uncles were suffered to have their way, and swagger
uncontradicted.
The matter was at length referred to a tribunal, composed of all the
dignitaries of the dukedom, and many and repeated consultations were held.
The character of the duchess throughout the year was as bright and spotless
as the moon in a cloudless night; one fatal hour of darkness alone
intervened to eclipse its brightness. Finding human sagacity incapable of
dispelling the mystery, it was determined to leave the question to heaven;
or, in other words, to decide it by the ordeal of the sword--a sage
tribunal in the age of chivalry. The nephew and two bully uncles were to
maintain their accusation in listed combat, and six months were allowed to
the duchess to provide herself with three champions to meet them in the
field. Should she fail in this, or should her champions be vanquished, her
honor would be considered as attainted, her fidelity as forfeit, and her
dukedom would go to the nephew, as a matter of right.
With this determination the duchess was fain to comply. Proclamations were
accordingly made, and heralds sent to various parts; but day after day,
week after week, and month after month elapsed without any champion
appearing to assert her loyalty throughout that darksome hour. The fair
widow was reduced to despair, when tidings reached her of grand tournaments
to be held at Toledo, in celebration of the nuptials of Don Roderick, the
last of the Gothic kings, with the Morisco princess Exilona. As a last
resort, the duchess repaired to the Spanish court, to implore the gallantry
of its assembled chivalry.
The ancient city of Toledo was a scene of gorgeous revelry on the event of
the royal nuptials. The youthful king, brave, ardent, and magnificent, and
his lovely bride, beaming with all the radiant beauty of the East, were
hailed with shouts and acclamations whenever they appeared. Their nobles
vied with each other in the luxury of their attire, their prancing steeds,
and splendid retinues; and the haughty dames of the court appeared in a
blaze of jewels.
In the midst of all this pageantry, the beautiful, but afflicted Duchess of
Lorraine made her approach to the throne. She was dressed in black, and
closely veiled; for duennas of the most staid and severe aspect, and six
beautiful demoiselles, formed her female attendants. She was guarded by
several very ancient, withered, and grayheaded cavaliers; and her train was
borne by one of the most deformed and diminutive dwarfs in existence.
Advancing to the foot of the throne, she knelt down, and, throwing up her
veil, revealed a countenance so beautiful that half the courtiers present
were ready to renounce wives and mistresses, and devote themselves to her
service; but when she made known that she came in quest of champions to
defend her fame, every cavalier pressed forward to offer his arm and sword,
without inquiring into the merits of the case; for it seemed clear that so
beauteous a lady could have done nothing but what was right; and that, at
any rate, she ought to be championed in following the bent of her humors,
whether right or wrong.
Encouraged by such gallant zeal, the duchess suffered herself to be raised
from the ground, and related the whole story of her distress. When she
concluded, the king remained for some time silent, charmed by the music of
her voice. At length: "As I hope for salvation, most beautiful duchess,"
said he, "were I not a sovereign king, and bound in duty to my kingdom, I
myself would put lance in rest to vindicate your cause; as it is, I here
give full permission to my knights, and promise lists and a fair field, and
that the contest shall take place before the walls of Toledo, in presence
of my assembled court."
As soon as the pleasure of the king was known, there was a strife among the
cavaliers present for the honor of the contest. It was decided by lot, and
the successful candidates were objects of great envy, for every one was
ambitious of finding favor in the eyes of the beautiful widow.
Missives were sent, summoning the nephew and his two uncles to Toledo, to
maintain their accusation, and a day was appointed for the combat. When the
day arrived, all Toledo was in commotion at an early hour. The lists had
been prepared in the usual place, just without the walls, at the foot of
the rugged rocks on which the city is built, and on that beautiful meadow
along the Tagus, known by the name of the king's garden. The populace had
already assembled, each one eager to secure a favorable place; the
balconies were filled with the ladies of the court, clad in their richest
attire, and bands of youthful knights, splendidly armed and decorated with
their ladies' devices, were managing their superbly caparisoned steeds
about the field. The king at length came forth in state, accompanied by the
queen Exilona. They took their seats in a raised balcony, under a canopy of
rich damask; and, at sight of them, the people rent the air with
acclamations.
The nephew and his uncles now rode into the field, armed cap-a-pie, and
followed by a train of cavaliers of their own roistering cast, great
swearers and carousers, arrant swashbucklers, with clanking armor and
jingling spurs. When the people of Toledo beheld the vaunting and
discourteous appearance of these knights, they were more anxious than ever
for the success of the gentle duchess; but, at the same time, the sturdy
and stalwart frames of these warriors showed that whoever won the victory
from them must do it at the cost of many a bitter blow.
As the nephew and his riotous crew rode in at one side of the field, the
fair widow appeared at the other, with her suite of grave grayheaded
courtiers, her ancient duennas and dainty demoiselles, and the little dwarf
toiling along under the weight of her train. Every one made way for her as
she passed, and blessed her beautiful face, and prayed for success to her
cause. She took her seat in a lower balcony, not far from the sovereigns;
and her pale face, set off by her mourning weeds, was as the moon shining
forth from among the clouds of night.
The trumpets sounded for the combat. The warriors were just entering the
lists, when a stranger knight, armed in panoply, and followed by two pages
and an esquire, came galloping into the field, and, riding up to the royal
balcony, claimed the combat as a matter of right.
"In me," cried he, "behold the cavalier who had the happiness to rescue the
beautiful duchess from the peril of the forest, and the misfortune to bring
on her this grievous calumny. It was but recently, in the course of my
errantry, that tidings of her wrongs have reached my ears, and I have urged
hither at all speed, to stand forth in her vindication."
No sooner did the duchess hear the accents of the knight than she
recognized his voice, and joined her prayers with his that he might enter
the lists. The difficulty was, to determine which of the three champions
already appointed should yield his place, each insisting on the honor of
the combat. The stranger knight would have settled the point, by taking the
whole contest upon himself; but this the other knights would not permit. It
was at length determined, as before, by lot, and the cavalier who lost the
chance retired murmuring and disconsolate.
The trumpets again sounded--the lists were opened. The arrogant nephew and
his two drawcansir uncles appeared so completely cased in steel that they
and their steeds were like moving masses of iron. When they understood the
stranger knight to be the same that had rescued the duchess from her peril,
they greeted him with the most boisterous derision:
"Oh, ho! sir Knight of the Dragon," said they, "you who pretend to champion
fair widows in the dark, come on, and vindicate your deeds of darkness in
the open day."
The only reply of the cavalier was to put lance in rest, and brace himself
for the encounter. Needless is it to relate the particulars of a battle,
which was like so many hundred combats that have been said and sung in
prose and verse. Who is there but must have foreseen the event of a
contest, where Heaven had to decide on the guilt or innocence of the most
beautiful and immaculate of widows?
The sagacious reader, deeply read in this kind of judicial combats, can
imagine the encounter of the graceless nephew and the stranger knight. He
sees their concussion, man to man, and horse to horse, in mid career, and
Sir Graceless hurled to the ground and slain. He will not wonder that the
assailants of the brawny uncles were less successful in their rude
encounter; but he will picture to himself the stout stranger spurring to
their rescue, in the very critical moment; he will see him transfixing one
with his lance, and cleaving the other to the chine with a back stroke of
his sword, thus leaving the trio of accusers dead upon the field, and
establishing the immaculate fidelity of the duchess, and her title to the
dukedom, beyond the shadow of a doubt.
The air rang with acclamations; nothing was heard but praises of the beauty
and virtue of the duchess, and of the prowess of the stranger knight; but
the public joy was still more increased when the champion raised his visor,
and revealed the countenance of one of the bravest cavaliers of Spain,
renowned for his gallantry in the service of the sex, and who had been
round the world in quest of similar adventures.
That worthy knight, however, was severely wounded, and remained for a long
time ill of his wounds. The lovely duchess, grateful for having twice owed
her protection to his arm, attended him daily during his illness; and
finally rewarded his gallantry with her hand.
The king would fain have had the knight establish his title to such high
advancement by further deeds of arms; but his courtiers declared that he
already merited the lady, by thus vindicating her fame and fortune in a
deadly combat _à outrance_; and the lady herself hinted that she was
perfectly satisfied of his prowess in arms, from the proofs she had
received in his achievement in the forest.
Their nuptials were celebrated with great magnificence. The present husband
of the duchess did not pray and fast like his predecessor, Philibert the
wife-ridden; yet he found greater favor in the eyes of heaven, for their
union was blessed with a numerous progeny--the daughters chaste and
beauteous as their mother; the sons stout and valiant as their sire, and
renowned, like him, for relieving disconsolate damsels and desolated
widows.