A GRAND FEAT OF HORSEMANSHIP
After reaching Chas-Chateil, and relating his adventure to Dame
Waledger, Sir Anthony saw no reason to repent of the resolution he had
expressed to befriend the mysterious entity whom, as he devoutly
believed, the saints had sent to his succour in the hour of peril, and
when, otherwise, nothing could have intervened between him and certain
destruction. The dame encouraged his pious intent, and expressed
unbounded curiosity to see the strange child but for whose timely
appearance she would have been a weeping widow; and no sooner had the
knight dined than he sent for the young stranger to the daïs of the
great hall.
Apprehensive, however, that the whole business--the carouse of the
previous night, the boar-hunt of the morning, and the danger to which
her husband had been exposed, might be a device of Satan, and that the
boar and the boy might be agents of his satanic majesty, Dame Waledger
suggested the propriety of first handing over the child to be examined
by the chaplain of the castle as to his origin and position in life; and
Father Peter, though a little nervous, undertook the delicate
investigation.
The result was, in the main, satisfactory. Father Peter was no great
linguist, but he had been on the continent, and knew enough of
continental tongues to comprehend that the boy’s name was Pedro; that he
was a native of Burgos, the capital of Castile; that he had left his
country as one of a band of musicians bound for London: that they had
been shipwrecked on the coast, and that he, having escaped a watery
grave, had wandered into the woods, not knowing whither he went; and on
the approach of the boar, and the hounds, and the hunter, he had climbed
a tree to escape observation; and, with an innocent smile, he confirmed
his story by producing an instrument, and accompanying himself, while he
sang the ballad of “The Captive Knight and the Merle;” and finally
melted all hearts by bursting into tears, and deploring his plight as a
helpless orphan in a strange land.
The victory was now complete. Dame Waledger insisted on young Pedro
being handed over to her as a page; and in a day or two he was strutting
about dressed in crimson, accompanying the ladies of the castle when
they ventured into the chase to fly their hawks, singing to them his
native ballads, and diverting them with his droll attempts to speak the
language of the country in which he found himself, and of the people
among whom he had been so strangely cast.
Sir Anthony’s liking for Pedro rather increased as weeks passed over,
and he allowed the boy to come about him at times when he would not have
been seen by any other mortal--even in a certain wainscoted chamber of
the great hall, which was reserved for the use of the lord of the castle
and the governor, and which none of the household--knights, squires, or
grooms--were ever allowed to enter; not that there was anything very
particular about the interior, except one tall panel, on which was
depicted the battle of Hastings, with a very grim De Moreville bearing
one of the conqueror’s standards. But this panel appeared to have much
more interest for Pedro than even the pictorial embellishment would
account for, and often his eye stole furtively towards it.
Ere long Pedro did something which, but for superstition and jealousy,
ought to have won golden opinions among that part of De Moreville’s
household attached to the stables, and devoted to the Norman baron’s
stud. After being conducted to his stall, fresh from the horrors of the
boar-hunt, Ayoub displayed a very haughty temper. For days he declined
in the most distinct manner to be groomed, and refused all provender,
and after his hunger got the better of him, and he began to feed, he
took refuge in sullenness, and repelled every attempt to deal with him
as an ordinary steed.
At length Sir Anthony’s peremptory command had such an effect that the
grooms forcibly cast the refractory steed in his stall, bitted and
bridled him, and led him forth to exercise. But a fresh difficulty now
arose. Do what they would, he kicked against all attempts to mount him,
and Clem the Bold Rider, a lad of seventeen, and one of those mediæval
stable-boys who had hitherto had the credit of being able to deal
successfully with the wildest and fiercest of chargers, in vain essayed
to bring Ayoub to reason or reduce him to submission.
It was a November morning, but the sun was shining brightly for the
time, when the grand struggle took place outside the great drawbridge
leading into the courtyard, and all the officials connected with the
stable, and the huntsmen, and most of the garrison, were present to
witness the contest between the skilful equestrian and the refractory
steed. Sir Anthony also was there, determined that--no matter how many
necks might be broken--Ayoub should be mounted and ridden; and with him
were Richard de Moreville, Hugh’s nephew, and Pedro, the lady’s page,
who appeared to take a lively interest in the business, and clapped his
hands in the excess of his innocent excitement, till the knight, smiling
kindly on him, patted his head, and remarked to young De Moreville that
of all urchins this urchin was the most diverting.
At length the critical moment arrived, and Clem the Bold Rider manned
himself with dauntless air, and, coaxing and caressing the while,
attempted quietly to mount. It was vain. Ayoub declined. Unable to
accomplish his purpose by flattery, Clem had recourse to stratagem, and
made a brave effort to take the charger unawares, vault on his back, and
then trust to his skilful hand and strong arm. But it would not do.
Ayoub was vigilant as a rabbit, and though his eyes were covered for the
moment by the grooms who held him, he seemed instinctively to know what
was intended, and baffled the stratagem by a sudden movement which left
Clem sprawling on the ground. Still, the word of Sir Anthony being law,
and his purpose continuing inflexible, force was resorted to, and a
fierce struggle ensued, the men having the advantage at one moment and
the horse at another. But in the long run, Ayoub, by plunging, and
capering, and kicking furiously, gained the victory, and the knight’s
rage knew no bounds.
“By the head of St. Anthony!” exclaimed he, drawing his dagger, “the
accursed brute shall pay the penalty of its obstinacy by dying on the
spot where he has defied our will.”
“Holy Woden, sir knight!” exclaimed Richard de Moreville in surprise,
“you would not kill that noble horse, and he the property of another
person? Master Icingla is a prisoner, but not taken in battle, and
neither his steed nor his sword is forfeit. Credit me, the world, if it
hears of this, will cry shame on us if we so flagrantly violate the laws
of honour, which are binding on all chevaliers--especially on you and
me, who are of Norman race, and therefore doubly bound to observe all
usages.”
Sir Anthony was about to reply, but at that moment Pedro, who had been
listening to the conversation, without, of course, understanding it, ran
forward to the spot where the grooms were still holding Ayoub, and
commenced earnest endeavours to communicate by signs something which he
wished them to understand, now pointing to the sky, then to the ground,
and then to the horse. Meanwhile Richard de Moreville resumed the
conversation.
“By my faith, Sir Anthony,” said he, half laughing, as if thinking that
he had spoken too strongly, and wishing to soothe the knight, “methinks,
since this steed proves too much for the whole garrison, we could not do
better than bring forth the captive, and let him try his powers of
persuasion. Master Icingla, doubtless, could find some way of casting
out the devil which seems to have entered into his charger.”
Sir Anthony laughed a hoarse laugh.
“Bring forth the captive!” said he--“bring forth the captive, and give
him an opportunity of escape! That, forsooth, were blind policy, and you
may call me Englishman when I do aught so foolish. No, by St. Anthony’s
head, had I my will the young Saxon churl should be in the deepest
dungeon of Chas-Chateil till he rotted, if it were only to avenge
ourselves for the heart of pride which made the father who begot him
look down, as from an elevation, on better men than himself. I myself
forget not his insolence when he was on the eve of departing from Mount
Moreville, where he was a guest, when last summoned to embark with
Cœur-de-Lion for Normandy. ‘Good Norman,’ said he, ‘I pray thee hold
my stirrup while I mount;’ and when I showed some disinclination, he
added, calmly, ‘Nay, sir, it misbecomes you not; albeit you have lands
and living, and wear golden spurs as well as myself, you are still the
descendant of one of the adventurers who fought for hire at Hastings: I
am still the heir of the Icinglas.’”
“Holy Woden!” exclaimed Richard de Moreville, with a sly laugh, which
had its meaning, “and what answered you, sir knight? You drew your
sword, or challenged him to mortal combat on the spot?”
Sir Anthony changed colour, and hesitated.
“No,” said he, at length, “I wished not to have the death of the husband
of a de Moreville on my conscience, and I pardoned his insolence for his
lady’s sake.”
“And held his stirrup?”
Sir Anthony did not reply, but turned away to avoid doing so; and a
broad grin was on the Norman squire’s aquiline face.
Meanwhile Pedro, unable to make the grooms comprehend his meaning,
advanced to the head of the stubborn charger, looked in his face,
muttered in his ear, led him a few paces by the rein, then turned his
head from the sun, jabbering to the grooms as he did so what to them was
unintelligible. Then he made a sign that he would mount, and as they
lifted the boy to the charger’s back, Ayoub not only stood still and
quiet, but immediately obeyed the touch of his heel, and walked quietly
down among the trees that grew on the slope that led from the castle,
and then returned at a gentle canter. All present stood amazed, but none
more than Sir Anthony and Richard de Moreville.
“By the saints!” cried the knight, forgetting in his wonder to mention
his patron in particular, “this is marvellous to behold. I have ever
deemed that boy more than mortal since he came so opportunely to my
rescue.”
“On my faith,” said the squire, “I believe that never has the like been
seen since Alexander of Macedon mounted Bucephalus in spite of his heels
and horns.”
“It is magic,” exclaimed Hubert the Huntsman, in terror.
“Nay, nay, Hubert lad,” said old Martin; “bearest thou not in mind that
I said the fierce steed took kindly to the simple child from the first?”
No sooner had Pedro alighted from Ayoub than he commenced jabbering and
inviting Clem the Bold Rider to mount, and Clem, having done so, rode
quietly down the acclivity. But it did not suit the Bold Rider to occupy
the seat which he did “on sufferance,” and on reaching the level ground
he took measures to convince Ayoub that the rider and not the horse was
master. The experiment was not successful, and the result was not
flattering to his vanity. A brief struggle took place. When it was over,
the Bold Rider lay prostrate on the grassy sward, and Ayoub, the
refractory steed, with his head reared aloft and his bridle-rein flying
hither and thither, was snorting and rushing with the speed of the wind
towards the banks of the Kennet.
Sir Anthony uttered a fierce oath as he saw Ayoub disappear among the
trees, and watched Clem the Bold Rider rise from the ground.
“My curse on the braggart churl’s clumsiness!” said he. “The steed is
gone beyond hope of recovery. Would that the fall had smashed every bone
in his body!”
And the knight, having thus given vent to his disappointment, went with
Richard de Moreville to see his dame and De Moreville’s daughter mount
their palfreys and ride forth to fly their falcons, escorted by a body
of horsemen, and attended by their maidens, and their spaniels, and
Pedro the page.
“Sir Anthony,” said Richard de Moreville as they went, “you have excited
my curiosity as to these Icinglas. I crave your permission to visit this
captive squire, and hear the adventures in love and war which he had in
Castile and Flanders.”
“Nay, nay,” replied the knight sternly; “ask anything in reason, but
not that. By St. Anthony’s head! even the chaplain should not have gone
near him, but that he pressed me hard. Let him pine in solitude; would
that it were in chains and darkness!”
“But men say that he is fair, and brave, and high of spirit!”
“He is his father’s son,” replied Sir Anthony in a conclusive tone, “and
the calf of a vicious bull is ever vicious. Besides,” continued the
knight, his anger rising as he proceeded, “he is English by birth, and
the eggs of the serpent hatch only serpents; and,” added he, staying his
step to stamp on the ground, while he ground his teeth with vindictive
rage, “it is ever safest for us when we have our armed heel on the
viper’s brood.”