THE FALCON STOOPS.
It was the marriage day of Margaret and Peter. Clad in white armour
that had been sent to him as a present from the queen, a sign and a
token of her good wishes for his success in his combat with Morella,
wearing the insignia of a Knight of St. James hanging by a ribbon from
his neck, his shield emblazoned with his coat of the stooping falcon,
which appeared also upon the white cloak that hung from his shoulders,
behind him a squire of high degree, who carried his plumed casque and
lance, and accompanied by an escort of the royal guards, Peter rode
from his quarters in the prison to the palace gates, and waited there
as he had been bidden. Presently they opened, and through them, seated
on a palfrey, appeared Margaret, wonderfully attired in white and
silver, but with her veil lifted so that her face could be seen. She
was companioned by a troop of maidens mounted, all of them, on white
horses, and at her side, almost outshining her in glory of apparel, and
attended by all her household, rode Betty, Marchioness of Morella—at
any rate for that present time.
Although she could never be less than beautiful, it was a worn and pale
Margaret who bowed her greetings to the bridegroom without those palace
gates. What wonder, since she knew that within a few hours his life
must be set upon the hazard of a desperate fray. What wonder, since she
knew that to-morrow her father was doomed to be burnt living upon the
Quemadero.
They met, they greeted; then, with silver trumpets blowing before them,
the glittering procession wound its way through the narrow streets of
Seville. But few words passed between them, whose hearts were too full
for words, who had said all they had to say, and now abided the issue
of events. Betty, however, whom many of the populace took for the
bride, because her air was so much the happier of the two, would not be
silent. Indeed she chid Margaret for her lack of gaiety upon such an
occasion.
“Oh, Betty!—Betty!” answered Margaret, “how can I be gay, upon whose
heart lies the burden of to-morrow?”
“A pest upon the burden of to-morrow!” exclaimed Betty. “The burden of
to-day is enough for me, and that is not so bad to bear. Never shall we
have another such ride as this, with all the world staring at us, and
every woman in Seville envying us and our good looks and the favour of
the queen.”
“I think it is you they stare at and envy,” said Margaret, glancing at
the splendid woman at her side, whose beauty she knew well
over-shadowed her own rarer loveliness, at any rate in a street
pageant, as in the sunshine the rose overshadows the lily.
“Well,” answered Betty, “if so, it is because I put the better face on
things, and smile even if my heart bleeds. At least, your lot is more
hopeful than mine. If your husband has to fight to the death presently,
so has mine, and between ourselves I favour Peter’s chances. He is a
very stubborn fighter, Peter, and wonderfully strong—too stubborn and
strong for any Spaniard.”
“Well, that is as it should be,” said Margaret, smiling faintly,
“seeing that Peter is your champion, and if he loses, you are stamped
as a serving-girl, and a woman of no character.”
“A serving-girl I was, or something not far different,” replied Betty
in a reflective voice, “and my character is a matter between me and
Heaven, though, after all, it might scrape through where others fail to
pass. So these things do not trouble me over much. What troubles me is
that if my champion wins he kills my husband.”
“You don’t want him to be killed then?” asked Margaret, glancing at
her.
“No, I think not,” answered Betty with a little shake in her voice, and
turning her head aside for a moment. “I know he is a scoundrel, but,
you see, I always liked this scoundrel, just as you always hated him,
so I cannot help wishing that he was going to meet some one who hits a
little less hard than Peter. Also, if he dies, without doubt his heirs
will raise suits against me.”
“At any rate your father is not going to be burnt to-morrow,” said
Margaret to change the subject, which, to tell the truth, was an
awkward one.
“No, Cousin, if my father had his deserts, according to all accounts,
although the lineage that I gave of him is true enough, doubtless he
was burnt long ago, and still goes on burning—in Purgatory, I
mean—though God knows I would never bring a faggot to his fire. But
Master Castell will not be burnt, so why fret about it.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Margaret, who had not confided the
details of a certain plot to Betty.
“I don’t know, but I am sure that Peter will get him out somehow. He is
a very good stick to lean on, Peter, although he seems so hard and
stupid and silent, which, after all, is in the nature of sticks. But
look, there is the cathedral—is it not a fine place?—and a great crowd
of people waiting round the gate. Now smile, Cousin. Bow and smile as I
do.”
They rode up to the great doors, where Peter, springing to the ground,
assisted his bride from her palfrey. Then the procession formed, and
they entered the wonderful place, preceded by vergers with staves, and
by acolytes. Margaret had never visited it before, and never saw it
again, but all her life the memory of it remained clear and vivid in
her mind. The cold chill of the air within, the semi-darkness after the
glare of the sunshine, the seven great naves, or aisles, stretching
endlessly to right and left, the dim and towering roof, the pillars
that sprang to it everywhere like huge forest trees aspiring to the
skies, the solemn shadows pierced by lines of light from the high-cut
windows, the golden glory of the altars, the sounds of chanting, the
sepulchres of the dead—a sense of all these things rushed in upon her,
overpowering her and stamping the picture of them for ever on her
memory.
Slowly they passed onward to the choir, and round it to the steps of
the great altar of the chief chapel. Here, between the choir and the
chapel, was gathered the congregation—no small one—and here, side by
side to the right and without the rails, in chairs of state, sat their
Majesties of Spain, who had chosen to grace this ceremony with their
presence. More, as the bride came, the queen Isabella, as a special act
of grace, rose from her seat and, bending forward, kissed her on the
cheek, while the choir sang and the noble music rolled. It was a
splendid spectacle, this marriage of hers, celebrated in perhaps the
most glorious fane in Europe. But even as Margaret noted it and watched
the bishops and priests decked with glittering embroideries, summoned
there to do her honour, as they moved to and fro in the mysterious
ceremonial of the Mass, she bethought her of other rites equally
glorious that would take place on the morrow in the greatest square of
Seville, where these same dignitaries would condemn fellow human
beings—perhaps among them her own father—to be married to the cruel
flame.
Side by side they knelt before the wondrous altar, while the
incense-clouds from the censers floated up one by one till they were
lost in the gloom above, as the smoke of to-morrow’s sacrifice would
lose itself in the heavens, she and her husband, won at last, won after
so many perils, perhaps to be lost again for ever before night fell
upon the world. The priests chanted, the gorgeous bishop bowed over
them and muttered the marriage service of their faith, the ring was set
upon her hand, the troths were plighted, the benediction spoken, and
they were man and wife till death should them part, that death which
stood so near to them in this hour of life fulfilled. Then they two,
who already that morning had made confession of their sins, kneeling
alone before the altar, ate of the holy Bread, sealing a mystery with a
mystery.
All was done and over, and rising, they turned and stayed a moment hand
in hand while the sweet-voiced choir sang some wondrous chant.
Margaret’s eyes wandered over the congregation till presently they
lighted upon the dark face of Morella, who stood apart a little way,
surrounded by his squires and gentlemen, and watched her. More, he came
to her, and bowing low, whispered to her:
“We are players in a strange game, my lady Margaret, and what will be
its end, I wonder? Shall I be dead to-night, or you a widow? Aye, and
where was its beginning? Not here, I think. And where, oh where shall
this seed we sow bear fruit? Well, think as kindly of me as you can,
since I loved you who love me not.”
[Illustration: ]
“We are players in a strange game, my lady Margaret”
And again bowing, first to her, then to Peter, he passed on, taking no
note of Betty, who stood near, considering him with her large eyes, as
though she also wondered what would be the end of all this play.
Surrounded by their courtiers, the king and queen left the cathedral,
and after them came the bridegroom and the bride. They mounted their
horses and in the glory of the southern sunlight rode through the
cheering crowd back to the palace and to the marriage feast, where
their table was set but just below that of their Majesties. It was long
and magnificent; but little could they eat, and, save to pledge each
other in the ceremonial cup, no wine passed their lips. At length some
trumpets blew, and their Majesties rose, the king saying in his thin,
clear voice that he would not bid his guests farewell, since very
shortly they would all meet again in another place, where the gallant
bridegroom, a gentleman of England, would champion the cause of his
relative and countrywoman against one of the first grandees of Spain
whom she alleged had done her wrong. That fray, alas! would be no
pleasure joust, but to the death, for the feud between these knights
was deep and bitter, and such were the conditions of their combat. He
could not wish success to the one or to the other; but of this he was
sure, that in all Seville there was no heart that would not give equal
honour to the conqueror and the conquered, sure also that both would
bear themselves as became brave knights of Spain and England.
Then the trumpets blew again, and the squires and gentlemen who were
chosen to attend him came bowing to Peter, and saying that it was time
for him to arm. Bride and bridegroom rose and, while all the spectators
fell back out of hearing, but watching them with curious eyes, spoke
some few words together.
“We part,” said Peter, “and I know not what to say.”
“Say nothing, husband,” she answered him, “lest your words should
weaken me. Go now, and bear you bravely, as you will for your own
honour and that of England, and for mine. Dead or living you are my
darling, and dead or living we shall meet once more and be at rest for
aye. My prayers be with you, Sir Peter, my prayers and my eternal love,
and may they bring strength to your arm and comfort to your heart.”
Then she, who would not embrace him before all those folk, curtseyed
till her knee almost touched the ground, while low he bent before her,
a strange and stately parting, or so thought that company; and taking
the hand of Betty, Margaret left him.
Two hours had gone by. The Plaza de Toros, for the great square where
tournaments were wont to be held was in the hands of those who prepared
it for the auto-da-fé of the morrow, was crowded as it had seldom been
before. This place was a huge amphitheatre—perchance the Romans built
it—where all sorts of games were celebrated, among them the baiting of
bulls as it was practised in those days, and other semi-savage sports.
Twelve thousand people could sit upon the benches that rose tier upon
tier around the vast theatre, and scarce a seat was empty. The arena
itself, that was long enough for horses starting at either end of it to
come to their full speed, was strewn with white sand, as it may have
been in the days when gladiators fought there. Over the main entrance
and opposite to the centre of the ring were placed the king and queen
with their lords and ladies, and between them, but a little behind, her
face hid by her bridal veil, sat Margaret, upright and silent as a
statue. Exactly in front of them, on the further side of the ring in a
pavilion, and attended by her household, appeared Betty, glittering
with gold and jewels, since she was the lady in whose cause, at least
in name, this combat was to be fought à l’outrance. Quite unmoved she
sat, and her presence seemed to draw every eye in that vast assembly
which talked of her while it waited, with a sound like the sound of the
sea as it murmurs on a beach at night.
Now the trumpets blew, and silence fell, and then, preceded by heralds
in golden tabards, Carlos, Marquis of Morella, followed by his squires,
rode into the ring through the great entrance. He bestrode a splendid
black horse, and was arrayed in coal-black armour, while from his
casque rose black ostrich plumes. On his shield, however, painted in
scarlet, appeared the eagle crowned with the coronet of his rank, and
beneath, the proud motto—“What I seize I tear.” A splendid figure, he
pressed his horse into the centre of the arena, then causing it to
wheel round, pawing the air with its forelegs, saluted their Majesties
by raising his long, steel-tipped lance, while the multitude greeted
him with a shout. This done, he and his company rode away to their
station at the north end of the ring.
Again the trumpets sounded, and a herald appeared, while after him,
mounted on a white horse, and clad in his white armour that glistened
in the sun, with white plumes rising from his casque, and on his shield
the stooping falcon blazoned in gold with the motto of “For love and
honour” beneath it, appeared the tall, grim shape of Sir Peter Brome.
He, too, rode out into the centre of the arena, and, turning his horse
quite soberly, as though it were on a road, lifted his lance in salute.
Now there was no cheering, for this knight was a foreigner, yet
soldiers who were there said to each other that he looked like one who
would not easily be overthrown.
A third time the trumpets sounded, and the two champions, advancing
from their respective stations, drew rein side by side in front of
their Majesties, where the conditions of the combat were read aloud to
them by the chief herald. They were short. That the fray should be to
the death unless the king and queen willed otherwise and the victor
consented; that it should be on horse or on foot, with lance or sword
or dagger, but that no broken weapon might be replaced and no horse or
armour changed; that the victor should be escorted from the place of
combat with all honour, and allowed to depart whither he would, in the
kingdom or out of it, and no suit or blood-feud raised against him; and
that the body of the fallen be handed over to his friends for burial,
also with all honour. That the issue of this fray should in no way
affect any cause pleaded in Courts ecclesiastical or civil, by the lady
who asserted herself to be the Marchioness of Morella, or by the most
noble Marquis of Morella, whom she claimed as her husband.
These conditions having been read, the champions were asked if they
assented to them, whereon each of them answered, “Aye!” in a clear
voice. Then the herald, speaking on behalf of Sir Peter Brome, by
creation a knight of St. Iago and a Don of Spain, solemnly challenged
the noble Marquis of Morella to single combat to the death, in that he,
the said marquis, had aspersed the name of his relative, the English
lady, Elizabeth Dene, who claimed to be his wife, duly united to him in
holy wedlock, and for sundry other causes and injuries worked towards
him, the said Sir Peter Brome, and his wife, Dame Margaret Brome, and
in token thereof, threw down a gauntlet, which gauntlet the Marquis of
Morella lifted upon the point of his lance and cast over his shoulder,
thus accepting the challenge.
Now the combatants dropped their visors, which heretofore had been
raised, and their squires, coming forward, examined the fastenings of
their armour, their weapons, and the girths and bridles of their
horses. These being pronounced sound and good, pursuivants took the
steeds by the bridles and led them to the far ends of the lists. At a
signal from the king a single clarion blew, whereon the pursuivants
loosed their hold of the bridles and sprang back. Another clarion blew,
and the knights gathered up their reins, settled their shields, and set
their lances in rest, bending forward over their horses’ necks.
An intense silence fell upon all the watching multitude as that of
night upon the sea, and in the midst of it the third clarion blew—to
Margaret it sounded like the trump of doom. From twelve thousand
throats one great sigh went up, like the sigh of wind upon the sea, and
ere it died away, from either end of the arena, like arrows from the
bow, like levens from a cloud, the champions started forth, their
stallions gathering speed at every stride. Look, they met! Fair on each
shield struck a lance, and backward reeled their holders. The keen
points glanced aside or up, and the knights, recovering themselves,
rushed past each other, shaken but unhurt. At the ends of the lists the
squires caught the horses by the bridles and turned them. The first
course was run.
Again the clarions blew, and again they started forward, and presently
again they met in mid career. As before, the lances struck upon the
shields; but so fearful was the impact, that Peter’s shivered, while
that of Morella, sliding from the topmost rim of his foe’s buckler, got
hold in his visor bars. Back went Peter beneath the blow, back and
still back, till almost he lay upon his horse’s crupper. Then, when it
seemed that he must fall, the lacings of his helm burst. It was torn
from his head, and Morella passed on bearing it transfixed upon his
spear point.
“The Falcon falls,” screamed the spectators; “he is unhorsed.”
But Peter was not unhorsed. Freed from that awful pressure, he let drop
the shattered shaft and, grasping at his saddle strap, dragged himself
back into the selle. Morella tried to stay his charger, that he might
come about and fall upon the Englishman before he could recover
himself; but the brute was heady, and would not be turned till he saw
the wall of faces in front of him. Now they were round, both of them,
but Peter had no spear and no helm, while the lance of Morella was
cumbered with his adversary’s casque that he strove to shake free from
it, but in vain.
“Draw your sword,” shouted voices to Peter—the English voices of Smith
and his sailors—and he put his hand down to do so, then bethought him
of some other counsel, for he let it lie within its scabbard, and,
spurring the white horse, came at Morella like a storm.
“The Falcon will be spiked,” they screamed. “The Eagle wins!—the Eagle
wins!” And indeed it seemed that it must be so. Straight at Peter’s
undefended face drove Morella’s lance, but lo! as it came he let fall
his reins and with his shield he struck at the white plumes about its
point, the plumes torn from his own head. He had judged well, for up
flew those plumes, a little, a very little, yet far enough to give him
space, crouching on his saddle-bow, to pass beneath the deadly spear.
Then, as they swept past each other, out shot that long, right arm of
his and, gripping Morella like a hook of steel, tore him from his
saddle, so that the black horse rushed forward riderless, and the white
sped on bearing a double burden.
Grasping desperately, Morella threw his arms about his neck, and
intertwined, black armour mixed with white, they swayed to and fro,
while the frightened horse beneath rushed this way and that till,
swerving suddenly, together they fell upon the sand, and for a moment
lay there stunned.
“Who conquers?” gasped the crowd; while others answered, “Both are
sped!” And, leaning forward in her chair, Margaret tore off her veil
and watched with a face like the face of death.
See! As they had fallen together, so together they stirred and
rose—rose unharmed. Now they sprang back, out flashed the long swords,
and, while the squires caught the horses and, running in, seized the
broken spears, they faced each other. Having no helm, Peter held his
buckler above his head to shelter it, and, ever calm, awaited the
onslaught.
At him came Morella, and with a light, grating sound his sword fell
upon the steel. Before he could recover himself Peter struck back; but
Morella bent his knees, and the stroke only shore the black plumes from
his casque. Quick as light he drove at Peter’s face with his point; but
the Englishman leapt to one side, and the thrust went past him. Again
Morella came at him, and struck so mighty a blow that, although Peter
caught it on his buckler, it sliced through the edge of it and fell
upon his unprotected neck and shoulder, wounding him, for now red blood
showed on the white armour, and Peter reeled back beneath the stroke.
“The Eagle wins!—the Eagle wins! Spain and the Eagle” shouted ten
thousand throats. In the momentary silence that followed, a single
voice, a clear woman’s voice, which even then Margaret knew for that of
Inez, cried from among the crowd:
“Nay, the Falcon stoops!”
Before the sound of her words died away, maddened it would seem, by the
pain of his wound, or the fear of defeat, Peter shouted out his war-cry
of “A Brome! A Brome!” and, gathering himself together, sprang straight
at Morella as springs a starving wolf. The blue steel flickered in the
sunlight, then down it fell, and lo! half the Spaniard’s helm lay on
the sand, while it was Morella’s turn to reel backward—and more, as he
did so, he let fall his shield.
“A stroke!—a good stroke!” roared the crowd. “The Falcon!—the Falcon!”
Peter saw that fallen shield, and whether for chivalry’s sake, as
thought the cheering multitude, or to free his left arm, he cast away
his own, and grasping the sword with both hands rushed on the Spaniard.
From that moment, helmless though he was, the issue lay in doubt no
longer. Betty had spoken of Peter as a stubborn swordsman and a hard
hitter, and both of these he now showed himself to be. As fresh to all
appearance as when he ran the first course, he rained blow after blow
upon the hapless Spaniard, till the sound of his sword smiting on the
good Toledo steel was like the sound of a hammer falling continually on
the smith’s red iron. They were fearful blows, yet still the tough
steel held, and still Morella, doing what he might, staggered back
beneath them, till at length he came in front of the tribune, in which
sat their Majesties and Margaret. Out of the corner of his eye Peter
saw the place, and determined in his stout heart that then and there he
would end the thing. Parrying a cut which the desperate Spaniard made
at his head, he thrust at him so heavily that his blade bent like a
bow, and, although he could not pierce the black mail, almost lifted
Morella from his feet. Then, as he reeled backwards, Peter whirled his
sword on high, and, shouting “Margaret!” struck downwards with all his
strength. It fell as lightning falls, swift, keen, dazzling the eyes of
all who watched. Morella raised his arm to break the blow. In vain! The
weapon that he held was shattered, the casque beneath was cloven, and,
throwing his arms wide, he fell heavily to the ground and lay there
moving feebly.
For an instant there was silence, and in it a shrill woman’s voice that
cried:
“The Falcon has stooped. The English hawk has stooped!”
Then there arose a tumult of shouting. “He is dead!” “Nay, he stirs.”
“Kill him!” “Spare him; he fought well!”
Peter leaned upon his sword, looking at the fallen foe. Then he glanced
upwards at their Majesties, but these sat silent, making no sign, only
he saw Margaret try to rise from her seat and speak, to be pulled back
to it again by the hands of women. A deep hush fell upon the watching
thousands who waited for the end. Peter looked at Morella. Alas! he
still lived, his sword and the stout helmet had broken the weight of
that stroke, mighty though it had been. The man was but wounded in
three places and stunned. “What must I do?” asked Peter in a hollow
voice to the royal pair above him.
Now the king, who seemed moved, was about to speak; but the queen bent
forward and whispered something to him, and he remained silent. They
both were silent. All the intent multitude was silent. Knowing what
this dreadful silence meant, Peter cast down his sword and drew his
dagger, wherewith to cut the lashings of Morella’s gorget and give the
coup de grâce.
Just then it was that for the first time he heard a sound, far away
upon the other side of the arena, and, looking thither, saw the
strangest sight that ever his eyes beheld. Over the railing of the
pavilion opposite to him a woman climbed nimbly as a cat, and from it,
like a cat, dropped to the ground full ten feet below, then, gathering
up her dress about her knees, ran swiftly towards him. It was Betty!
Betty without a doubt! Betty in her gorgeous garb, with pearls and
braided hair flying loose behind her. He stared amazed. All stared
amazed, and in half a minute she was on them, and, standing over the
fallen Morella, gasped out:
“Let him be! I bid you let him be.”
Peter knew not what to do or say, so advanced to speak with her,
whereon with a swoop like that of a swallow she pounced upon his sword
that lay in the sand and, leaping back to Morella, shook it on high,
shouting:
“You will have to fight me first, Peter.”
[Illustration: ]
“You will have to fight me first, Peter”
Indeed, she did more, striking at him so shrewdly with his own sword
that he was forced to spring sideways to avoid the stroke. Now a great
roar of laughter went up to heaven. Yes, even Peter laughed, for no
such thing as this had ever before been seen in Spain. It died away,
and again Betty, who had no low voice, shouted in her villainous
Spanish:
“He shall kill me before he kills my husband. Give me my husband!”
“Take him, for my part,” answered Peter, whereon, letting fall the
sword, Betty, filled with the strength of despair, lifted the senseless
Spaniard in her strong white arms as though he were a child, and his
bleeding head lying on her shoulder, strove to carry him away, but
could not.
Then, while all that audience cheered frantically, Peter with a gesture
of despair threw down his dagger and once more appealed to their
Majesties. The king rose and held up his hand, at the same time
motioning to Morella’s squires to take him from the woman, which,
seeing their cognizance, Betty allowed them to do.
“Marchioness of Morella,” said the king, for the first time giving her
that title, “your honour is cleared, your champion has conquered, and
this fierce fray was to the death. What have you to say?”
“Nothing,” answered Betty, “except that I love the man, though he has
treated me and others ill, and, as I knew he would if he crossed swords
with Peter, has got his deserts for his deeds. I say I love him, and if
Peter wishes to kill him, he must kill me first.”
“Sir Peter Brome,” said the king, “the judgment lies in your hand. We
give you the man’s life, to grant or to take.”
Peter thought a while, then answered:
“I grant him his life if he will acknowledge this lady to be his true
and lawful wife, and live with her as such, now and for ever, staying
all suits against her.”
“How can he do that, you fool,” asked Betty, “when you have knocked all
his senses out of him with that great sword of yours?”
“Perhaps,” suggested Peter humbly, “some one will do it for him.”
“Yes,” said Isabella, speaking for the first time, “I will. On behalf
of the Marquis of Morella I promise these things, Don Peter Brome,
before all these people here gathered. I add this: that if he should
live, and it pleases him to break this promise made on his behalf to
save him from death, then let his name be shamed, yes, let it become a
byword and a scorn. Proclaim it, heralds.”
So the heralds blew their trumpets and one of them called out the
queen’s decree, whereat the spectators cheered again, shouting that it
was good, and they bore witness to that promise.
Then Morella, still senseless, was borne away by his squires, Betty in
her blood-stained robe marching at his side, and his horse having been
brought to him again, Peter, wounded though he was, mounted and
galloped round the arena amidst plaudits such as that place had never
heard, till, lifting his sword in salutation, suddenly he and his
gentlemen vanished by the gate through which he had appeared.
Thus strangely enough ended that combat which thereafter was always
known as the Fray of the Eagle and the English Hawk.