FLORA BANNERWORTH AND HER MOTHER.—THE EPISODE OF CHIVALRY.
Gladly we turn from such a man as Marchdale to a consideration of the
beautiful and accomplished Flora Bannerworth, to whom we may, without
destroying in any way the interest of our plot, predict a much happier
destiny than, probably, at that time, she considers as at all likely to
be hers.
She certainly enjoyed, upon her first removal from Bannerworth Hall,
greater serenity of mind than she had done there; but, as we have
already remarked of her, the more her mind was withdrawn, by change of
scene, from the horrible considerations which the attack of the vampyre
had forced upon her, the more she reverted to the fate of Charles
Holland, which was still shrouded in so much gloom.
She would sit and converse with her mother upon that subject until she
worked up her feelings to a most uncomfortable pitch of excitement, and
then Mrs. Bannerworth would get her younger brother to join them, who
would occasionally read to her some compositions of his own, or of some
favourite writer whom he thought would amuse her.
It was on the very evening when Sir Francis Varney had made up his mind
to release Charles Holland, that young Bannerworth read to his sister
and his mother the following little chivalric incident, which he told
them he had himself collated from authentic sources:—
“The knight with the green shield,” exclaimed one of a party of
men-at-arms, who were drinking together at an ancient hostel, not far
from Shrewsbury—“the knight with the green shield is as good a knight
as ever buckled on a sword, or wore spurs.”—“Then how comes it he is
not one of the victors in the day’s tournament?” exclaimed another.—“By
the bones of Alfred!” said a third, “a man must be judged of by his
deserts, and not by the partiality of his friends. That’s my opinion,
friends.”—“And mine, too,” said another.
“That is all very true, and my opinion would go with yours, too; but
not in this instance. Though you may accuse me of partiality, yet I
am not so; for I have seen some of the victors of to-day by no means
forward in the press of battle-men who, I will not say feared danger,
but who liked it not so well but they avoided it as much as possible.”
“Ay, marry, and so have I. The reason is, ’tis much easier to face a
blunted lance, than one with a spear-head; and a man may practise the
one and thrive in it, but not the other; for the best lance in the
tournament is not always the best arm in the battle.”
“And that is the reason of my saying the knight with the green shield
was a good knight. I have seen him in the midst of the melee, when
men and horses have been hurled to the ground by the shock; there he
has behaved himself like a brave knight, and has more than once been
noticed for it.”
“But how came he to be so easily overthrown to-day? That speaks
something.”—“His horse is an old one.”
“So much the better,” said another; “he’s used to his work, and as
cunning as an old man.”—“But he has been wounded more than once, and
is weakened very much; besides, I saw him lose his footing, else he had
overthrown his opponent.
“He did not seem distressed about his accident, at all events, but sat
contented in the tent.”—“He knows well that those who know him will
never attribute his misadventure either to want of courage or conduct;
moreover, he seems to be one of those who care but little for the
opinion of men who care nothing for him.”
“And he’s right. Well, dear comrades, the health of Green Knight, or
the Knight with a Green Shield, for that’s his name, or the designation
he chooses to go by.”—“A health to the Knight with the Green Shield!”
shouted the men-at-arms, as they lifted their cups on high.
“Who is he?” inquired one of the men-at-arms, of him who had spoken
favourably of the stranger.—“I don’t know.”
“And yet you spoke favourably of him a few seconds back, and said
what a brave knight he was!”—“And so I uphold him to be; but, I tell
you what, friend, I would do as much for the greatest stranger I ever
met. I have seen him fight where men and horses have bit the dust
in hundreds; and that, in my opinion, speaks out for the man and
warrior; he who cannot, then, fight like a soldier, had better tilt at
home in the castle-yard, and there win ladies’ smiles, but not the
commendation of the leader of the battle.”
“That’s true; I myself recollect very well Sir Hugh de Colbert, a very
accomplished knight in the castle-yard; but his men were as fine a
set of fellows as ever crossed a horse, to look at, but they proved
deficient at the moment of trial; they were broken, and fled in a
moment, and scarce one of them received a scratch.”
“Then they hadn’t stood the shock of the foeman?”—“No; that’s certain.”
“But still I should like to know the knight,—to know his name very
well.”—“I know it not; he has some reason for keeping it secret, I
suppose; but his deeds will not shame it, be it what it may. I can bear
witness to more than one foeman falling beneath his battle-axe.”
“Indeed!”—“Yes; and he took a banner from the enemy in the last battle
that was fought.”
“Ah, well! he deserves a better fortune to-morrow. Who is to be the
bridegroom of the beautiful Bertha, daughter of Lord de Cauci?”—“That
will have to be decided; but it is presumed that Sir Guthrie de
Beaumont is the intended.”
“Ah! but should he not prove the victor?”—“It’s understood; because
it’s known he is intended by the parents of the lady, and none would
be ungallant enough to prevail against him,—save on such conditions as
would not endanger the fruits of victory.”
“No?”—“Certainly not; they would lay the trophies at the foot of the
beauty worshipped by the knights at the tournament.”
“So, triumphant or not, he’s to be the bridegroom; bearing off the
prize of valour whether or no,—in fact, deserve her or not,—that’s the
fact.”—“So it is, so it is.”
“And a shame, too, friends; but so it is now; but yet, if the knight’s
horse recovers from the strain, and is fit for work to-morrow, it
strikes me that the Green Shield will give some work to the holiday
knight.”
• • • • •
There had been a grand tournament held near Shrewsbury Castle, in
honour of the intended nuptials of the beautiful Lady Bertha de Cauci.
She was the only daughter of the Earl de Cauci, a nobleman of some
note; he was one of an ancient and unblemished name, and of great
riches.
The lady was beautiful, but, at the same time, she was an unwilling
bride,—every one could see that; but the bridegroom cared not for
that. There was a settled sorrow on her brow,—a sorrow that seemed
sincere and lasting; but she spoke not of it to any one,—her lips were
seldom parted. She loved another. Yes; she loved one who was far away,
fighting in the wars of his country,—one who was not so rich in lands
as her present bridegroom.
When he left her, she remembered his promise; it was, to fight on till
he earned a fortune, or name that should give him some right to claim
her hand, even from her imperious father. But alas! he came not; and
what could she do against the commands of one who would be obeyed? Her
mother, too, was a proud, haughty woman, one whose sole anxiety was to
increase the grandeur and power of her house by such connections.
Thus it was pressed on by circumstances, she could no longer hold
out, more especially as she heard nothing of her knight. She knew not
where he was, or indeed if he were living or dead. She knew not he
was never named. This last circumstance, indeed, gave her pain; for
it assured her that he whom she loved had been unable to signalize
himself from among other men. That, in fact, he was unknown in the
annals of fame, as well as the probability that he had been slain in
some of the earlier skirmishes of the war. This, if it had happened,
caused her some pain to think upon; not but such events were looked
upon with almost indifference by females, save in such cases where
their affections were engaged, as on this occasion. But the event was
softened by the fact that men were continually falling by the hand
of man in such encounters, but at the same time it was considered an
honourable and praiseworthy death for a soldier. He was wounded, but
not with the anguish we now hear of; for the friends were consoled by
the reflection that the deceased warrior died covered with glory.
Bertha, however, was young, and as yet she knew not the cause of her
absent knight’s silence, or why he had not been heard of among the most
forward in the battle.
“Heaven’s will be done,” she exclaimed; “what can I do? I must submit
to my father’s behests; but my future life will be one of misery and
sorrow.”
She wept to think of the past, and to dream of the future; both alike
were sorrowful to think upon—no comfort in the past and no joy in the
future.
Thus she wept and sorrowed on the night of the first tournament;
there was to be a second, and that was to be the grand one, where her
intended bridegroom was to show himself off in her eyes, and take his
part in the sport.
• • • • •
Bertha sat late—she sat sorrowing by the light of the lamps and the
flickering flame of the fire, as it rose and fell on the hearth and
threw dancing shadows on the walls.
“Oh, why, Arthur Home, should you thus be absent? Absent, too, at
such a time when you are more needed than ever. Alas, alas! you may
no longer be in the land of the living. Your family is great and your
name known—your own has been spoken with commendation from the lips of
your friend; what more of fame do you need? but I am speaking without
purpose. Heaven have mercy on me.”
As she spoke she looked up and saw one of her women in waiting standing
by.
“Well, what would you?”—“My lady, there is one who would speak with
you,” said the hand-maiden.
“With me?”—“Yes, my lady; he named you the Lady Bertha de Cauci.”
“Who and what is he?” she inquired, with something like trepidation, of
the maiden.—“I know not, my lady.”
“But gave he not some token by which I might know who I admit to my
chamber?”—“None,” replied the maiden.
“And what does he bear by way of distinguishing himself? What crest or
device doth he bear?”—“Merely a green shield.”
“The unsuccessful knight in the tournament to-day. Heavens! what can he
desire with me; he is not—no, no, it cannot be—it cannot be.”—“Will you
admit him, lady?”
“Indeed, I know not what to do; but yet he may have some intelligence
to give me. Yes, yes, admit him; but first throw some logs on the fire.”
The attendant did as she was desired, and then quitted the room for the
purpose of admitting the stranger knight with the green shield. In a
few moments she could hear the stride of the knight as he neared the
apartment, and she thought the step was familiar to her ear—she thought
it was the step of Sir Arthur Home, her lover. She waited anxiously to
see the door open, and then the stranger entered. His form and bearing
was that of her lover, but his visor was down, and she was unable to
distinguish the features of the stranger.
His armour was such as had seen many a day’s hard wear, and there were
plenty of marks of the battle about him. His travel-worn accoutrements
were altogether such as bespoke service in the field.
“Sir, you desired to see me; say wherefore you do so, and if it is
news you bring.” The knight answered not, but pointed to the female
attendant, as if he desired she would withdraw. “You may retire,”
said Bertha; “be within call, and let me know if I am threatened with
interruption.”
The attendant retired, and then the knight and lady were left alone.
The former seemed at a loss how to break silence for some moments, and
then he said,—
“Lady ——”—“Oh, Heavens! ’tis he!” exclaimed Bertha, as she sprang to
her feet; “it is Sir Arthur Home!”
“It is,” exclaimed the knight, pulling up his visor, and dropping on
one knee he encircled his arm round the waist of the lady, and at the
same moment he pressed her lips to his own.
The first emotion of joy and surprise over, Bertha checked her
transports, and chid the knight for his boldness.
“Nay, chide me not, dear Bertha; I am what I was when I left you, and
hope to find you the same.”
“Am I not?” said Bertha.—“Truly I know not, for you seem more beautiful
than you were then; I hope that is the only change.”
“If there be a change, it is only such as you see. Sorrow and regret
form the principal causes.”—“I understand you.”
“My intended nuptials ——”—“Yes, I have heard all. I came here but late
in the morning; and my horse was jaded and tired, and my impatience to
attend the tournament caused me a disaster which it is well it came not
on the second day.”
“It is, dear Arthur. How is it I never heard your name mentioned, or
that I received no news from any one about you during the wars that
have ended?”—“I had more than one personal enemy, Bertha; men who would
have been glad to see me fall, and who, in default of that, would not
have minded bribing an assassin to secure my death for them at any risk
whatever.”
“Heavens! and how did you escape such a death from such people,
Arthur?”—“By adopting such a device as that I wear. The Knight of the
Green Shield I’m called.”
“I saw you to-day in the tournament.”—“And there my tired and jaded
horse gave way; but to-morrow I shall have, I hope, a different
fortune.”
“I hope so too.”—“I will try; my arm has been good in battle, and I see
not why it should be deficient in peaceful jousts.”
“Certainly not. What fortune have you met with since you left
England?”—“I was of course known but to a few; among those few were the
general under whom I served and my more immediate officers, who I knew
would not divulge my secret.”
“And they did not?”—“No; kept it nobly, and kept their eyes upon me in
battle; and I have reaped a rich harvest in fame, honour, and riches, I
assure you.”
“Thank Heaven!” said Bertha.—“Bertha, if I be conqueror, may I claim
you in the court-yard before all the spectators?”
“You may,” said Bertha, and she hung her head.—“Moreover,” said Sir
Arthur, “you will not make a half promise, but when I demand you, you
will at once come down to me and accept me as your husband; if I be the
victor then he cannot object to the match.”
“But he will have many friends, and his intended bride will have many
more, so that you may run some danger among so many enemies.”—“Never
fear for me, Bertha, because I shall have many friends of distinction
there too—many old friends who are tried men in battle, and whose deeds
are a glory and honour to them; besides, I shall have my commander
and several gentlemen who would at once interfere in case any unfair
advantage was attempted to be taken of my supposed weakness.”
“Have you a fresh horse?” inquired Bertha.—“I have, or shall have by
the morning; but promise me you will do what I ask you, and then my arm
will be nerved to its utmost, and I am sure to be victorious.”
“I do promise,” said Bertha; “I hope you may be as successful as you
hope to be, Arthur; but suppose fortune should declare against you;
suppose an accident of any kind were to happen, what could be done
then?”—“I must be content to hide myself for ever afterwards, as a
defeated knight; how can I appear before your friends as the claimant
of your hand?”
“I will never have any other.”—“But you will be forced to accept this
Guthrie de Beaumont, your father’s chosen son-in-law.”
“I will seek refuge in a cloister.”—“Will you fly with me, Bertha, to
some sequestered spot, where we can live in each other’s society?”
“Yes,” said Bertha, “anything, save marriage with Guthrie de
Beaumont.”—“Then await the tournament of to-morrow,” said Sir Arthur,
“and then this may be avoided; in the meantime, keep up a good heart
and remember I am at hand.”
• • • • •
These two lovers parted for the present, after a protracted interview,
Bertha to her chamber, and the Knight of the Green Shield to his tent.
The following morning was one of great preparation; the lists had
been enlarged, and the seats made more commodious, for the influx of
visitors appeared to be much greater than had been anticipated.
Moreover, there were many old warriors of distinction to be present,
which made the bridegroom look pale and feel uncomfortable as to the
results of the tournament. The tilting was to begin at an early hour,
and then the feasting and revelry would begin early in the evening,
after the tilting had all passed off.
In that day’s work there were many thrown from their saddles, and many
broke their lances. The bridegroom tilted with several knights, and
came off victorious, or without disadvantage to either.
The green knight, on the contrary, tilted with but few, and always
victorious, and such matches were with men who had been men of some
name in the wars, or at least in the tilt yard.
The sports drew to a close, and when the bridegroom became the
challenger, the Knight of the Green Shield at once rode out quietly to
meet him. The encounter could not well be avoided, and the bridegroom
would willingly have declined the joust with a knight who had disposed
of his enemies so easily, and so unceremoniously as he had.
The first encounter was enough; the bridegroom was thrown to a great
distance, and lay insensible on the ground, and was carried out of
the field. There was an immediate sensation among the friends of the
bridegroom, several of whom rode out to challenge the stranger knight
for his presumption.
In this, however, they had misreckoned the chances, for the challenged
accepted their challenges with alacrity and disposed of them one by one
with credit to himself until the day was concluded. The stranger was
then asked to declare who he was, upon which he lifted his visor, and
said,
“I am Sir Arthur Home, and claim the Lady Bertha as my bride, by the
laws of arms, and by those of love.”
• • • • •
Again the tent was felled, and again the hostelry was tenanted by the
soldier, who declared for one side and then for the other, as the cups
clanged and jingled together.
“Said I not,” exclaimed one of the troopers, “that the knight with a
green shield was a good knight?”—“You did,” replied the other.
“And you knew who he was?” said another of the troopers.—“Not I,
comrades; I had seen him fight in battle, and, therefore, partly
guessed how it would be if he had any chance with the bridegroom. I’m
glad he has won the lady.”
It was true, the Lady Bertha was won, and Sir Arthur Home claimed his
bride, and then they attempted to defeat his claim; yet Bertha at once
expressed herself in his favour, so strongly that they were, however
reluctantly compelled, to consent at last.
At this moment, a loud shout as from a multitude of persons came upon
their ears and Flora started from her seat in alarm. The cause of the
alarm we shall proceed to detail.