All hail to the lordlings of high degree,
Who live not more happy, though greater than we!
Our pastimes to see,
Under every green tree,
In all the gay woodland, right welcome ye be.
MACDONALD
The new comers were Wilfred of Ivanhoe, on the Prior of Botolph’s
palfrey, and Gurth, who attended him, on the Knight’s own war-horse.
The astonishment of Ivanhoe was beyond bounds, when he saw his master
besprinkled with blood, and six or seven dead bodies lying around in
the little glade in which the battle had taken place. Nor was he less
surprised to see Richard surrounded by so many silvan attendants, the
outlaws, as they seemed to be, of the forest, and a perilous retinue
therefore for a prince. He hesitated whether to address the King as the
Black Knight-errant, or in what other manner to demean himself towards
him. Richard saw his embarrassment.
“Fear not, Wilfred,” he said, “to address Richard Plantagenet as
himself, since thou seest him in the company of true English hearts,
although it may be they have been urged a few steps aside by warm
English blood.”
“Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe,” said the gallant Outlaw, stepping forward,
“my assurances can add nothing to those of our sovereign; yet, let me
say somewhat proudly, that of men who have suffered much, he hath not
truer subjects than those who now stand around him.”
“I cannot doubt it, brave man,” said Wilfred, “since thou art of the
number—But what mean these marks of death and danger? these slain men,
and the bloody armour of my Prince?”
“Treason hath been with us, Ivanhoe,” said the King; “but, thanks to
these brave men, treason hath met its meed—But, now I bethink me, thou
too art a traitor,” said Richard, smiling; “a most disobedient traitor;
for were not our orders positive, that thou shouldst repose thyself at
Saint Botolph’s until thy wound was healed?”
“It is healed,” said Ivanhoe; “it is not of more consequence than the
scratch of a bodkin. But why, oh why, noble Prince, will you thus vex
the hearts of your faithful servants, and expose your life by lonely
journeys and rash adventures, as if it were of no more value than that
of a mere knight-errant, who has no interest on earth but what lance
and sword may procure him?”
“And Richard Plantagenet,” said the King, “desires no more fame than
his good lance and sword may acquire him—and Richard Plantagenet is
prouder of achieving an adventure, with only his good sword, and his
good arm to speed, than if he led to battle a host of an hundred
thousand armed men.”
“But your kingdom, my Liege,” said Ivanhoe, “your kingdom is threatened
with dissolution and civil war—your subjects menaced with every species
of evil, if deprived of their sovereign in some of those dangers which
it is your daily pleasure to incur, and from which you have but this
moment narrowly escaped.”
“Ho! ho! my kingdom and my subjects?” answered Richard, impatiently; “I
tell thee, Sir Wilfred, the best of them are most willing to repay my
follies in kind—For example, my very faithful servant, Wilfred of
Ivanhoe, will not obey my positive commands, and yet reads his king a
homily, because he does not walk exactly by his advice. Which of us has
most reason to upbraid the other?—Yet forgive me, my faithful Wilfred.
The time I have spent, and am yet to spend in concealment, is, as I
explained to thee at Saint Botolph’s, necessary to give my friends and
faithful nobles time to assemble their forces, that when Richard’s
return is announced, he should be at the head of such a force as
enemies shall tremble to face, and thus subdue the meditated treason,
without even unsheathing a sword. Estoteville and Bohun will not be
strong enough to move forward to York for twenty-four hours. I must
have news of Salisbury from the south; and of Beauchamp, in
Warwickshire; and of Multon and Percy in the north. The Chancellor must
make sure of London. Too sudden an appearance would subject me to
dangers, other than my lance and sword, though backed by the bow of
bold Robin, or the quarter-staff of Friar Tuck, and the horn of the
sage Wamba, may be able to rescue me from.”
Wilfred bowed in submission, well knowing how vain it was to contend
with the wild spirit of chivalry which so often impelled his master
upon dangers which he might easily have avoided, or rather, which it
was unpardonable in him to have sought out. The young knight sighed,
therefore, and held his peace; while Richard, rejoiced at having
silenced his counsellor, though his heart acknowledged the justice of
the charge he had brought against him, went on in conversation with
Robin Hood.—“King of Outlaws,” he said, “have you no refreshment to
offer to your brother sovereign? for these dead knaves have found me
both in exercise and appetite.”
“In troth,” replied the Outlaw, “for I scorn to lie to your Grace, our
larder is chiefly supplied with—” He stopped, and was somewhat
embarrassed.
“With venison, I suppose?” said Richard, gaily; “better food at need
there can be none—and truly, if a king will not remain at home and slay
his own game, methinks he should not brawl too loud if he finds it
killed to his hand.”
“If your Grace, then,” said Robin, “will again honour with your
presence one of Robin Hood’s places of rendezvous, the venison shall
not be lacking; and a stoup of ale, and it may be a cup of reasonably
good wine, to relish it withal.”
The Outlaw accordingly led the way, followed by the buxom Monarch, more
happy, probably, in this chance meeting with Robin Hood and his
foresters, than he would have been in again assuming his royal state,
and presiding over a splendid circle of peers and nobles. Novelty in
society and adventure were the zest of life to Richard Cœur-de-Lion,
and it had its highest relish when enhanced by dangers encountered and
surmounted. In the lion-hearted King, the brilliant, but useless
character, of a knight of romance, was in a great measure realized and
revived; and the personal glory which he acquired by his own deeds of
arms, was far more dear to his excited imagination, than that which a
course of policy and wisdom would have spread around his government.
Accordingly, his reign was like the course of a brilliant and rapid
meteor, which shoots along the face of Heaven, shedding around an
unnecessary and portentous light, which is instantly swallowed up by
universal darkness; his feats of chivalry furnishing themes for bards
and minstrels, but affording none of those solid benefits to his
country on which history loves to pause, and hold up as an example to
posterity. But in his present company Richard showed to the greatest
imaginable advantage. He was gay, good-humoured, and fond of manhood in
every rank of life.
Beneath a huge oak-tree the silvan repast was hastily prepared for the
King of England, surrounded by men outlaws to his government, but who
now formed his court and his guard. As the flagon went round, the rough
foresters soon lost their awe for the presence of Majesty. The song and
the jest were exchanged—the stories of former deeds were told with
advantage; and at length, and while boasting of their successful
infraction of the laws, no one recollected they were speaking in
presence of their natural guardian. The merry King, nothing heeding his
dignity any more than his company, laughed, quaffed, and jested among
the jolly band. The natural and rough sense of Robin Hood led him to be
desirous that the scene should be closed ere any thing should occur to
disturb its harmony, the more especially that he observed Ivanhoe’s
brow clouded with anxiety. “We are honoured,” he said to Ivanhoe,
apart, “by the presence of our gallant Sovereign; yet I would not that
he dallied with time, which the circumstances of his kingdom may render
precious.”
“It is well and wisely spoken, brave Robin Hood,” said Wilfred, apart;
“and know, moreover, that they who jest with Majesty even in its gayest
mood are but toying with the lion’s whelp, which, on slight
provocation, uses both fangs and claws.”
“You have touched the very cause of my fear,” said the Outlaw; “my men
are rough by practice and nature, the King is hasty as well as
good-humoured; nor know I how soon cause of offence may arise, or how
warmly it may be received—it is time this revel were broken off.”
“It must be by your management then, gallant yeoman,” said Ivanhoe;
“for each hint I have essayed to give him serves only to induce him to
prolong it.”
“Must I so soon risk the pardon and favour of my Sovereign?” said Robin
Hood, pausing for all instant; “but by Saint Christopher, it shall be
so. I were undeserving his grace did I not peril it for his good.—Here,
Scathlock, get thee behind yonder thicket, and wind me a Norman blast
on thy bugle, and without an instant’s delay on peril of your life.”
Scathlock obeyed his captain, and in less than five minutes the
revellers were startled by the sound of his horn.
“It is the bugle of Malvoisin,” said the Miller, starting to his feet,
and seizing his bow. The Friar dropped the flagon, and grasped his
quarter-staff. Wamba stopt short in the midst of a jest, and betook
himself to sword and target. All the others stood to their weapons.
Men of their precarious course of life change readily from the banquet
to the battle; and, to Richard, the exchange seemed but a succession of
pleasure. He called for his helmet and the most cumbrous parts of his
armour, which he had laid aside; and while Gurth was putting them on,
he laid his strict injunctions on Wilfred, under pain of his highest
displeasure, not to engage in the skirmish which he supposed was
approaching.
“Thou hast fought for me an hundred times, Wilfred,—and I have seen it.
Thou shalt this day look on, and see how Richard will fight for his
friend and liegeman.”
In the meantime, Robin Hood had sent off several of his followers in
different directions, as if to reconnoitre the enemy; and when he saw
the company effectually broken up, he approached Richard, who was now
completely armed, and, kneeling down on one knee, craved pardon of his
Sovereign.
“For what, good yeoman?” said Richard, somewhat impatiently. “Have we
not already granted thee a full pardon for all transgressions? Thinkest
thou our word is a feather, to be blown backward and forward between
us? Thou canst not have had time to commit any new offence since that
time?”
“Ay, but I have though,” answered the yeoman, “if it be an offence to
deceive my prince for his own advantage. The bugle you have heard was
none of Malvoisin’s, but blown by my direction, to break off the
banquet, lest it trenched upon hours of dearer import than to be thus
dallied with.”
He then rose from his knee, folded his arm on his bosom, and in a
manner rather respectful than submissive, awaited the answer of the
King,—like one who is conscious he may have given offence, yet is
confident in the rectitude of his motive. The blood rushed in anger to
the countenance of Richard; but it was the first transient emotion, and
his sense of justice instantly subdued it.
“The King of Sherwood,” he said, “grudges his venison and his
wine-flask to the King of England? It is well, bold Robin!—but when you
come to see me in merry London, I trust to be a less niggard host. Thou
art right, however, good fellow. Let us therefore to horse and
away—Wilfred has been impatient this hour. Tell me, bold Robin, hast
thou never a friend in thy band, who, not content with advising, will
needs direct thy motions, and look miserable when thou dost presume to
act for thyself?”
“Such a one,” said Robin, “is my Lieutenant, Little John, who is even
now absent on an expedition as far as the borders of Scotland; and I
will own to your Majesty, that I am sometimes displeased by the freedom
of his councils—but, when I think twice, I cannot be long angry with
one who can have no motive for his anxiety save zeal for his master’s
service.”
“Thou art right, good yeoman,” answered Richard; “and if I had Ivanhoe,
on the one hand, to give grave advice, and recommend it by the sad
gravity of his brow, and thee, on the other, to trick me into what thou
thinkest my own good, I should have as little the freedom of mine own
will as any king in Christendom or Heathenesse.—But come, sirs, let us
merrily on to Coningsburgh, and think no more on’t.”
Robin Hood assured them that he had detached a party in the direction
of the road they were to pass, who would not fail to discover and
apprize them of any secret ambuscade; and that he had little doubt they
would find the ways secure, or, if otherwise, would receive such timely
notice of the danger as would enable them to fall back on a strong
troop of archers, with which he himself proposed to follow on the same
route.
The wise and attentive precautions adopted for his safety touched
Richard’s feelings, and removed any slight grudge which he might retain
on account of the deception the Outlaw Captain had practised upon him.
He once more extended his hand to Robin Hood, assured him of his full
pardon and future favour, as well as his firm resolution to restrain
the tyrannical exercise of the forest rights and other oppressive laws,
by which so many English yeomen were driven into a state of rebellion.
But Richard’s good intentions towards the bold Outlaw were frustrated
by the King’s untimely death; and the Charter of the Forest was
extorted from the unwilling hands of King John when he succeeded to his
heroic brother. As for the rest of Robin Hood’s career, as well as the
tale of his treacherous death, they are to be found in those
black-letter garlands, once sold at the low and easy rate of one
halfpenny.
“Now cheaply purchased at their weight in gold.”
The Outlaw’s opinion proved true; and the King, attended by Ivanhoe,
Gurth, and Wamba, arrived, without any interruption, within view of the
Castle of Coningsburgh, while the sun was yet in the horizon.
There are few more beautiful or striking scenes in England, than are
presented by the vicinity of this ancient Saxon fortress. The soft and
gentle river Don sweeps through an amphitheatre, in which cultivation
is richly blended with woodland, and on a mount, ascending from the
river, well defended by walls and ditches, rises this ancient edifice,
which, as its Saxon name implies, was, previous to the Conquest, a
royal residence of the kings of England. The outer walls have probably
been added by the Normans, but the inner keep bears token of very great
antiquity. It is situated on a mount at one angle of the inner court,
and forms a complete circle of perhaps twenty-five feet in diameter.
The wall is of immense thickness, and is propped or defended by six
huge external buttresses which project from the circle, and rise up
against the sides of the tower as if to strengthen or to support it.
These massive buttresses are solid when they arise from the foundation,
and a good way higher up; but are hollowed out towards the top, and
terminate in a sort of turrets communicating with the interior of the
keep itself. The distant appearance of this huge building, with these
singular accompaniments, is as interesting to the lovers of the
picturesque, as the interior of the castle is to the eager antiquary,
whose imagination it carries back to the days of the Heptarchy. A
barrow, in the vicinity of the castle, is pointed out as the tomb of
the memorable Hengist; and various monuments, of great antiquity and
curiosity, are shown in the neighbouring churchyard. 57
When Cœur-de-Lion and his retinue approached this rude yet stately
building, it was not, as at present, surrounded by external
fortifications. The Saxon architect had exhausted his art in rendering
the main keep defensible, and there was no other circumvallation than a
rude barrier of palisades.
A huge black banner, which floated from the top of the tower, announced
that the obsequies of the late owner were still in the act of being
solemnized. It bore no emblem of the deceased’s birth or quality, for
armorial bearings were then a novelty among the Norman chivalry
themselves and, were totally unknown to the Saxons. But above the gate
was another banner, on which the figure of a white horse, rudely
painted, indicated the nation and rank of the deceased, by the
well-known symbol of Hengist and his Saxon warriors.
All around the castle was a scene of busy commotion; for such funeral
banquets were times of general and profuse hospitality, which not only
every one who could claim the most distant connexion with the deceased,
but all passengers whatsoever, were invited to partake. The wealth and
consequence of the deceased Athelstane, occasioned this custom to be
observed in the fullest extent.
Numerous parties, therefore, were seen ascending and descending the
hill on which the castle was situated; and when the King and his
attendants entered the open and unguarded gates of the external
barrier, the space within presented a scene not easily reconciled with
the cause of the assemblage. In one place cooks were toiling to roast
huge oxen, and fat sheep; in another, hogsheads of ale were set
abroach, to be drained at the freedom of all comers. Groups of every
description were to be seen devouring the food and swallowing the
liquor thus abandoned to their discretion. The naked Saxon serf was
drowning the sense of his half-year’s hunger and thirst, in one day of
gluttony and drunkenness—the more pampered burgess and guild-brother
was eating his morsel with gust, or curiously criticising the quantity
of the malt and the skill of the brewer. Some few of the poorer Norman
gentry might also be seen, distinguished by their shaven chins and
short cloaks, and not less so by their keeping together, and looking
with great scorn on the whole solemnity, even while condescending to
avail themselves of the good cheer which was so liberally supplied.
Mendicants were of course assembled by the score, together with
strolling soldiers returned from Palestine, (according to their own
account at least,) pedlars were displaying their wares, travelling
mechanics were enquiring after employment, and wandering palmers,
hedge-priests, Saxon minstrels, and Welsh bards, were muttering
prayers, and extracting mistuned dirges from their harps, crowds, and
rotes. 58
One sent forth the praises of Athelstane in a doleful panegyric;
another, in a Saxon genealogical poem, rehearsed the uncouth and harsh
names of his noble ancestry. Jesters and jugglers were not awanting,
nor was the occasion of the assembly supposed to render the exercise of
their profession indecorous or improper. Indeed the ideas of the Saxons
on these occasions were as natural as they were rude. If sorrow was
thirsty, there was drink—if hungry, there was food—if it sunk down upon
and saddened the heart, here were the means supplied of mirth, or at
least of amusement. Nor did the assistants scorn to avail themselves of
those means of consolation, although, every now and then, as if
suddenly recollecting the cause which had brought them together, the
men groaned in unison, while the females, of whom many were present,
raised up their voices and shrieked for very woe.
Such was the scene in the castle-yard at Coningsburgh when it was
entered by Richard and his followers. The seneschal or steward deigned
not to take notice of the groups of inferior guests who were
perpetually entering and withdrawing, unless so far as was necessary to
preserve order; nevertheless he was struck by the good mien of the
Monarch and Ivanhoe, more especially as he imagined the features of the
latter were familiar to him. Besides, the approach of two knights, for
such their dress bespoke them, was a rare event at a Saxon solemnity,
and could not but be regarded as a sort of honour to the deceased and
his family. And in his sable dress, and holding in his hand his white
wand of office, this important personage made way through the
miscellaneous assemblage of guests, thus conducting Richard and Ivanhoe
to the entrance of the tower. Gurth and Wamba speedily found
acquaintances in the court-yard, nor presumed to intrude themselves any
farther until their presence should be required.