THE CHALLENGE
Ah! where are they who heard in former hours
The voice of song in these neglected bowers?
They are gone!
MOORE.
The chain is loos'd, the sails are spread,
The living breath is fresh behind;
As with dews and sunrise fed,
Comes the laughing morning wind.
SHELLEY.
This was a gloomy lesson for these young and affectionate beings; they
consoled one another, and wept as they consoled. At first Monina
despaired; her ceaseless laments and unassuaged grief appeared to
undermine her very life; but, when she marked the sorrow she
communicated, when she heard Richard exclaim, "Oh! for spring and
battle, when I may avenge Monina's grief, or die! Death is a thousand
times preferable to the sight of her woe!" and felt that the fate and
happiness of those about her depended on her fortitude: she forced
smiles back to her lips, and again her sweet eyes beamed, undimmed by
tears.
Spring came at last, and with it busy preparation for the siege of
Granada; troop after troop defiled through Alcala, bearing the various
ensigns of the noble commanders; the Count Tendilla, leaving his
mountain nest, united himself to the regal camp before the devoted city;
Isabella joined her royal husband accompanied by her children. Where
women looked on the near face of war, even the timid were inspired to
bear arms. The reputation the English warrior youths had gained forbade
inglorious ease, even had they not aspired with their whole hearts for
renown; yet Plantagenet looked forward with reluctance to the leading
forth his brave, dear cousin to new dangers; divided between pride in
his valour, satisfaction at his thus being schooled to arms, and terror
from the perils to which he would be exposed in a war, on the side of
the enemy, of despair and fury--his thoughtful eyes rested on the young
prince's glowing cheek, his unsullied youth; if wound or fatal hurt
maimed his fair proportion, how should he reply to his widowed mother's
agony? If, snapt like a poor flowret, he fell upon the death-strewn
Vega, what tale should he report to the ardent Yorkists? None! At least
he should be pierced only through him, and Edmund's corse would rampart
his heart, even when he had died to save him.
Thus they again appeared in the Spanish army, and were hailed as among
its ornaments. Whatever desperate enterprise kindled the young Spaniards
to heroic frenzy, found the English pair among their numbers. At the
beginning of the siege, the Moors, few in numbers, and often defeated,
cheated victory of its triumph by various challenges to single combat,
where many a Spaniard fell: their frays resembled, in the splendour of
their armour and their equipments, the stately ceremonial of the
tournaments, but they were deadly in the event. Ferdinand, sure of
victory, and reluctant to expose the noble youth of his kingdom to
needless peril, forbade these duels; and the Moors enraged, multiplied
their insults and their bravadoes, to draw their enemies to the field;
nor lost any opportunity of committing the defence of their beloved city
to the risk of battle, rather than the slow progress of famine. One
memorable engagement took place on occasion of the visit of Queen
Isabella to the hamlet of Zubia, there to obtain a nearer view of
beautiful Granada. The Moors seeing the Spanish troops in array before
their walls, came out to attack them; a battle was fought under the very
eyes of the queen, wherein it was the good fortune of Richard to make so
gallant a figure, that on the very spot the Count Tendilla conferred on
him the honour of knighthood.
Proud was the young duke of York, and eager to paint his maiden shield
with worthy device; he was now nearly eighteen, boyish in aspect, yet
well-knit in person, and accustomed to the fatigue of arms. He no longer
burst on his foes, like an untrained dog, seeking only to slay: there
was forethought in his eye, and a most careful selection of worthy and
valorous opponents. Edmund still was to be found within a javelin's
throw of him; but he no longer feared his untaught rashness, as before
he had done.
In July occurred the conflagration of the Christian camp. The day
following, Ferdinand led forth his troops to make a last ravage among
the gardens and orchards, the emerald girdle of Granada. During the
fray, it was the young duke's chance to throw his javelin so as to slay
on the spot a veteran Moor, whose turban having fallen off, exposed him
thus. His companion in arms, a tall fierce Moslem, rushed forward to
fell the insolent youth; others interposed. Still the Moor kept his eye
upon his boyish foe; a thousand times he threw his dart; twice or thrice
he rushed on him with uplifted scimitar: the battle racked among the
orchard-paths and flowery hedges of the thickly-planted gardens, and
ever some obstruction thwarted the infidel. Plantagenet had marked his
rage and his purpose; he watched him keenly, and the fierce Gomelez
boiled with impatient indignation, as some impediment for ever baffled
his design. His last effort was to fling an arrow, which stuck in the
ground quivering at Richard's feet: a label was affixed--"Dog and
infidel," thus was the cartel worded--"if thou hast courage, meet me at
dawn at the Fountain of Myrtles."
The following morning, at the hour when Plantagenet was wont to see his
cousin, the prince was absent. Noon approached; the troops reposed after
the battle of the day before, or were employed in clearing the dark
ruins of the camp: some thoughtless project might occupy the duke: some
excursion to the other side of Granada. The shades of evening gathered
round the lofty towers, and dimmed the prospect of its Vega: still
Richard came not. Sad, anxious night drew near. Edmund roved through the
camp, questioning, seeking; at last, on the morrow he heard the report,
that the previous evening a cavalier had seen Almoradi Gomelez issue
from a little wood half a league from the city, and ride towards a
postern; that he was galloping up to him, when he saw the Moor totter in
his saddle, and at last fall from his horse; before succour could come,
he died. His last words only spoke of the Fountain of Myrtles; in agony
of spirit, for Gomelez had surely stricken to death his stripling foe,
ere he left the place of combat, Edmund hurried to the spot; the herbage
round the fountain was trampled and torn, as by horses' hoofs. It was
moistened, but not with water; a bank, thickly overgrown with geraniums,
bore the print of a man's form, but none was there.
Monina had been left in Alcala-la-Real, a prey to fear, to gaze from the
steep summit on the plain, whereon, beyond her sight, was acted the real
drama of her life; to question the wounded, or the messengers that
visited Alcala, and to address prayers to the Virgin, were the sad
varieties! of her day. In the midst of this suspense, two unexpected
guests visited her abode--her father, and an Irish chieftain; a
Yorkist, who came to lead the duke from his Spanish abode, to where he
might combat for his lost crown. De Faro had not heard of the death of
Madeline; and with awe his child beheld the tears that bedewed his
rugged checks at this sad termination of his ocean-haunting vision. He
embraced his daughter--"Thou wilt not desert me; we will leave this
fated spot: and thou, Monina, will sail for ever with thy father on the
less barbarous sea."
De Faro's companion was named Lord Barry. He was baron of Buttevant, in
the county of Cork, and allied to the Geraldines, chiefs of that soil.
He had fought at Stoke, and been attainted by Henry; so that he was
forced to wander a banished man. Eager to reinstate himself, every
Yorkist plot numbered him among its warmest partizans. He had for some
time resided either at Paris or at Brussels, where he often held counsel
with Lady Brampton. Weary of delay, he at last stole back to Ireland, to
see whether his noble kinsmen there would abet and rise in favour of the
duke of York. He came away, proud and delighted with his success;
promises of service for the White Rose had been showered on him--his
eloquence and enthusiasm conquered even Lady Brampton. War also seemed
impending between France and England; if that were once declared, every
objection would be obviated. At any rate, the times seemed so fair, that
she agreed with Lord Barry to visit the present home of the young
English prince; and, as if to further their designs. Sir Edward Brampton
was at that moment requested by the Archduke Maximilian to undertake a
private embassy to Lisbon. Thither they had sailed, and now, leaving
this lady in Portugal, Lord Barry had continued his voyage to Andalusia,
with the intention of returning again to Lisbon, accompanied by the
promise and hope of the house of York. He met De Faro in the port of
Malaga: the name was familiar to him. They journeyed together to
Alcala-la-Real.
Lord Barry was all eagerness that the English prince should immediately
join Lady Brampton at Lisbon. It was agreed that they should proceed
thither in De Faro's caravel. The mariner abhorred the name of warfare
between Spaniard and Moor; and Madeline's death only added poignancy to
this sensation. He would not look on the siege of Granada. While the
Irish noble and Monina proceeded to the camp to prepare the cousins, he
returned to Malaga to bring round his vessel to the nearer port of
Almeria. Lord Barry and the fair Moor commenced their journey on the
morning of a most burning day; they wound down the steep declivities of
the Sierra, and entered upon the bright blooming plain. Noon with all
its heat approached. They rested under a grove of mulberries, reposing
by a brook, while Lord Barry's horse and Monina's mule were tied to the
nearest shrubs. Slight accidents are the wires and pullies on which the
machinery of our lives hang. Stung by flies, the noble horse grew
restive, broke his rein, and galloped away; through the thick shade his
master pursued, till tramp of feet and crackling of branches died on
Monina's ear. A quarter of an hour, half an hour passed, when on her
solitude came a Moorish voice, an exclamation in the name of Allah, and
the approach of several men whom already she painted as enemies. To take
to her mule, to ride swiftly through the grove, was the impulse of her
fear; and, when again silence gave her token of security, she found that
she had lost her way. It was only after many vain attempts that she
extricated herself from the wood, and then perceived that she had
wandered from the direct road to Granada, whose high towers were visible
at a distance. The burning July noon-day sun scorched her. Her mule
lagged in his pace. As a last effort, she sought a plantation of elms,
not far distant. The grateful murmur of flowing waters saluted her ears
as she approached. For a few minutes more she was exposed to the glaring
sunshine, and then entered the cool umbrage of the trees--the soft
twilight of woven leaves and branches; a fountain rose in the midst, and
she hastened to refresh herself by sprinkling herself with cool waters.
Thus occupied, she thought she was alone in this sequestered nook, when
a crash among the underwood startled her: the mule snorted aloud, and
from the brake issued a mare caparisoned with saddle and bridle. She had
lost her rider; yet her distended nostrils, the foam that flaked her
sides, the shiver that made her polished skin quiver, spoke of recent
contest or flight. She looked on her--could it be? She called her
"Daraxa," and the animal recognized her voice; while, in answer to the
dreadful surmises that awoke in her heart, a low groan was heard from
the near bank. Turning, she beheld the form of a man lying on the
herbage; not dead, for he groaned again, and then stirred, as if with
returning sense. Quick as lightning, she was at his side; she unlaced
his helmet, nor did she need to look at his pallid countenance to be
assured of what she already knew, that Richard of England lay there, but
for her help, expiring. She filled his helm with water, and sprinkling
it over him, he opened his eyes, and groaning again, strove to clasp his
head with his unnerved hand. With light fairy fingers she released him
from his coat of mail, and saw on his right sight side a mass of
congealed blood, which his faintness had made cease to flow from his
wound, bearing that it would bleed again as he revived, she bound it
with his scarf and her own veil, and then gave him water to drink; after
which he showed still more certain signs of recovery.
It was wonder to him to find himself alive, when already he had believed
the bitterness of death to be passed; still greater wonder was it to
behold his own sweet Monina, like a spirit of good, hovering over to
recover him. He tried to raise himself, and she bent down to support
him, resting his head on her gentle heart; he felt its beating, and
blest her with a thousand soft thanks and endearing names. Though the
wound in his side was deep, yet now that the blood was staunched, it did
not seem dangerous. The immediate cause of his swoon was a stunning blow
on his head, which had beat in the iron of his helm, but inflicted no
further injury. It was long, however, before he could move; and the
evening shades had made it almost night, before he could sit his horse
and slowly quit the wood. Wishing to conduct him to where they might
find succour, Monina directed his steps to a village, east of the grove.
They had hardly ridden half a mile, when Richard felt dizzy; he faintly
called her to his side--she received him as he fell, and, supporting
him to a bank, called aloud in agony, in hopes that some wandering
soldier or peasant might be near to aid them. It happened to her wish;
several countrymen, who had been carrying fruit to the Christian camp,
passed them--she conjured them, in the Virgin's name, to assist a
soldier of the faith, a crusader in their cause. Such an appeal was
sacred in their ears; they contrived, with the poles and baskets in
which they had carried their fruit, covering them with a part of their
habiliments and the saddle-cloths of the animals, to form a sort of
litter, on which they placed Richard. Monina followed on foot, clasping
his hand; the men led the horses: and thus they proceeded up the
mountains to a village about two leagues from Granada, where every house
was open to them. The prince was permitted to repose in the habitation
of the Alcalde, and the deep sleep into which he soon fell was a dear
assurance to his friend's anxious heart, of the absence of danger, and a
promise of speedy recovery.
Yet the night that began so well with the patient, wore a less
prosperous appearance towards the conclusion. Monina sat beside his
couch, and perceived with alarm symptoms of pain and fever. According to
the custom of the time, she had acquired some little skill in surgery;
this, when the wound came to be dressed, made her acquainted with its
irritated and dangerous appearance. As the heat of the day came on, the
prince's sufferings increased. In this little village there was neither
physician nor medicaments necessary for the emergency; and the place
itself, low-built, hedged in by mountains, and inhabited by peasants
only, was ill suited for the patient. She resolved that he should that
night be removed to a town on the eastern side of the mountains,
overlooking the plain bordering the sea. A litter was prepared; and she,
fatigued by her journey, and by long and painful solicitude, yet walked
beside it, listening to his low breathing, catching the smallest sound
he made in complaint or questioning. Before she quitted the village, she
employed a peasant to seek Plantagenet, and convey to him intelligence
of the actual state of his friends.
After three days of fear and anxious care, the wound began to heal, and
Richard became convalescent. Who could tell, during the long hours that
composed those days and nights, the varying emotions that agitated poor
Monina? That he should die, was a thought in which, in its extent and
reality, she never indulged: but an awful fear of what of suffering the
coming hours might produce, never for a moment slept within her. She
spent long intervals of time kneeling by his couch--her soft fingers on
his pulse, counting the rapid vibration--her cool hand alone tempered
the burning of his brow; and often, supported by her, he slept, while
she remained in the same position, immovable. The very pain this
produced was a pleasure to her, since it was endured for him who was the
idol of her innocent and pure thoughts; she almost lamented when he no
longer needed her undivided attention: the hours she gave to repose came
like beggars following in a procession of crowned heads; they were no
longer exalted by being devoted to him.
After the lapse of three anxious days he grew rapidly better, and at
evening-tide enjoyed at the open casement the thrilling sweetness of the
mountain air. How transporting and ineffable are the joys of
convalescence!--the calm of mind--the voluptuous langour--the
unrebuked abandonment to mere pleasurable sensation--the delight that
every natural object imparts, fill those hours with a dream-like, faint
ecstasy, more dear to memory than tumultuous joy. Monina sat near him,
and it was dangerous for their young hearts thus to be united and alone
in a fairy scene of beauty and seclusion. Monina's ardent spirit was
entranced by delight at his recovery: no thought of self mingled with
the single idea that he was saved--saved for youth, for happiness, and
for his long-lost rights. Darkness crept around them, the clumps of
chesnut trees grew more massy and indistinct--the fire-fly was alive
among the defiles of the hills--the bat wheeled round their humble
dwelling--the heavy-winged owl swept with huge flapping wings out of
the copse. "Are ye here?" were the first sounds that broke the silence;
it was the voice of Edmund. Monina sprung up, and glad to disburthen her
full heart, welcomed with an embrace this beloved friend. "Guardian
angel of our lives," he cried; "you are destined at all times to save
us!" Dear, soothing expressions, which then, formed the joy, long
afterwards the master-impulse of her fervent and devoted spirit.
Each told their tale; the one of hazard and mischance, the other of
agonizing inquietude. For Richard, Edmund had feared; but when, wearied,
terrified, and in despair, Lord Barry had brought intelligence of
Monina's disappearance from the streamlet's side where he had left her,
and of a distant view he had caught of Moorish horsemen who took refuge
in Granada--heaven seemed at once to empty on him its direst curses,
and his fate was sealed with misery for ever.
The peasant dispatched by Monina had delayed; not for three days did he
deliver her letter to Plantagenet, who still, trembling in recollection
of his past terror, and what might have been the ultimate event of the
prince's wound, departed on the moment for ----.
And now farewell to Spain! to romantic Spain, to Moorish and Christian
combat, to the gay fields of the Vega, to the sunny mountains of
Andalusia! De Faro's caravel, true to its appointment, arrived at
Almeria. They embarked; their immediate destination was Lisbon; but
their thoughts were fixed on the promised termination of their
wanderings. Soon they would bend their course far away to the islands
of the turbid Northern sea, where nature veils herself in clouds, where
war assumes a sterner aspect, and the very virtues of the inhabitants
grow stubborn and harsh from the struggle they make to be enabled to
bear the physical ills of existence.
Farewell to Spain! to boyhood's feats, to the light coursing of shadows
as he ran a race with the swift-footed hours. A kingdom calls for
Richard! the trials of life attend him, the hope of victory, the
fortitude of well-endured defeat.