The Knights Invited to Norham Castle.
On the return of Mortimer Sang to the common room, he found that a new
event had taken place in his absence. An esquire had arrived from the
Castle, bearing a courteous message from Sir Walter de Selby, its
captain, setting forth that it pained him to learn that Sir Patrick
Hepborne and Sir John Assueton had not made experiment of his poor
hospitality; that their names were already too renowned not to be well
known to him; and that he trusted they would not refuse him the
gratification of doing his best to entertain them, but would condescend
to come and partake of such cheer and accommodation as Norham Castle
could yield. An invitation so kind it was impossible to resist. Indeed,
whatever Sir John Assueton might have felt, Sir Patrick Hepborne’s
curiosity to see the fair maid of the Castle was too great to be
withstood. The distance was but short, and Sir Walter’s messenger was
to be their guide. Leaving their esquires and the rest of their
retinue, therefore, to enjoy the feast so ingeniously provided for them
by Sang, their horses were ordered out, and they departed.
The night was soft and tranquil. The moon was up, and her silvery light
poured itself on the broad walls of the keep, and the extensive
fortifications of Norham Castle, rising on the height before them, and
was partially reflected from the water of the farther side of the
Tweed, here sweeping wildly under the rocky eminence, and threw its
shadow half-way across it. They climbed up the hollow way leading to
the outer ditch, and were immediately challenged by the watch upon the
walls. The password was given by their guide, the massive gate was
unbarred, the portcullis lifted, and the clanging drawbridge lowered at
the signal, and they passed under a dark archway to the door of the
outer court of guard. There they were surrounded by pikemen and
billmen, and narrowly examined by the light of torches; but the officer
of the guard appeared, and the squire’s mission being known to him,
they were formally saluted, and permitted to pass on. Crossing a broad
area, they came to the inner gate, where they underwent a similar
scrutiny.
They had now reached that part of the fortress where stood the
barracks, the stables, and various other buildings necessarily
belonging to so important a place; while in the centre arose the keep,
huge in bulk, and adamant in strength, defended by a broad ditch, where
not naturally rendered inaccessible by the precipitous steep, and
approachable from one point only by a narrow bridge. Lights appeared
from some of its windows, and sounds of life came faintly from within;
but all was still in the buildings around them, the measured step of
the sentinel on the wall above them forming the only interruption to
the silence that prevailed.
The esquire proceeded to try the door of a stable, but it was locked.
“A pestilence take the fellow,” said he; “how shall I get the horses
bestowed?—What, ho!—Turnberry—Tom Equerry, I say.”
“Why, what art thou?” cried the gruff voice of the sentinel on the
wall; “what art thou, I say, to look for Tom Turnberry at this hour?
By’r lackins, his toes, I’ll warrant me, are warm by the embers of
Mother Rowlandson’s suttling fire. He’s at his ale, I promise thee.”
“The plague ride him, then,” muttered the squire; “how the fiend shall
I find him? I crave pardon, Sirs Knights, but I must go look for this
same varlet, or some of his grooms, for horses may not pass to the
keep; and who knoweth but I may have to rummage half the Castle over
ere I find him?” So saying, he left the two knights to their
meditations.
He was hardly gone when they heard the sound of a harp, which came from
a part of the walls a little way to the left of where they were then
standing. The performer struck the chords, as if in the act of tuning
the instrument, and the sound was interrupted from time to time. At
last, after a short prelude, a Scottish air was played with great
feeling.
“By the Rood of St. Andrew,” exclaimed Assueton, after listening for
some time, “these notes grapple my heart, like the well-remembered
voice of some friend of boyhood. May we not go nearer?”
“Let us tie our horses to these palisadoes, and approach silently, so
as not to disturb the musician,” said Hepborne.
Having fastened the reins of their steeds, they moved silently in the
direction whence the music proceeded, and soon came in sight of the
performer.
On a part of the rampart, at some twenty yards’ distance, where the
wall on the outside rose continuous with the rock overhanging the
stream of the Tweed, they beheld two figures; and, creeping silently
for two or three paces farther, they sheltered themselves from
observation under the shadow of a tower, where they took their stand in
the hope of the music being renewed. The moonlight was powerful, and
they easily recognized the garb of the harper whom they had so lately
seen at the hostel. He was seated on the horizontal ropes of one of
those destructive implements of war called an onager or balista, which
were still in use at that period, when guns were but rare in Europe.
His harp was between his knees, his large and expressive features were
turned upwards, and his long white locks swept backwards over his
shoulders, as he was in the act of speaking to a woman who stood by
him. The lady, for her very mien indicated that she was no common
person, stood by the old man in a listening posture. She was enveloped
in a mantle, that flowed easily over her youthful person, giving to it
roundness of outline, without obscuring its perfections.
“By St. Dennis, Assueton,” whispered Hepborne to his friend, “’tis the
Lady Eleanore de Selby. The world lies not; she is beautiful.”
“Nay, then, thine eyes must be like those of an owl, if thou canst tell
by this light,” replied Assueton.
“I tell thee I caught one glance of her face but now, as the moonbeam
fell on it,” said Hepborne; “’twas beauteous as that of an angel. But
hold, they come this way.”
The minstrel arose, and the lady and he came slowly along the wall in
the direction where the two knights were standing.
“Tush, Adam of Gordon,” said the lady, in a playful manner, as if in
reply to something the harper had urged, “thou shalt never persuade me;
I have not yet seen the knight—nay, I doubt me whether the knight has
yet been born who can touch this heart. I would not lose its freedom
for a world.”
“So, so,” whispered Assueton, “thou wert right, Master Barton; a
haughty spirit enow, I’ll warrant me.”
“Hush,” said Hepborne, somewhat peevishly; “the minstrel prepares to
give us music.”
The minstrel, who had again seated himself, ran his fingers in wild
prelude over his chords, and graduating into a soft and tender strain,
he broke suddenly forth in the following verses, adapted to its
measure:—
Oh think not, lady, to despise
The all-consuming fire of Love,
For she who most his power defies
Is sure his direst rage to prove.
Was never maid, who dared to scorn
The subtle god’s tyrannic sway,
Whose heart was not more rudely torn
By his relentless archery.
Do what thou canst, that destined hour
Will come, when thou must feel Love’s dart;
Then war not thus against his power,
His fire will melt thine icy heart.
Oh, let his glowing influence then
Within thy bosom gently steal;
For sooth, sweet maid, I say again,
That all are doom’d Love’s power to feel.
“Why, Adam,” exclaimed the lady, as the minstrel concluded, “this is
like a prophecy. What, dost thou really say that I must one day feel
this fire thou talkest of? Trust me, old man, I am in love with thy
sweet music, and thy sweet song; but for other love, I have never
thought of any such, and thou art naughty, old man, to fill mine ears
with that I would fain keep from having entrance there.”
“Nay, lady, say not so,” cried Adam of Gordon, earnestly; “thou knowest
that love and war are my themes, and I cannot ope my lips, or touch my
harp, but one or other must have way with me. How the subject came, I
know not; but the verses were the extemporaneous effusion of my
minstrel spirit.”
“Come, Hepborne,” whispered Assueton, “let us away; we may hear more of
the lady’s secrets than consists with the honour of knights wilfully to
listen to.”
“Nay, I could stay here for ever, Assueton,” replied Hepborne; “I am
spell-bound. That ethereal creature, that enchantress, hast chained me
to the spot; and wouldst thou not wish to have more of that old man’s
melody? Methought his verses might have gone home to thee as well as to
the lady.”
“Pshaw,” said Assueton, turning away, “dost think that I may be
affected by the drivelling song of an old dotard? Trust me, I laugh at
these silly matters.”
“Laugh while thou mayest, then,” replied Hepborne; “thou mayst weep
anon. Yet, as thou sayst, we do but ill to stand listening here. Let us
away then.”
When they reached the spot where their horses were tied, they found
that the esquire who guided them to the Castle had but just returned
with Master Turnberry, the equerry, whose state sufficiently betrayed
the manner in which he had been spending his evening, and showed that
the sentinel had not guessed amiss regarding him. He came staggering
and grumbling along.
“Is’t not hard, think ye, that an honest man cannot be left to enjoy
his evening’s ease undisturbed? I was but drinking a draught of ale,
Master Harbuttle.”
“A draught of ale,” replied Harbuttle; “ay, something more than one
draught, I take it, Master Thomas. But what makest thou with a torch in
such a moonshiny night as this?”
“Moonshiny,” cried Turnberry, hiccuping; “moonshiny, indeed, why, ’tis
as dark as a pit well. Fye, fye, Mr. Harbuttle, thou must have been
drinking—thou must have been drinking, I say, since thou hast so much
fire in thine eyes; for, to a sober, quiet, cool-headed man like
myself, Master Harbuttle, the moon is not yet up. Fye, fye, thou hast
been taking a cup of Master Sylvester Kyle’s tipple. ’Tis an abominable
vice that thou hast fallen into; drink will be the ruin of thee.”
“Thou drunken sot, thou,” exclaimed Harbuttle, laughing, “dost not see
the moon there, over the top of the keep?”
“That the moon!” cried Turnberry, holding up his torch as if to look
for it; “well, well, to see now what drink will do—what an ass it will
make of a sensible man; for, to give the devil his due, thou art no
gnoffe when thou art sober, Master Harbuttle. That the moon! Why,
that’s the lamp burning in Ancient Fenwick’s loophole window. Thou
knowest he is always at his books—always at the black art. St. Cuthbert
defend us from his incantations!”
“Amen!” said the squire usher, fervently crossing himself.
“But what a fiend’s this?” cried Turnberry; “here are two horses, one
black and t’other white. I see that well enow, though thou mayn’t, yet
thou would’st persuade me I don’t know the Wizard Ancient’s lamp from
the moon. Give me hold of the reins.”
But as he stretched forth his hand to take them, he toppled over and
fell sprawling among the horses’ feet, whence he was opportunely
relieved by two of his own grooms, who arrived at that moment.
“Where hast thou been idling, varlets?” demanded Turnberry, as he
endeavoured to steady himself, and assume the proper importance of
authority; “drinking, varlets, drinking, I’ll be sworn—John Barleycorn
will be the overthrow of Norham Castle. See, villains, that ye bestow
these steeds in good litters, and that oats are not awanting. I’ll e’en
return to my evening’s repose.”
At this moment the lady, followed by Adam of Gordon, came suddenly upon
the group from a narrow gateway, at the bottom of a flight of steps
that led from the rampart, and were close upon Hepborne and his friend
before they perceived the two knights. The lady drew back at first from
surprise, and seemed to hesitate for an instant whether she would
advance or not. She pulled her hood so far over her face as to render
it only partially visible; but the flame of Master Turnberry’s torch
had flashed on it ere she did so, and Hepborne was ravished by the
momentary glance he had of her beauty. The lady, on the other hand, had
a full view of Sir Patrick’s features, for his vizor was up. The
minstrel immediately recognized him.
“Lady,” said the old man, “these are the courteous stranger knights who
came hither as the guests of Sir Walter de Selby.”
“In the name of Sir Walter de Selby, do I welcome them then,” said the
lady, with a modest air. “Welcome, brave knights, to the Castle. But,”
added she, hesitatingly, “in especial am I bound to greet with mine own
guerdon of good thanks him who is called Sir Patrick Hepborne, to whose
gentle care I am so much beholden for the safety of my favourite hawk.”
“Proudly do I claim these precious thanks as mine own rich treasure,
most peerless lady,” exclaimed Sir Patrick, stepping forward with
ardour. “Blessed be my good stars, which have thus so felicitously
brought me, when least expecting such bliss, into the very presence of
a demoiselle whose perfections have already been so largely rung in
mine ears, short as hath yet been my time in Norham.”
“Methinks, Sir Knight,” replied the lady, in some confusion, “methinks
that thy time, albeit short, might have been better spent in Norham
than in listening to idle tales of me. Will it please thee to take this
way? Sir Walter, ere this, doth look for thee in the banquet-hall.”
“Lady, the tale of thy charms was music to me,” said Sir Patrick; “yet
hath it been but as some few notes of symphony to lure me to a richer
banquet. Would that the gentle zephyrs, which do now chase the fleecy
cloud from yonder moon, might unveil that face. Yet, alas! I have
already seen but too much of its charms for my future peace.”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” replied the lady, “this fustian is but thrown away
on me. Thy friend, perhaps, may talk more soberly—Shall I be thy guide,
chevalier?” added she, addressing Assueton.
“No, no, no,” interrupted Hepborne, springing to her side; “I’ll go
with thee, lady, though thou should’st condemn me to eternal silence.”
“Here, then, lieth thy way,” said the lady, hurrying towards the bridge
communicating with the entrance to the keep; “and here come the
lacqueys with lights.”
The squire, who had gone in before, now appeared at the door, with
attendants and torches. Hepborne anxiously hoped to be blessed with a
more satisfactory view of the lady’s face than accident had before
given him; but as she approached the lights, she shrouded up her head
more closely in her hood, yet not so entirely as to prevent her eyes
from enjoying some stolen glances at the noble figure of Sir Patrick.
She had no sooner got within the archway of the great door, however,
than she took a lamp from an attendant, and, making a graceful
obeisance to the two friends, disappeared in a moment, leaving Sir
Patrick petrified with vexation and disappointment.