The Evening Meal at the Castle—The Minstrel and the Tourney of
Noyon—Master Haggerstone Fenwick the Ancient.
Sir Patrick Hepborne was roused from the astonishment the sudden
disappearance of the lady had thrown him into, by the voice of the
Squire Usher, who now came to receive them.
“This way, Sirs Knights,” cried he, showing them forwards, and up a
staircase that led them at once into a large vaulted hall, lighted by
three brazen lamps, hanging by massive chains from the dark wainscot
roof, and heated by one great projecting chimney. A long oaken table,
covered with pewter and wooden trenchers, with innumerable flagons and
drinking vessels of the same materials, occupied the centre of the
floor. About a third of its length, at the upper end, was covered with
a piece of tapestry or carpet, and there the utensils were of silver.
The upper portion of the table had massive high-backed carved chairs
set around it, and these were furnished with cushions of red cloth,
whilst long benches were set against it in other parts. The rest of the
moveables in the hall consisted of various kinds of arms, such as
helmets, burgonets, and bacinets—breastplates and
back-pieces—pouldrons, vambraces, cuisses, and greaves—gauntlets, iron
shoes, and spurs—cross-bows and long-bows, hanging in irregular
profusion on the walls; whilst spears, pikes, battle-axes, truncheons,
and maces, rested everywhere in numbers against them. The floor was
strewed with clean rushes; and a dozen or twenty people, some of whom
were warlike, and some clerical in their garb, were divided into
conversational groups of two or three together.
Sir Walter de Selby, an elderly man, with a rosy countenance, and a
person rather approaching to corpulency, clad in a vest and cloak of
scarlet cloth, sat in tête-à-tête with a sedate and dignified person,
whose dress at once declared him to be of the religious profession and
episcopal rank.
“Welcome, brave knights,” said Sir Walter, rising to meet them as the
Squire Usher announced them; “welcome, brave knights. But by St.
George,” added he, with a jocular air, as he shook each of them
cordially by the hand, “I should have weened that ye looked not to be
welcomed here, seeing ye could prefer bestowing yourselves in the
paltry hostelry of the village, rather than demanding from old Sir
Walter de Selby that hospitality never refused by him to knights of
good fame, such as thine. But ye do see I can welcome, ay, and welcome
heartily too. My Lord Bishop of Durham, this is Sir Patrick Hepborne,
and this, Sir John Assueton, Scottish knights of no mean degree or
renown.” Sir Walter then made them acquainted with the chief personages
of the company, some of whom were knights, and some churchmen of high
rank.
After the usual compliments had passed, the Scottish knights were shown
to apartments, where they unarmed, and were supplied with fitting robes
and vestments. Sir Patrick Hepborne was happy in the expectation of
being speedily introduced to the Lady Eleanore; but, on returning to
the hall, he found that she had not yet appeared, and he was mortified
to hear Sir Walter de Selby give immediate orders for the banquet.
“These gallant knights,” said he, “would, if I mistake not, rather eat
than talk, after a long day’s fast. We shall have enow of converse
anon. Bring in—bring in, I say.” And, seating himself at the head of
the table, he placed the Lord Bishop on his right hand, and the two
stranger knights on his left, while the other personages took their
places of themselves, according to their acknowledged rank. Immediately
after them came a crowd of guests of lesser note, who filled up the
table to the farther extremity.
The entertainment consisted of enormous joints of meat, and trenchers
full of game and poultry, borne in by numerous lacqueys, who panted
under the loads they carried; and the dishes were arranged by the
sewer, whose office it was to do so.
When the solid part of the feast had been discussed, and the mutilated
fragments removed, Sir Walter called for a mazer of Malvoisie. The wine
was brought him in a silver cup of no despicable manufacture, and he
drank a health to the stranger knights; which was passed round
successively to the Bishop and others, who sat at the upper end, and
echoed from the lower part of the table by those who drank it in deep
draughts of ale. Numerous pledges succeeded, with hearty carouse.
“Sir Walter,” said Hepborne, taking advantage of a pause in the
conversation, “the fame of thy peerless daughter, the Lady Eleanore de
Selby, hath reached our ears: Shall our eyes not be blessed with the
sight of so much beauty? May we not look to see thy board graced with
her presence ere the night passeth away?”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” replied Sir Walter, his countenance undergoing a
remarkable change from gay to grave, “my daughter appeareth not
to-night. But why is not the minstrel here?” exclaimed he aloud, as if
wishing to get rid of Hepborne’s farther questioning; “why is not Adam
of Gordon introduced? Let him come in; I love the old man’s music too
well to leave him neglected. Yea, and of a truth, he doth to-night
merit a double share of our regard, seeing that it is to him we do owe
the honour of these distinguished Scottish guests. A chair for the
minstrel, I say.”
A chair was accordingly set in a conspicuous place near the end of the
hall. Adam entered, with his harp hanging on his arm, and, making an
obeisance to the company, advanced towards the top of the table.
“Ay, ay, come away, old man; no music without wine; generous wine will
breed new inspiration in thee: Here, drink,” said Sir Walter,
presenting him with the mantling cup.
The minstrel bowed, and, drinking health to the good company, he
quaffed it off. His tardy blood seemed quickened by the draught; he
hastened to seat himself in the place appointed for him; and, striking
two or three chords to ascertain the state of his instrument, he
proceeded to play several airs of a martial character.
“Come, come, good Adam, that is very well,” said Sir Walter, as the
harper paused to rest his fingers awhile—“so far thou hast done well;
but my good wine must not ooze out at the points of thy fingers with
unmeaning sounds. Come, we must have it mount to thy brain, and fill
thee with inspiration. Allons! Come, drink again, and let the contents
of this cup evaporate from thee in verse. Here, bear this brimming
goblet to him: And then, dost thou hear, some tale of hardy dints of
arms; ’tis that we look for. Nay, fear not for my Lord Bishop; I wot he
hath worn the cuirass ere now.”
“Thou sayest truly, Sir Walter,” said the Bishop, rearing himself up to
his full height, as if gratified by the remark; “on these our Eastern
Marches there are few who have not tasted of war, however peaceful may
have been their profession; and I cannot say but I have done my part,
thanks be to Him who hath given me strength and courage.”
Adam quaffed off the contents of the cup that had been given him, and,
seizing his harp again, he flourished a prelude, during which he kept
his eyes thrown upwards, as if wrapt in consideration of his subject,
and then dashed the chords from his fingers in a powerful accompaniment
to the following verses:—
THE TOURNEY OF NOYON.
Proud was the bearing of fair Noyon’s chivalry,
Brave in the lists did her gallants appear;
Gay were their damosels, deck’d out in rivalry,
Breathing soft sighs from the balconies near.
Each to her knight,
His bright helm to dight,
Flung her love-knot, with vows for his prowess and might;
And warm were the words
Of their love-sick young lords,
Mingling sweet with the tender harp’s heart-thrilling chords.
But long ere the trumpet’s shrill clamour alarming
Told each stark chevalier to horse for the strife;
Ere yet their hot steeds, in their panoply arming,
Were led forth, their nostrils wide breathing with life;
Ere the lists had been clear’d,
The brave Knollis appear’d
With his heroes, the standard of England who rear’d;
But nor billman nor bowman
Came there as a foeman,
For peace had made friends of these stout English yeomen.
As afar o’er the meadows, with soldiers’ gear laden,
They merrily marched for their dear native land;
Their banners took sighs from full many a maiden,
And trembled, as love-lorn each waved her white hand.
But see from the troops
Where a warrior swoops,
From the speed of his courser his plume backward droops;
’Tis a bold Scottish Knight,
Whose joy and delight
Is to joust it in sport—or at outrance to fight.
His steed at the barrier’s limit he halted,
And toss’d to his Squire the rich gold-emboss’d rein;
Cased in steel as he was, o’er the high pales he vaulted,
And, bowing, cried, “Messieurs Chevaliers, prey deign
To lend me an ear—
Lo, I’m singly come here,
Since none of you dared against me to appear.
One and all I defy,
Nor fear I shall fly,
Win me then, if you can—for my knighthood I try.”
Then a huge massive mace round his head quickly whirling,
He charged their bright phalanx with furious haste,
And some he laid prostrate, with heads sorely dirling,
And some round the barrier swiftly he chased.
Where’er he attacked,
The French knighthood backed,
Preux Chevalier le brave Jean de Roy he thwacked,
Till his helmet rang well,
Like the couvre-feu bell—
By the Rood, but ’twas nearly his last passing knell.
Then Picardy’s pride, Le Chevalier de Lorris,
He soon stretch’d on the sand in most pitiful case,
And he rain’d on the rest, till they all danced a morris
To the music he played on their mails with his mace.
Till tired with his toil,
He breathed him a while,
And, bowing again, with a most courteous smile,
“Adieu, Messieurs!” said he,
“Je vous rend graces, Perdie!
For the noble diversion you’ve yielded to me.”
Then some kind parting-blows round him willingly dealing,
That on breastplates, and corslets, and helmets clang’d loud,
Sending some ten or dozen to right and left reeling,
He soon clear’d his way through the terrified crowd.
O’er the pales then he bounded
As all stood confounded.
To the saddle he leap’d—and his horse’s heels sounded
As he spurrd out of sight,
Leaving proofs of his might,
That had marr’d the bold jousting of many a knight.
Loud applause followed the minstrel’s merry performance, and Sir Walter
de Selby called Adam towards him to reward him with another cup of
wine.
“But thou hast not told us the name of thy mettlesome knight, old
bard,” said he.
Adam looked over his shoulder, with a waggish smile, towards Sir John
Assueton.
“’Twas a certain Scottish knight,” said he, “one whose heart was as
easily wounded as his frame was invulnerable—one who was as remarkable
for his devotion to the fair as for his prowess in the field. It was
whispered at Noyon that the feat was done to give jovisaunce to a pair
of bright eyes which looked that day from the balcony.”
“By St. Andrew, but thou art out there, goodman harper,” cried
Assueton, caught in the trap so cunningly laid for him by the minstrel;
“trust me, thou wert never more out in thy life. My heart was then, as
it is now, as sound, entire, firm, and as hard as my cuirass. By’r
Lady, I am not the man to be moved by a pair of eyes. No pair of eyes
that ever lighted up a face could touch me; and as to that matter,
a—a—” But observing a smile playing over the countenances of the
guests, he recollected that he had betrayed himself, and stopped in
some confusion. The harper turned round to the host—
“Sir Walter,” said he, “there never sat within this wall two more
doughty or puissant knights than these. Both did feats of valour abroad
that made Europe ring again. Sir John Assueton was indeed the true hero
of my verses. As to his love I did but jest, for I wot ’tis well known
he hath steeled himself against the passion, and hath never owned it. I
but feigned, to draw him into a confession of the truth of my tale, the
which his consummate modesty would never have permitted him to avow.”
Sir Walter called for a goblet of wine—
“To the health of the brave knight of Noyon!” cried he. “Well did we
all know to whom the merry minstrel alluded.”
The health was received with loud applause, and compliments came so
thick upon Assueton, that he blushed to receive them.
“Load me not thus, courteous knights, load me not thus, I beseech you,
with your applause for a silly frolic. Here sits one,” said he, wishing
to turn the tide from himself, and tapping Hepborne on the
shoulder—“Here sits one, I say, who hath done feats of arms compared to
which my boyish pranks are but an idle pastime. This is the Scottish
knight who, at the fight of Rosebarque, did twice recover the flag of
France from the Flemings, and of whom the whole army admitted that the
success of that day belonged to the prowess of his single arm.”
This speech of Assueton’s had all the effect he desired. Sir Walter was
well aware of the renown acquired by Hepborne upon that occasion, and
there were even some at table who had witnessed his glorious feats of
arms on that day. His modesty was now put to a severe trial in its
turn, and goblets were quaffed in honour of him. He looked with a
reproachful eye at his friend for having thus saved himself at his
expense; and at last, to get rid of praises he felt to be oppressive,
he signified to his host a wish to retire for the night. Accordingly
the Squire Usher was called, and the two knights were shown to their
apartments; soon after which the banquet broke up, leaving the Lord
Bishop and Sir Walter in deep conference.
As Hepborne and Assueton passed up the narrow stair that led to the
apartments appropriated to them, they were interrupted in their
progress by a pair of limbs of unusual length, that were slowly
descending. The confined and spiral nature of the stair kept the head
and body belonging to them entirely out of view; and the huge feet were
almost in Hepborne’s stomach before he was aware. He called out, and
the limbs, halting for an instant, seemed to receive tardy instructions
to retire, from the invisible head they were commanded by, which,
judging of the extent of the whole person by the parts they saw, must
have been, at that moment at least, in the second storey above them.
The way being at last cleared, the two friends climbed to the passage
leading to their apartments. Irresistible curiosity, however, induced
them to linger for a moment on the landing-place to watch the descent
of a figure so extraordinary. It came as if measured out by yards at a
time. In the right hand was a lamp, carried as high as the roof of the
stair would permit, to enable the bearer to steer his head under it
without injury, and the light being thus thrown strongly upon the face,
displayed a set of features hardly human.
The complexion was deadly pale, the forehead unusually low and broad,
and the head was hung round with lank tangles of black hair. A pair of
small fiery eyes smouldered, each within the profound of a deep cavity
on either side of the nose, that, projecting a good inch or two nearly
in a right angle from the forehead, dropped a perpendicular over the
mouth, almost concealing the central part of that orifice, in which it
was assisted by the enormous length of chin thrust out in a curve from
below. The cheekbones were peculiarly enlarged, and the cheeks drawn
lankly in; but the corners of the mouth, stretching far backwards, were
preternaturally expanded, and, by a convulsive kind of twist, each was
alternately opened wide, so that, in turn, they partially exhibited the
tremendous grinders that filled the jaws. It is not to be supposed that
Hepborne and Assueton could exactly note these particulars so
circumstantially as we have done; but the uncouth figure moved with so
much difficulty downwards, with a serpentizing sort of course, that
they had leisure to remark quite enough to fill them with amazement.
The apparition, clad in a close black jerkin and culottes, had no
sooner wormed itself down, than both knights eagerly demanded of the
Squire Usher who and what it was.
“’Tis Master Haggerstone Fenwick, the Ancient,” replied he with a
mysterious air.
“Nay,” said Assueton, “he surely is fitter for hoisting the broad
banner of the Castle upon, than for carrying the colours in the field.”
“Why, as to that, Sir Knight,” said the Usher, “he might i’faith do
well enough for the banner; and he would be always at hand too when
wanted, seeing that he rarely or ever quitteth the top of the keep. He
liveth in the small cap-room, where he must lig from corner to corner
to be able to stretch himself; yet there he sitteth night and day,
reading books of the black art, and never leaveth it, except when he
cometh down as now, driven by hunger, the which he will sometimes defy
for a day or two, and then he descendeth upon the buttery, like a wolf
from the mountains, and at one meal will devour thee as much provender
as would victual the garrison for a day, and then mounteth he again to
his den. He is thought to possess terrible powers; and strange sights
and horrible spectres have been seen to dance about the battlements
near his dwelling.”
“Holy Virgin! and is all this believed by Sir Walter de Selby?”
inquired Hepborne.
“Ay, truly,” said the Usher gravely; “most seriously believed (as why
should it not?) by him, and all in the Castle. But I beseech thee, Sir
Knight, let us not talk so freely of him. Holy St. Mary defend us! I
wish he may not take offence at our stopping him in his way to his
meal. Let us not talk more of him. I bid thee good night.”
“But tell me ere thou goest why we saw not that star of female beauty,
the Lady Eleanore de Selby, at the banquet this evening?” demanded
Hepborne.
“’Tis a fancy of her father’s, Sir Knight,” replied the Squire Usher,
smiling; “and, if it may not offend thee, ’tis because he willeth not
that the lady may marry her with a Scottish chevalier, that he ever
doth forbid her entrance when any of thy nation are feasted in his
hall.”
“It irketh me to think that we should have caused her banishment,” said
Hepborne. “What, is she always wont to keep her chamber on like
occasions?”
“Yea,” replied the Squire Usher, “ever save when the evening air is so
bland as to suffer her to breathe it upon the rampart. She is often
wont to listen to the minstrel’s notes there. But there are your
chambers, Sirs Knights. The squires of your own bodies will be with you
in the morning. Sir Walter hath issued orders for the admission of your
retinue into the Castle. And he hopes you will sojourn with him as long
as your affairs may give you sufferance. Good night, and may St. Andrew
be with you.”
The two friends separated, and quickly laid themselves down to repose.
The hardy and heart-whole Assueton slept soundly under the protection
of his national saint, to whom he failed not to recommend himself, as a
security against the incantations of the wizard. Nor did Sir Patrick
Hepborne neglect to do the same; for these were times when the
strongest minds were subject to such superstitions. But his thoughts
soon wandered to a more agreeable subject. He recalled the lovely face
he had seen, and he sighed to think that he had not been blessed with a
somewhat less transitory glance of features which he would have wished
to imprint for ever upon his mind.
“Why should her father thus banish her from the eyes of all Scotchmen?
By the Rood, but it can and must be only from the paltry fear of his
wealth going to fatten our northern soil. But I can tell him that there
be Scots who would cheerfully take her for her individual merit alone,
and leave her dross to those sordid minds who covet it.”
Such was Sir Patrick’s soliloquy, and, imperfect as his view of the
lady had been, it was sufficient to conjure up a vision that hovered
over his pillow, and disturbed his rest, in defiance of the good St.
Andrew. Having lain some time awake, he heard the laborious ascent of
the Ancient Fenwick to his dwelling in the clouds; but fatigue at
length vanquished his restlessness, and he had been, for some hours, in
a deep sleep, ere another and a much lighter footstep passed up in the
same direction.