Arrival of Sir Rafe Piersie—The Challenge.
Sir John Assueton was early astir next morning, for his head was so
filled with the remembrance of those friends and scenes of his youth,
he now hoped to revisit after a long absence, that he was impatient to
depart from Norham Castle. He had already given orders to the squires
to hold themselves in readiness, and he had visited the stable, where
Blanche-etoile neighed a recognition to his master, and was spoken to
with the kindness of a friend. The knight then ascended the ramparts to
enjoy a short promenade; and there he was soon afterwards joined by
Hepborne, who came springing towards him, urged by an unusual flow of
spirits.
“Good morrow, Hepborne,” said Assueton; “I am glad to see thee so alert
this morning. I have looked at our steeds; they are as courageous as
lions, and as gamesome as kids. They will carry us into Scotland with
as much spirit as we shall ride them thither. After breaking our fast,
and bestowing our meed of thanks on the good old knight for his
hospitality, we may yet make our way o’er many a good mile of Scottish
ground ere yonder new-born sun shall sink in the west.”
“Nay, my dear Assueton,” said Hepborne, “what need hast thou for such
haste? Hadst thou some fair damsel in Scotland—some lady bright, who,
with her swan-like neck stretched towards the mid-day sun, looketh day
after day from her lofty towernet, with anxious eyes, in the hope of
descrying thee, her true and constant Knight—hadst thou such a fair one
as this, I say, impatience might indeed become thee; but what reason
hast thou, despiser of the lovely sex as thou art, to long for a change
of position? By the Rood of St. Andrew, I begin to believe that thou
art no such woman-hater as thou wouldst pretend, and that all this
seeming coldness of thine is nothing but thy laudable constancy to some
Scottish maid, who hath thine early-pledged vows of love in keeping.”
“Thou art welcome to rally me as it may please thee, Hepborne,” replied
Assueton, with a smile: “but, on the faith and honour of my knighthood,
I have not seen the maiden for whom I would go three ells from my
intended path, except for common knightly courtesy, or to redress some
grievous wrong. Nay, nay, thou knowest my natural duresse—that my heart
is adamant to all such weak impressions. Perdie, I cannot understand
how any such affect the good, hardy, soldier-like bosom, though I do
observe the melancholy truth exampled forth, in daily occurrence, with
those around me. But I perceive thy drift, my politic friend. To assail
is the best tactique against being assailed. Thou camest forth
conscience-stricken, and being well aware that thy foolish fondness of
this masquing damosel of the Castle here would come under my gentle
lash, to divert the attack against thyself, thou dost begin to skirmish
against me. But I see well enow ’tis the Lady Eleanore’s attraction
that would keep thee here.”
“It is e’en so, I candidly confess it,” replied Hepborne. “I candidly
confess it, dost mark me? so, throwing myself at thy feet, I cry for
quarter.”
“Nay, an thou dost disarm me thus,” replied Assueton, “I can say no
more.”
“Oh, Assueton, Assueton, my bel ami,” said Hepborne, enthusiastically,
“I was the happiest of human beings last night. I did indeed meet her
on the ramparts. Old Adam of Gordon was a good seer; nay, perchance,
though as to that I know not, he may have been Cupid’s messenger. Yet,
hold! Depardieux, I do her most foul wrong in so supposing; for she
hath too much maiden modesty to have been guilty of so much boldness.
But, be that as it may, her words—her looks—were kind and most
encouraging. She did blushingly confess that her heart had known no
other affection than that which she bears towards her venerable father.
She half admitted that I was not altogether indifferent to her; she did
utter a hope that we should remain her father’s guests for some longer
space; yea, and she even admitted that to see me again would give her
pleasure. Then her accents were so sweet, and her demeanour so
gentle—Oh, Assueton, she is in very truth an angel! But what is all
this to thee, thou Knight of Adamant? I forgot that I might as well
speak to the stones of these walls of amorets and love passages, as to
Sir John Assueton.”
“Thou art right, i’ faith, Hepborne,” replied Assueton; “they say walls
have ears, whilst I, in good earnest, may with truth enow be said to
have none for such matters, since they do irk whenever the theme of
love is handled in their hearing. Yet my friendship for thee bids me
listen to thy ravings, and compassion for thy disease makes me watch
the progress of its symptoms, as I should do those of any other fever.
From all thou hast said, then, I would gather that thou wouldst fain
loiter off another day or two, to catch fresh smiles and deeper wounds
from the Lady Eleanore. Is’t not so, Hepborne?”
“In truth, Assueton,” replied Sir Patrick, “her whole deportment
towards me last night hath buoyed me up with hope, yea, and hath even
led me to flatter myself that I am not indifferent to her, Scot though
I be. At so critical a period, then, I cannot go, my dear Assueton; and
I am sure thy good nature will never allow thee to abandon thy friend
in the crisis of his distemper.”
“No, Hepborne,” said Assueton, laughing, “I shall certainly not be so
little of a Christian knight as to abandon thee when thine estate is so
dangerous. Well, then, I must wait thy time, I suppose. But parfoy I
must have some rounds of the tiltyard, were it but to joust at the
quintaine, or Blanche-etoile and I too will lose our occupation. Wilt
thou not take a turn with me for exercise? But soft—I need not talk to
thee of any such thing, for yonder comes the cause of thy malady.”
“By St. Dennis, it is she indeed!” exclaimed Hepborne: “that is the
very mantle she wore. But who is that cavalier on whose arm she hangs
so freely?” added he with a jealous tone and air.
“St. Genevieve! but he is a tall, proper, handsome knight,” said
Assueton.
“Pshaw?” said Hepborne pettishly, “I see nothing handsome about him;
meseems he hath the air of a sturdy swineherd.”
“Is not that the Lady Eleanore de Selby?” inquired Assueton of a
sentinel who walked on the ramparts at some little distance from where
the knights then stood.
“Ay, in truth, it is she,” replied the man, stopping to look at her.
“And who may yonder knight be with whom she holds converse?” demanded
Hepborne eagerly.
“By the mass, I know not, Sir Knight,” replied the man as he turned to
tread back his measured pace; “I never saw him before, that I knows
on.”
But notwithstanding the unfavourable remark which jealousy had made
Hepborne cast on the stranger’s appearance, he could not help secretly
confessing that the knight with whom the Lady Eleanore had come forth
from the keep, and on whose arm she was now leaning with so little
reserve, was indeed very handsome, even noble-looking. An esquire
waited for him at the end of the bridge, with two
magnificently-caparisoned black horses. The lady seemed to be a drag on
his steps, and to keep him back, as it were, with a thousand last
words, as if with a desire of prolonging the few remaining minutes of
their converse. On his part he displayed signs of the tenderest
affection for her; and after they had crossed the bridge tardily
together, she threw herself upon his mailed neck, and he enfolded her
in his arms, both remaining locked together for some moments in a last
embrace. The warrior then tore himself from her, and vaulting on his
steed, struck the pointed steel into his sides, and galloped off at a
desperate pace. The lady, leaning on the balustrades of the bridge,
rested there a little space, and then turning slowly towards the door
of the keep, disappeared.
The two knights commanded a full though distant view of this scene of
dumb show, from the part of the rampart where they then stood. Assueton
turned his eyes with compassion upon his friend to observe its effect
upon him. He was standing like a marble statue, still gazing on the
spot where it had been acted—his eyes fixed in his head as with
apathetical stupor. At length, after remaining in the same attitude for
several minutes, he struck his forehead violently with the palms of his
hands, and addressing his friend in hurried accents—“Assueton,
Assueton,” said he, “didst thou see? didst thou mark! Oh, woman, woman,
woman! But it mattereth not. Assueton, let our horses be ordered; I
will forth with thee for Scotland even now; ay, even now. Thou wert
indeed right, my friend; there is more of thorns than of roses about
them all. Thou wert wise, Assueton; but I am cured now—nay, I am as
sane as thyself. Our horses, Assueton—our squires and cortege. Let us
not lose a moment; we may despatch good store of Scottish miles ere we
sleep.”
“Nay, let us not be guilty of doing violence to the courtesy of
knighthood,” replied Assueton; “Sir Walter de Selby hath used much fair
hospitality towards us. It beseems us not to leave Norham Castle
without giving thanks to the good old governor in person, and bidding
him adieu. Besides, ’twere as well, methinks, to go with less
suspicious haste, lest we may be misjudged; and, indeed, Sir Walter can
have hardly left his couch as yet.”
“Ay, ay, true—thou sayest true, my friend,” said Hepborne, interrupting
him keenly. “I had forgotten. Her father not yet astir, and she taking
leave of her lover so tenderly at such an hour. Oh, damnable! He came,
doubtless, last night, and has been i’ the keep without the old man’s
knowledge. So, all her deep and long drawn suspires were but the
offspring of her fears lest her leman should break faith.”
“Come, come, Hepborne, my bel ami, compose thyself,” said Sir John;
“thou must not let this appear within; ’tis but a short hour sacrificed
to common civility, and then let us boune us for Scotland.”
“Thou sayest well, Assueton,” said Hepborne, recollecting himself after
a short pause, during which he sighed deeply; “I must endeavour to
command myself; my passion too much enchafeth me. The good old man hath
indeed been to us kindness itself. How cruel that he should be so
deceived in his daughter! I pity him from the bottom of my soul. My
wounds will soon be healed—war-toil must be their confecture; but his,
alas! are yet to be opened, for now they do fester all unwist to him,
and when they do burst forth, I fear me they may well out his life’s
blood. But come,” added he, rousing himself, “let’s in.”
They turned their steps towards the keep, but before they had descended
from the ramparts their ears were struck with the sound of a bugle, and
as they looked over the walls they descried a long cavalcade of
knights, esquires, grooms, lacqueys, and spearmen, advancing with
lances and pennons up the hollow way leading towards the outer gate of
the Castle. The party soon came thundering over the drawbridge, and
were saluted by the guards as they passed. At the head of the troop
rode the proud Sir Rafe Piersie. The array of the very meanest of his
people was magnificent; but his armour and his horse-gear shone like
the sun, and glittered with the splendour of their embossments. They
passed into the inner courtyard; loud rang the bugle of announcement,
and the ear was assailed by the neighing of hot steeds, the clattering
and pawing of impatient hoofs, the champing of foam-covered bits, the
jingling of chains, and the clinking of spurs; whilst a rout of
soldiers and grooms, with Master Thomas Turnberry at their head, ran
clustering around them. The squires of the Castle, with the hoary
seneschal and a host of lacqueys, came forth from the keep, and ushered
in Sir Rafe Piersie and his suite.
Hepborne and Assueton soon afterwards followed, and, on reaching the
banquet-hall, they found Sir Walter de Selby in the act of receiving
and welcoming his newly-arrived guest, whose supercilious air, when
addressing the plain, honest old soldier by no means prepossessed the
two Scottish knights in his favour. Sir Walter introduced them to
Piersie, and he received them with the same offensive hauteur. There is
something in such a deportment that provokes even the humble man to put
on haughtiness. Hepborne, from late events, was not prepared to be in
the most condescending humour, so that he failed not to carry his head
fully three inches higher than he had done since he became an inmate of
the Castle of Norham. Nor was Assueton at all behind him in
stateliness.
The table was covered with the morning’s meal, and but little
conversation passed during the time it was going on. Sir Walter de
Selby seemed to be more reserved, and even less disposed to risk his
words than he had been the previous night.
“I marvel much, Sir Governor,” said Sir Rafe Piersie with a haughty
sneer—“Methinks ’tis marvellously strange, I say, that thou hast as yet
said nothing touching the object of the visit I have thus paid thee. Am
I, or am I not, to have this girl of thine? Depardieux, there hath been
more ambassage about this affair than might have brought home and
wedded a queen of England. The damsel, I am informed, knew not her own
mind, and thou were weak enough to suffer thyself to be blown about by
her wayward whimsies; but my kinsman, the Bishop of Durham, tells me
that, having at last brought thine own determination up to the proper
point, thou art finally resolved she shall be mine. Marry, a matter of
great exertion, truly, to accept of Sir Rafe Piersie as a husband for
Eleanore de Selby!”
“My mind has indeed been made up, Sir Rafe Piersie,” said the old
knight, “and would to Heaven, beausir, that it could have been made up
differently; for, certes, it doleth me sorely to be driven to answer
thee as I must of needscost do. I should not have broached this matter
till privacy had put the seal on our converse: but, since thou hast
opened it, I am forced to tell thee that, since I saw the Bishop of
Durham, obstacles have appeared which render it impossible for me to
give thee my daughter, the Lady Eleanore, to wife. She is affianced to
another.”
“So,” thought Hepborne, the ideas passing rapidly through his mind,
“her father knows of the attachment between her and the knight who left
her this morning. Then, perhaps, she has been less to blame than I
thought; yet why were her words and manner such, last night, towards
me, as to mislead me into the idea that I had reason to hope? Oh,
deceitful woman, never satisfied with the success of thy springes as
long as there is a foolish bird to catch. So! thou must have me limed
to? But, grammercy, I have escaped thy toils.”
Such were Hepborne’s thoughts; but what Sir Rafe Piersie’s were during
the pause of astonishment he was thrown into, may be best gathered from
the utterance he gave them.
“What is this I hear? has a limb of the noble Piersie been brought here
to be insulted? Thou art a false old papelarde; and were it not for
those hoary hairs of thine, by the beard of St. Barnabas, I would brain
thee with this gauntlet;” and saying so, he dashed it down on the
board, making it ring again.
Hepborne and Assueton both started up, and stretched out their hands
eagerly to seize it.
“Ah, thou art always lucky, Hepborne,” said Assueton, much disappointed
to see that his friend had snatched it before him.
“Sir Rafe Piersie,” said Hepborne, “in behalf of this good old knight,
whom thou hast so grossly insulted at his own board, I defy thee to
instant and mortal debate; and in thy teeth I return the opprobrious
epithets thou didst dare to throw in his face; and here, I say, thou
liest!” and with these words he threw down his gauntlet.
“And who art thou?” said his antagonist, taking it up; “who art thou,
young cockerel, who crowest so loud? By St. George, but thou showest
small share of wisdom to pit thyself thus against Sir Rafe Piersie. But
fear not, thou shalt have thy will. Was thy darreigne for instant
fight, saidst thou? In God’s name, let us to horse then without farther
parley. Let Sir Richard de Lacy here, and thine eager friend there, be
the judges of the field; and as for the place, the Norham meadow below
will do as well for thine overthrow as any other; thou wilt have easy
galloping ere thou dost meet it. What, defy Sir Rafe Piersie to combat
of outrance, and give him the lie, too! Thou art doomed, young man,
thou art doomed; thine insolence hath put thee beyond the pale of my
mercy. By the holy Rood, thou must be the young cock-sparrow the old
dotard hath chosen as a mate for his pretty popelot, else thou never
couldst have been so bold.”
“I am not so fortunate,” replied Hepborne, with calm and courteous
manner.
“And what may thy name and title be, then?” demanded Piersie, with yet
greater hauteur.
“My name,” replied he, with a dignified bow, “is Sir Patrick Hepborne.”
“Ha! then, by my faith, thou hast some good Northern blood in thee,”
replied Piersie; “thou art less unworthy of my lance than I did ween
thou wert. Thy father is a right doughty Scot; and, if I mistake not, I
have heard of some deeds of thine done in France, which have made thine
honours and renomie to bud and buxion rathely. But ’tis a warm climate
they have sprouted in, and such early and unnatural shoots are wont to
be air-drawn and unhealthy; and albeit they may vegetate under the more
southern sun, they are often withered by the blasts of the North as
soon as they appear amongst us. But come, come, my horse, Delaval—my
horse and gear, I say;” and, leaving the hall hastily, he sought a
chamber where he might prepare himself for single combat.