The Combat—Departure of the Scots—Master Kyle Swears by St.
Cuthbert.
Hepborne was not slow on his part, and in a very short time the
Castle-yard was again in commotion, and grooms and esquires were seen
running in all directions, bringing out horses and buckling on
trappings. Hepborne’s gallant steed Beaufront was led proudly forth
from his stall by Mortimer Sang, and was no sooner backed by his master
than he pranced, neighed, and spurned the ground, as if he had guessed
of the nature of the work he had to do. Attended by Assueton and their
small party of followers, Sir Patrick rode slowly down to the mead of
Norham, extending from under the elevated ground on which the Castle
stood, for a considerable way to the westward, between the village and
the bank of the Tweed. Here he halted, and patiently awaited the
arrival of his opponent. Piersie came in all his pomp, mounted on a
dapple-grey horse, of remarkable strength, figure, and action. Both
horse and rider were splendidly arrayed, and his friends and people
came crowding after him, boasting loudly of the probable issue of the
combat. Sir Walter de Selby came last, attended by some few officers,
esquires, and meaner people, and joined Hepborne’s party, stationed
towards one end of the field, Sir Rafe Piersie’s having filed off and
taken post towards the other extremity of it. Little time was lost in
preparation. The two judges placed themselves opposite to the middle of
the space, and there the combatants met and measured lances.
The bugle-mot gave them warning, so turning their steeds round, they
each rode back about a furlong towards their respective parties, and,
suddenly wheeling at the second sound of the bugle, they ran their
furious course against each other with lance in rest. The shock was
tremendous. The clash of their armour echoed from the very walls of the
neighbouring Castle; nor had the oldest and most experienced
men-at-arms who were there present ever seen anything like it. Sir
Patrick Hepborne received his adversary’s lance, with great adroitness,
on his shield, at such an angle that it glanced off broken in shivers;
yet the force was so great that it had almost turned him in his saddle.
But he, on his part, had borne his point so stoutly, so steadily, and
so truly, that, taking his adversary in the centre of the body, he
tossed him entirely over the croupe of his horse. Piersie lay stunned
by the fall; and Sir Patrick, checking Beaufront in his career, made a
circuit around his prostrate adversary, and speedily dismounting, went
up to him, and kneeling on the ground beside him, lifted up his head,
and opened his vizor and beaver to give him freer air. Sir Richard de
Lacy and Assueton came up.
“Sir Richard,” said Hepborne, “thou seest his life is in mine hands;
and after the bragging and insolent threats he used towards me, perhaps
I might be deemed well entitled to use the privileges of my victory,
and take it. But I engaged in this affair only to wipe off the disgrace
thrown on this good old knight, Sir Walter de Selby, in whose
hospitality I and my brother-in-arms have so liberally shared; and the
blot having been thus removed, by God’s blessing on mine arm, I leave
Piersie his life, that he may use it against me when next we meet in
fair fight in bloody field, should the jarring rights of our two
countries summon us against each other. But through thee, his friend, I
do most solemnly enjoin him that, on the honour of a knight, he shall
hold Sir Walter de Selby as acquitted of all intention of doing him any
injury or insult in the matter of the marriage he contemplated with the
Lady Eleanore, and that he think not of doing Sir Walter violence on
that account.”
For all this Sir Richard de Lacy immediately pledged himself in name of
Sir Rafe Piersie; and the discomfited knight, who was still insensible,
having been lifted up by his esquires, was straightway borne towards
the Castle. As they were carrying him away, Mortimer Sang, who had by
chance caught the dapple-grey steed, as he scoured past him on the
field after his rider’s overthrow, trotted up to the group leading him
by the bridle. The worthy esquire had heard and treasured up the taunts
and boasting of Piersie’s people, as they were approaching the field.
“Hath any of ye lost perchance a pomely grise-coloured horse, my
masters?” exclaimed he; “here is a proper powerful destrier, if he had
been but well backed. Hast thou no varlet of a pricksoure squire who
can ride him? Here, take him, some of ye; and, hark ye, let his saddle
be better filled the next time ye do come afield.”
Piersie’s men were too much crestfallen to return his jibes, so he rode
back to the group that surrounded the conqueror, chuckling over his
triumph. The good old Sir Walter de Selby, his eyes running over with
gratitude, approached Sir Patrick Hepborne, and embraced him cordially.
“The time hath been,” said he, “the time hath been, Sir Patrick, when
it pleased Heaven to permit me to reap the same guerdon of inward
satisfaction thou art now feeling, and could the weight of a few years
have been lifted from off this hoar head, by God’s blessing, thou
shouldst not have had this noble chance of gathering fame at the cost
of Sir Rafe Piersie. As it is, I thank thee heartily for thy gallant
defence of an old man, as well as for the generous use thou hast made
of thy victory. Come, let us to the Castle, that by my treatment of
thee, and Sir Rafe Piersie, I may forthwith prove my gratitude to the
one and my forgiveness of the other.
“Thanks, most hospitable knight,” said Sir Patrick, “I beseech thee in
mine own name, and that of my friend, to receive our poor thanks for
thy kind reception of us at Norham. But now our affairs demand our
return to our own country; nay, had it not been for this unlooked-for
deed of arms, we had been ere now some miles beyond that broad stream.
We boune us now for Scotland. Farewell, and may the holy St. Cuthbert
keep thee in health and safety. We may yet haply meet again.”
Sir Walter de Selby was grieved to find that all his efforts to detain
the two knights were ineffectual.
“Since it is thy will, then, to pleasure me no longer with thy good
company and presence, Sirs Knights, may the blessed Virgin and the holy
St. Andrew guide you in safety to your friends; and may you find those
you love in the good plight you would wish them to be.” And saying so,
he again cordially embraced both the knights, and slowly returned
towards the Castle with his attendants.
The bustle and commotion occasioned by the appearance of the knights
and their followers on the mead of Norham, the sound of the bugle, and
the clash of the shock, had brought out many of the inhabitants of the
village to see what was a-doing. Amongst these was the black-eyed Mrs.
Kyle, who came up to Master Mortimer Sang, and laying hold of his
bridle-rein—
“When goest thou for Scotland?” said she anxiously.
“Even now, fair dame,” said he calmly.
“Then go I with thee, Sir Squire,” returned she. “Let me have a seat on
that batt-horse; I can ride right merrily there.”
“Nay, my most beautiful Mrs. Kyle,” replied Sang, “that may in no wise
be, seeing I am an honest virtuous esquire, not one of those false
faitors who basely run away with other men’s wives. Thou canst not with
me, I promise thee.”
“Yea, but thou didst promise to take me,” cried Mrs. Kyle, a flood of
tears bursting from her eyes, as she began to reproach Sang, with a
voice half-chocked by the violence of her sobbing. “So false foiterer
that thou art, I—I—I—I must be foredone by thee, must I, after all thy
losengery and flattery? Here have I kept goodman Kyle all this time i’
the vault, ygraven, as a body may say, that I mought the more sickerly
follow thee when thou wentest. Oh, what will become of me? I am but as
one dead.”
“Why, thou cruel giglet, thou,” cried Sang, “didst thou in very truth
mean to go off to Scotland with me, and leave thy poor husband ygraven
i’ the vault to die the most horrible of deaths? Did not I tell thee to
let him out at thy leisure and on thine own good terms? By the mass, a
pretty leisure hast thou taken, and pretty terms hast thou resolved to
yield him.”
“Nay, judge not so hastily, good Sir Squire,” replied Mrs. Kyle. “That
I would boune me to Scotland is sure enow; but, as to leaving Sylvester
Kyle to die a cruel death, Thomas Tapster here knows that I taught him
the use of the sliding plank and the clicket of the trap door, and that
Master Sylvester was to receive his franchise as soon as Tweed should
be atween us. But what shall I do? I can never go back to the Norham
Tower again; goodman Sylvester will surely amortise me attenes when he
doth get freedom.”
“Squire,” said Hepborne, “thou must e’en get thee back to the village,
and make her peace with the bear her husband: we shall wait for thee at
the ferry-boat.”
“Nay, as for that matter,” said Sang, “I must go back at any rate, for
I have yet to pay the rascal for the excellent supper we had of him,
and for the herborow of our party for the night we spent there. Come
along then, Dame Kyle, I see thou art not quite so savage as I took
thee to be.”
They soon reached the hostel, and Master Mortimer Sang, dismounting
from his horse in the yard, entered, and strode along the passage to
the place where he knew the trap-door to be, and, sliding aside the
plank that covered its fastenings, he hoisted up the lever.
“Sylvester Kyle, miserable lossel wight,” cried he, “art thou yet
alive? Sinner that thou art, I have compassion on thee, and albeit thou
hast been there but some short space—small guerdon for thy wicked
coulpe, seeing thou art in the midst of so great a mountance of good
provender and drink, with which to fill thine enormous bowke—I
condescend to let thee come forth. Come up, come up, I say, and show
thy face, that we may hold parley as to the terms of thine
enlargement.”
A groaning was heard from the farther end of the place, and by and by
Sylvester’s head appeared above the steps, his countenance wearing the
most miserable expression. Horrible fear of the agonizing death he had
thought himself doomed to die had prevented him from touching food; but
the anxious workings of his mind had done even more mortification upon
him than a starvation of a fortnight could have accomplished. The red
in his face was converted into a deadly pale copper hue, for even death
itself could never have altogether extinguished the flame in his nose;
his teeth projected beyond his lips, and chattered against each other
from the cold he had undergone: and his eyes stared in their sockets,
from the united effects of want and terror.
“Should it please me to give thee the franchise, thou agroted lorrel,
thou,” said the Squire, “wilt thou give me thy promise to comport
thyself more honestly in time to come, to have done with all knavery
and chinchery, and to give thy very best to all Scots who may, in time
to come, chance to honour thy hostelry with their presence?”
“Oh, good Sir Squire,” replied the host, “anything—I will promise
anything that thou mayest please.”
“Nay, nay, Sir Knave,” cried Sang, “horrow tallowcatch that thou art—no
generals—swear me in particulars—item by item, dost thou hear, as thou
framest thy reckonings? If thou dost not down goeth the trap-door
again, and I leave thee here to meditate and ypend my proposal, until
my return from the Holy Wars, whether I am boune. By that time thou
wilt be more humble, and more coming to my terms. Swear.”
“I swear, by the holy St. Cuthbert,” replied the host, “that all Scots
shall henceforth be entertained with the best meats and drinks the nale
of the Norham Tower can afford, yea, alswa the best herborow it can
yield them.”
“’Tis well,” said Sang; “swear me next, then, and let the oath be
strong, that thou wilt never again score double.”
“Nay, Master Squire, that is a hard oath for a tapster to take; ’tis
warring against the very nicest mystery of my vocation,” said Kyle.
“No matter, Sir Knave,” said Sang, “I shall not have my terms agrutched
by thee. An thou swearest not this, down thou goest, and I leave thee
to settle scores with a friend of thine below, with whom thou wilt find
the single reckoning of thy sins a hard enough matter for thee to pay.”
“Oh, for mercy’s sake, touch not the trap-door, Sir Squire, and I will
swear anything,” cried Kyle, much alarmed at seeing Sang’s brawny arm
preparing to turn it over upon his head.
“Well, thou horrow lossel,” cried Sang, “dost thou swear thou wilt
never more cheat, or score double?”
“I do, I do,” said the host; “by the holy Rood, I swear that I will
never cheat or score double again. God help me,” cried he, after a
pause, “how shall I eschew it, and what shall I do without it?”
“Now, thou prince of knaves,” cried Sang, “thou hast yet one more
serment to swallow. Swear by the blessed Virgin, that thou wilt receive
thy wife back into thy bosom, and abandoning thy former harshness
towards her, that thou wilt kindly cherish her, and do thy possible to
comfort and pleasure her, forgetting all that may have hitherto
happened amiss between ye. I restore her to thee pure. She was not to
blame for my being in the vault with her. The coulpe was all thine own.
Thou madest me ravenous with hunger by thy villainous chinchery. My
nose, through very want, became as sharp in scent as that of a
sleuth-hound. I winded the steam that came from the trap-door, yea,
from the very common room where I sat. I ran it up hot foot, and
descending the stair, I had but just begun to feast mine eyes with that
thou hadst denied to my stomach, when thy pestiferous voice was heard.
Thy wife is as virtuous and innocent as the child unborn. So swear, I
say.”
Master Sylvester Kyle shook his head wofully, and looked very far from
satisfied; but he had no alternative; he swore as the squire wished him
to do, and then was permitted to issue from his subterranean prison.
“And now, Sir Knave,” said Sang, “do but note my extreme clemency. Thou
wouldst have starved me, the knights, and our good company, because we
were Scots, for the which grievous sin I did put thee in a prison full
of goodly provender and rich drinks; whence I now let thee forth, with
thy greedy carcase crammed to bursting, and thy whole person plump and
fair as a capon. Do but behold him, I beseech ye, how round he looks.
Now get thee to thine augrim-stones, and cast up thine account withal.
Thou knowest pretty well what we have had, for thou didst give me the
victuals and wine with thine own hand.”
“Nay, good Sir Squire,” said Kyle, glad to escape, “take it all, in
God’s name, as a free gift, and let us part good friends.”
“Nay, nay,” said Master Sang, “we take no such beggarly treats, we
Scottish knights and squires. Come, come—thy reckoning, thy reckoning,
dost hear? No more words; my master doth wait, and I must haste to join
him.”
Kyle, with his wife’s assistance, and that of the pebbles or
augrim-stones, by which accounts were usually made out in those days,
scored up the first fair reckoning he had ever made in his life, and
Sang paid it without a word.
“And now,” said he, “let us, as thou saidst, Master Kyle, let us e’en
part good friends. Bring me a stirrup-cup of thy best.”
The host hastened to fetch a cup of excellent Rhenish. They drank to
each other, and shook hands with perfect cordiality; and the squire,
smacking the pouting lips of Mrs. Kyle, mounted his horse, and rode
away to join his party.
As the knights and their small retinue were crossing the Tweed in the
ferry-boat, Hepborne cast his eyes up to the keep of the Castle,
towering high above them, and frowning defiance upon Scotland. A white
hand appeared from a narrow window, and waved a handkerchief; and, by a
sort of natural impulse, he was about to have waved and kissed his
fervently in return.
“Pshaw!” said he, pettishly checking himself, for being so ready to
yield to the impulse of his heart. The white hand and handkerchief
waved again—and again it waved ere he reached the Scottish shore; but
he manfully resisted all temptation, and gave no sign of recognition.
As he mounted, however, he looked once more. The hand was still there,
streaming the little speck of white. His resolution gave way—he waved
his hand, and his eyes filling with tears, he dashed the rowels of his
spurs against the sides of his steed, sprang off at full gallop, and
was immediately lost amongst the oak copse through which lay their
destined way.