Inflamed wrath in glowing breast.--BUTLER.
The knight and the friar arriving at Arlingford Castle, and leaving
their horses in the care of lady Matilda’s groom, with whom the friar
was in great favour, were ushered into a stately apartment, where they
found the baron alone, flourishing an enormous carving-knife over a
brother baron--of beef--with as much vehemence of action as if he
were cutting down an enemy. The baron was a gentleman of a fierce and
choleric temperament: he was lineally descended from the redoubtable
Fierabras of Normandy, who came over to England with the Conqueror, and
who, in the battle of Hastings, killed with his own hand four-and-twenty
Saxon cavaliers all on a row. The very excess of the baron’s internal
rage on the preceding day had smothered its external manifestation: he
was so equally angry with both parties, that he knew not on which to
vent his wrath. He was enraged with the earl for having brought himself
into such a dilemma without his privily; and he was no less enraged with
the king’s men for their very unseasonable intrusion. He could willingly
have fallen upon both parties, but, he must necessarily have begun with
one; and he felt that on whichever side he should strike the first blow,
his retainers would immediately join battle. He had therefore contented
himself with forcing away his daughter from the scene of action. In
the course of the evening he had received intelligence that the earl’s
castle was in possession of a party of the king’s men, who had been
detached by Sir Ralph Montfaucon to seize on it during the earl’s
absence. The baron inferred from this that the earl’s case was
desperate; and those who have had the opportunity of seeing a rich
friend fall suddenly into poverty, may easily judge by their own
feelings how quickly and completely the whole moral being of the earl
was changed in the baron’s estimation. The baron immediately proceeded
to require in his daughter’s mind the same summary revolution that had
taken place in his own, and considered himself exceedingly ill-used by
her non-compliance. The lady had retired to her chamber, and the
baron had passed a supperless and sleepless night, stalking about his
apartments till an advanced hour of the morning, when hunger compelled
him to summon into his presence the spoils of the buttery, which, being
the intended array of an uneaten wedding feast, were more than usually
abundant, and on which, when the knight and the friar entered, he was
falling with desperate valour. He looked up at them fiercely, with his
mouth full of beef and his eyes full of flame, and rising, as ceremony
required, made an awful bow to the knight, inclining himself forward
over the table and presenting his carving-knife en militaire, in a
manner that seemed to leave it doubtful whether he meant to show respect
to his visitor, or to defend his provision: but the doubt was soon
cleared up by his politely motioning the knight to be seated; on which
the friar advanced to the table, saying, “For what we are going to
receive,” and commenced operations without further prelude by filling
and drinking a goblet of wine. The baron at the same time offered one
to Sir Ralph, with the look of a man in whom habitual hospitality and
courtesy were struggling with the ebullitions of natural anger. They
pledged each other in silence, and the baron, having completed a copious
draught, continued working his lips and his throat, as if trying to
swallow his wrath as he had done his wine. Sir Ralph, not knowing well
what to make of these ambiguous signs, looked for instructions to the
friar, who by significant looks and gestures seemed to advise him to
follow his example and partake of the good cheer before him, without
speaking till the baron should be more intelligible in his demeanour.
The knight and the friar, accordingly, proceeded to refect themselves
after their ride; the baron looking first at the one and then at the
other, scrutinising alternately the serious looks of the knight and
the merry face of the friar, till at length, having calmed himself
sufficiently to speak, he said, “Courteous knight and ghostly father,
I presume you have some other business with me than to eat my beef and
drink my canary; and if so, I patiently await your leisure to enter on
the topic.”
“Lord Fitzwater,” said Sir Ralph, “in obedience to my royal master, King
Henry, I have been the unwilling instrument of frustrating the intended
nuptials of your fair daughter; yet will you, I trust, owe me no
displeasure for my agency herein, seeing that the noble maiden might
otherwise by this time have been the bride of an outlaw.”
“I am very much obliged to you, sir,” said the baron; “very exceedingly
obliged. Your solicitude for my daughter is truly paternal, and for a
young man and a stranger very singular and exemplary: and it is very
kind withal to come to the relief of my insufficiency and inexperience,
and concern yourself so much in that which concerns you not.”
“You misconceive the knight, noble baron,” said the friar. “He urges
not his reason in the shape of a preconceived intent, but in that of
a subsequent extenuation. True, he has done the lady Matilda great
wrong----”
“How, great wrong?” said the baron. “What do you mean by great wrong?
Would you have had her married to a wild fly-by-night, that accident
made an earl and nature a deer-stealer? that has not wit enough to eat
venison without picking a quarrel with monarchy? that flings away his
own lands into the clutches of rascally friars, for the sake of hunting
in other men’s grounds, and feasting vagabonds that wear Lincoln
green, and would have flung away mine into the bargain if he had had my
daughter? What do you mean by great wrong?”
“True,” said the friar, “great right, I meant.”
“Right!” exclaimed the baron: “what right has any man to do my daughter
right but myself? What right has any man to drive my daughter’s
bridegroom out of the chapel in the middle of the marriage ceremony, and
turn all our merry faces into green wounds and bloody coxcombs, and then
come and tell me he has done us great right?”
“True,” said the friar: “he has done neither right nor wrong.”
“But he has,” said the baron, “he has done both, and I will maintain it
with my glove.”
“It shall not need,” said Sir Ralph; “I will concede any thing in
honour.”
“And I,” said the baron, “will concede nothing in honour: I will concede
nothing in honour to any man.”
“Neither will I, Lord Fitzwater,” said Sir Ralph, “in that sense:
but hear me. I was commissioned by the king to apprehend the Earl of
Huntingdon. I brought with me a party of soldiers, picked and tried men,
knowing that he would not lightly yield. I sent my lieutenant with a
detachment to surprise the earl’s castle in his absence, and laid my
measures for intercepting him on the way to his intended nuptials; but
he seems to have had intimation of this part of my plan, for he brought
with him a large armed retinue, and took a circuitous route, which made
him, I believe, somewhat later than his appointed hour. When the lapse
of time showed me that he had taken another track, I pursued him to the
chapel; and I would have awaited the close of the ceremony, if I had
thought that either yourself or your daughter would have felt desirous
that she should have been the bride of an outlaw.”
“Who said, sir,” cried the baron, “that we were desirous of any such
thing? But truly, sir, if I had a mind to the devil for a son-in-law, I
would fain see the man that should venture to interfere.”
“That would I,” said the friar; “for I have undertaken to make her
renounce the devil.”
“She shall not renounce the devil,” said the baron, “unless I please.
You are very ready with your undertakings. Will you undertake to make
her renounce the earl, who, I believe, is the devil incarnate? Will you
undertake that?”
“Will I undertake,” said the friar, “to make Trent run westward, or to
make flame burn downward, or to make a tree grow with its head in the
earth and its root in the air?”
“So then,” said the baron, “a girl’s mind is as hard to change as nature
and the elements, and it is easier to make her renounce the devil than a
lover. Are you a match for the devil, and no match for a man?”
“My warfare,” said the friar, “is not of this world. I am militant not
against man, but the devil, who goes about seeking what he may devour.”
“Oh! does he so?” said the baron: “then I take it that makes you look
for him so often in my buttery. Will you cast out the devil whose name
is Legion, when you cannot cast out the imp whose name is Love?”
“Marriages,” said the friar, “are made in heaven. Love is God’s work,
and therewith I meddle not.”
“God’s work, indeed!” said the baron, “when the ceremony was cut short
in the church. Could men have put them asunder, if God had joined them
together? And the earl is now no earl, but plain Robert Fitz-Ooth:
therefore, I’ll none of him.”
“He may atone,” said the friar, “and the king may mollify. The earl is a
worthy peer, and the king is a courteous king.”
“He cannot atone,” said Sir Ralph. “He has killed the king’s men; and if
the baron should aid and abet, he will lose his castle and land.”
“Will I?” said the baron; “not while I have a drop of blood in my veins.
He that comes to take them shall first serve me as the friar serves my
flasks of canary: he shall drain me dry as hay. Am I not disparaged? Am
I not outraged? Is not my daughter vilified, and made a mockery? A girl
half-married? There was my butler brought home with a broken head.
My butler, friar: there is that may move your sympathy. Friar, the
earl-no-earl shall come no more to my daughter.”
“Very good,” said the friar.
“It is not very good,” said the baron, “for I cannot get her to say so.”
“I fear,” said Sir Ralph, “the young lady must be much distressed and
discomposed.”
“Not a whit, sir,” said the baron. “She is, as usual, in a most
provoking imperturbability, and contradicts me so smilingly that it
would enrage you to see her.”
“I had hoped,” said Sir Ralph, “that I might have seen her, to make my
excuse in person for the hard necessity of my duty.”
He had scarcely spoken, when the door opened, and the lady made her
appearance.