“Well flown, falcon—see how it mounts into the clouds—the heron has
it—on, on knights and ladies fair, or we shall not be in at the death.”
As the speaker ceased, the falcon, which had been mounting in gyrations
growing narrower and narrower as it ascended above its prey, suddenly
stooped from its height, and shooting upon the heron, like a
thunderbolt, bore the huge bird in its talons to the earth. The swoop,
and the descent passed with the rapidity of lightning, and in a moment
after the gallant train were gallopping to the assistance of the falcon.
Their way lay along the high bank of the river, from whose reedy margin
the heron had been roused. The path was often broken, and difficult to
traverse; but so eager were all to reach the desired point that no one
appeared to mind these inequalities. Suddenly the path made an almost
precipitous descent, and while a portion of the train dashed recklessly
down the steep, the more prudent checked their course, and sought a less
dangerous road. By this means the party became divided, that which
remained on the brow of the hill being by far the more numerous. The
other group consisted, indeed, of but three individuals—a falconer, a
page, and the niece of their master, the Earl of Torston. The palfrey of
the latter was one of rare speed, and it was with difficulty that the
two servitors could keep up with their beautiful and high-spirited
mistress.
“On Ralph—ay, Leoline, you are falling behind,” she said, glancing
around at her companions as the distance between them rapidly increased.
“To the right—to the right,” shouted the falconer, “the heron has
fallen in the marsh.”
The maiden suddenly drew her rein in, to follow this direction; but as
she did so a half a score of men, attired as Scottish borderers, started
from the thickets around, and seizing her bridle, and that of her
attendants, vanished with them into the recesses of the forest. All
efforts at resistance were precluded by the numbers of the assailants,
and lest the two servitors should alarm their now rapidly approaching
companions, they were hastily gagged. The whole party then set forward
at a brisk pace toward the neighboring Scottish border.
The lady Eleanor was one of the most beautiful maidens of the north of
England, and her expectations from her childless uncle were equalled
only by her charms. Already had many a gallant knight broken a lance in
defence of her beauty, or sought even more openly to win her for his
bride. But to all alike she bore the same demeanor. Her heart was as yet
untouched. Gay, sportive, full of wit, and not altogether unconscious of
her exalted station, the heiress of three baronies continued to be the
idol of her uncle, and the admiration of the English chivalry. It was
while engaged in hawking with her train that she had been surprised, as
we have related, by a band of Scottish marauders, with the intention of
profiting by her ransom.
For some hours the party continued their flight with unabated speed,
concealing themselves in the depths of the forests, until they had left
the possessions of Lord Torston, and gained a range of barren and
desolate hills, where there was little likelihood of meeting with
interruption. The object of the capturers was obviously to bear off
their prize across the border, so rapidly as to defy all measures to be
taken for her rescue.
The lady Eleanor was not, however, without considerable energy of
character, arising in part no doubt from the stormy times in which she
lived, for she had listened so often to the tales of her ancestor’s
deeds that she felt it would derogate from her, even though a maiden,
not to shew a portion of the same spirit in disaster. As they were
hurried along, therefore, she busied herself in revolving a plan for her
escape. But she could think of no feasible scheme, without the
co-operation of her servitors, and they were kept so far in the rear,
and guarded so carefully, that any communication with them she saw would
be impossible. In this perplexity she breathed a silent prayer to the
virgin, and was about resigning herself to her fate when the wail of a
bugle broke upon her ear, and looking up she beheld three horsemen
crossing the brow of a hill, a few yards distant. At the same moment the
marauders recognised the new comers as enemies, and hurrying their
captives into the rear prepared for the fray.
“Ah! what have we here?” exclaimed the leader of the men-at-arms, a bold
stalwart youth, just verging into manhood, turning to his companions,
“by St. George, a pack of Scottish thieves—and there is a lady among
them, a prisoner I trow, for she is dressed like a maiden of rank. What
say you, comrades? we are three good men against yon dozen varlets,
shall we attempt a rescue?”
“Ay—ay—Harry Bowbent, lead on,” exclaimed the leader of his
companions, “for though your blood is often over-hot, yet who could
refuse to charge yon Scottish knaves in such a cause?”
The marauders had, meanwhile, drawn themselves up across the road, and
when the three men-at-arms spurred their horses to the charge, the Scots
received them by stepping briskly aside, and striking at the animals
with their huge swords. Two of the assailants were thus brought to the
ground at the first onset; but the one called Bowbent, and his elder
companion, bore each a Scotsman to the earth with his long lance, and
then taking to their swords, struck about them with such fury as to
finish the contest in a space of time almost as short as that which it
takes to narrate it. They did not, however, gain this victory without
cost. Both the youth and his elder comrade were wounded, while the
man-at-arms, who had been unhorsed, was killed. Several of the marauders
fell on the field, and the others took to flight.
“Poor Jasper,” said the youth, looking mournfully upon his slain
follower, “your life was soon ended. God help me! misfortunes seem to
attend on all who espouse my fortunes.” And, after regarding the dead
man a moment longer, the youth turned away with a sigh, to fulfil his
remaining duty, by inquiring whom he had rescued, and offering to
conduct her to a place of safety.
Meanwhile the lady Eleanor had been an anxious though admiring spectator
of the contest, and many a prayer did she breathe for the success of her
gallant rescuers. The boldness of the youth especially aroused her
interest, and her heart beat faster and her breath came quicker,
whenever he seemed on the point of being overpowered. As he now moved
toward her, she felt, she knew not why, the color mounting in her
cheeks,—and as he raised his visor, she could not but acknowledge that
the countenance beneath, vied with, and even excelled, in manly beauty
and frankness of expression, any she had ever seen. The youth, however,
had just began to express, in the courtly language of the day, his
delight at having come up so opportunely, when a sudden paleness shot
over his countenance, and after endeavoring vainly to speak, he sank,
fainting to the ground.
“It is only this ugly wound in his side,” said his older comrade,
noticing the alarm in the maiden’s countenance, “he has fainted from
loss of blood.”
“Can he not be borne to the castle?—here Ralph, Leoline, a litter for
the wounded man—but, see, he revives.”
The wounded youth opened his eyes faintly, and gazed upon the maiden as
she spoke, and then closed them, as if in pain.
“He has fainted again,” said the lady Eleanor, “cannot the blood be
staunched? I have some slight skill in the healing art, let me at least
bind up his wounds.”
Taking a scarf from her neck as she spoke, the maiden proceeded to
examine the hurts of the young man-at-arms, and having carefully bound
them up, during which operation the reviving sufferer testified his mute
gratitude by his looks, she allowed him to be placed on the rude litter
her servitors had hastily prepared for him, and then the whole party set
out to return to the castle.
* * * * *
It was a fortnight after the above events, and the wounded youth was now
convalescent. The room in which he sat, was a large old gothic
apartment, but the mild breath of summer stealing through the open
window, and bearing the odor of flowers upon its bosom, gave a freshness
to that old chamber, which banished, for the time, its gloominess. The
invalid was sitting up, and by his side was the lady Eleanor, gazing up
into his eyes with a look which a woman bestows only upon the one she
loves.
On reaching the castle, the lady Eleanor, in the absence of her uncle,
ordered the utmost attentions to be paid to the wounded young man. In
consequence, the best room in the castle was allotted to him, and in the
absence of a better leech, and in compliance with the customs of the
time, the lady Eleanor herself became his physician. Opportunities were
thus presented for their being together, which, as he grew more
convalescent, became dangerous to the peace of both. Perhaps it was his
dependence on her skill; perhaps it was the wound he had received in her
cause; perhaps it was that she had expected no refinement whatever in
one apparently of such questionable rank; perhaps—but no matter—like
many a one before and since, it was not long before the lady Eleanor
found that in attending her patient, she had lost her heart.
Nor was the wounded youth less inspired by affection for his fair
physician. Gratitude for her kindness, to say nothing of her sweetness
and beauty, had long since won his most devoted love. And, now, as they
sat together, one might perceive, by the heightened color on the cheek
of the maiden, and the unresisting manner in which her hand lay in that
of the youth, that their mutual affections had just been revealed to
each other in words.
“Yes—sweet one,” said the youth, as if continuing a conversation, “we
may have much to overcome before we triumph, if indeed we ever may; and
I almost wish that we had never met.” His companion looked at him
chidingly. “No, not that either, dearest. But yet I would I could remove
this uncertainty that hangs around my birth. I am at least a gentleman
born—of that I have always been assured—I am, moreover a knight; but
whether the son of a peer, or of one with only a single fee, I know not.
Until this uncertainty can be removed, I cannot pretend openly to aspire
to your hand. I almost fear me that my honor may be questioned, thus to
plight my vows with you, dear Eleanor; yet fate, which has thrown us
thus together, has some meaning in her freak.”
“May it prove indeed so,” said the maiden. “But you say you were always
told you were noble born. Who assured you of this? Indeed, I must hear
your history, for who knows,” continued she archly, “but I may unravel
your riddle?”
“Of my early life I know little, for though I remember events as far
back even as infancy, yet it is but faintly, as we often remember
incidents in a dream. Indeed I have often thought that these memories
may be nothing more than vague recollections of dreams themselves
happening so far back in my childhood as to seem like realities. Be that
as it may, I have these shadowy impressions of living when very young in
a large old castle, with hosts of retainers, and being served as if I
was the owner of all. I remember also a fine noble looking man, and a
lovely lady who used to take me in her arms and smile upon me. One
day—it seems but yesterday, and I remember this more distinctly than
any thing else—I was taken out by my attendants, who were, I suspect,
attacked and overpowered, for I found myself rudely seized by a rough
soldier, at whom I cried, and by whom I was carried off. I never saw any
of my attendants more. Every face around me was new, and for days I
thought my heart would break. I think I must have been carried into
Scotland, for as I grew up the country around looked barren like it, and
my protectors were continually returning from forays over the border on
the Southron as they call us. Besides even yet I have somewhat of their
accent in my speech.
“I could not have been but a very young child, however, when I changed
my protectors, and went beyond sea. For two or three years we travelled
much; but finally settled in France. Those with whom I resided were of
the better sort of peasants, and consisted of an old woman and her
daughter. We were often visited by a stern, dark man, whom I was told
was a knight. He indeed must have been the person who was my real
protector, for after a while, my habitation was again changed, and I
became the resident of an old decayed fortalice, where a warden and one
or two servants constituted the whole household. Here I remained for
many years, and until I was past my boyhood. I saw no more of my
imagined protector, but I have every reason to believe he owned the old
castle, where, by-the-bye, I picked up some knowledge of
war-like-exercises; sufficient indeed to fit me, at the age of eighteen,
to be sent to the army as a man-at-arms. I served a campaign under the
banner of the Sieur de Lorenge, to whom I had been recommended by, I
suppose, my unknown protector. His secret agency I have no doubt was
exerted in procuring me to be knighted. Since then I have been thrown
upon my own resources, and for a couple of years have served in
Flanders, but wishing to discover, if possible, my real birth, I left
the continent, and reaching England, set out on this apparently insane
search. I have been engaged in it more than a half a year, and have yet
obtained no clue to my parentage. I judge it, however, to be English,
from my having been brought up in Scotland, for I was certainly taken
prisoner in a foray. And now, dearest, you have my history—and what,
alas! do you know of me, except that I am a penniless unknown knight,
hunting through this broad realm for a parentage?”
The maiden did not answer the question of her lover directly, but seemed
lost in thought. She gazed wonderingly upon the speaker, and said,—
“Strange!—if it should prove to be so.”