designs, fancied that he had made in this scheme a notable hit of
policy, and from time to time looked up to the listener’s face for the
approbation to which he thought himself entitled. Reginald, however,
perceived that his castle-building would meet with obstacles which the
architect had never contemplated; and began to be of opinion that a
friendly alliance between Norman and Saxon sounded very like an amicable
treaty between hound and hare, or a peaceable union between fire and
water. To these thoughts he was unwilling to give utterance: a dispute,
and upon such a subject, was a thing to which he had an insuperable
reluctance: he therefore quietly acquiesced in his father’s reasoning,
and, after stipulating that in this matter no trouble should fall upon
himself, composed himself in a quiet slumber, while the Baron was
recounting the particulars of his ten years’ courtship of Marie, the
beautiful heiress of Roger de Vesnoy, the last lord of Battiswold.
The old man, contented with this calm compliance on the part of his son,
proceeded forthwith to put his favourite scheme in execution. For many
weeks was his brain disturbed by the anxiety which he felt for the
result of his negotiations: there were messages, and letters, and
heralds, and stipulations, and breakings off, and reconciliations, more
than sufficient to perplex the thoughts of a far more able diplomatist.
Meantime the person who was to bear the principal part in the play which
was now in rehearsal, ate, drank, and slept, talked of his horses and
hounds, and his escutcheon, and thought of nothing less than of his fair
unseen intended, Elfrida of Kennet Hold. Finally, the treaty was
completed more successfully than the violent temper of Leofwyn gave
reason to expect; and Reginald received orders to prepare for an
immediate journey to receive the bride he had never courted. The first
impression upon his mind was that it was passing strange that the pride
of a Saxon thane, nay, the pride of a Saxon heiress, could be with such
facility subdued. Reflection, however, was not his province; and,
banishing as quickly as possible the intrusive idea, he prepared himself
to obey his father.
On the morrow he set out. The manuscript from which I draw my
information describes, with much prolixity, the accoutrements of himself
and his steed; from whence it makes a considerable digression to the
changes in the fashions of dress, and the peculiar merits of various
breeds of horses. It then makes honourable mention of his attendants,
and dwells upon certain scandalous anecdotes connected with their family
concerns. The last-mentioned points I deem it right to omit altogether;
and upon the others I must be more concise than is the chronicler whom I
follow, the erudite Henricus Wykeleius.
It appears that Reginald, although a bigot to the manners and prejudices
which his Norman ancestry had entailed upon him, had, upon this
occasion, in compliance with the request of his father, assumed the
costume of the Saxons. So much had the natural ease and gracefulness of
his frame been improved by constant exercise and knightly sports, that
the unaccustomed dress seemed to be no restraint or inconvenience to
him; and his limbs were as free in the long Saxon robe as they had been
wont to be in the short Norman tunic. He reined his horse with a skill
which at once excited and curbed his impetuosity, while it set off to
the best advantage the forms of both the animal and his rider. Of this,
however, neither of them stood in need. Launcelot was one of the noblest
steeds that ever bore armed knight to the lists; and Reginald, in spite
of the want of animation which was so evident in his features, was
really a handsome and well-proportioned youth. Had his education been
suited to his talents, or the qualifications of his mind kept pace with
those of his body, few warriors might have won lady’s love so lightly as
Reginald d’Arennes.
Of his followers, which were six in number, four were merely retainers
of little note or name. Of the remaining two some notice must be taken.
The first was Roger Naylis, an old and approved dependent, who was his
companion upon this journey for the purpose of obviating by his prudence
and experience those dangers into which the hot heart or light head of
his young master might hurry him. The other was a personage of a
description not quite so common. This was Robin Garnet, who had long
been in Reginald’s service, in triple capacity of page, associate, and
fool. His was a character, of which, in the compass of this tale, it
will be impossible to give the reader any idea. In it was to be found
the most extraordinary mixture of cunning and folly, blindness and
foresight, thoughtlessness and thought. His actions were generally those
which no one but a madman would commit; yet the means by which he
extricated himself from their consequences were those which none but a
man of great acuteness would hit upon. He was the son of poor parents,
but had rendered himself, by his talents for frolic and buffoonery, so
necessary to the young lord, that he was looked upon almost in the light
of his foster-brother. He rode a small piebald nag, which formed a
whimsical contrast with the large black courser of his master. His dress
was that of an ordinary page; his form, though small, was not inelegant;
and his features, though not handsome, had an arch expression about
them, which looked very ludicrous, when compared with the lifelessness
of Reginald’s.
Nothing more need be said of him save that the extremes of cunning and
idiotcy which his conduct perpetually exhibited had conferred upon him
two denominations, which were alternately applied as they became by
turns appropriate. When the former predominated, he was termed “Robin
the Wily;” and when the latter resumed its influence, his appellation
was “Robin the Witless.”
Upon the present occasion Reginald was not a little annoyed that he was
compelled to converse with his father’s old counsellor, to the exclusion
of the humorous partner of his follies. From this inconvenience,
however, he was soon relieved. Before he had gone many miles he was met
by a messenger from Leofwyn, who, after various excuses and apologies,
informed him that his lord had vowed a vow that two men of Norman blood
should never cross his threshold together; and that he therefore
requested his future son-in-law to dismiss such of his train as fell
under this interdict. The young lord certainly was not greatly
displeased, when, upon examination, it was found that Robin was the only
one of his followers who was not excluded by Norman lineage from the
hall of the Saxon thane. Nevertheless, when his aged attendant whispered
his suspicions of meditated treason, and intimated the propriety of
returning, he gazed on the adviser, and then on the page, and then on
the messenger; and expressed, by look and word, his usual sentiment in
all such dilemmas--“I doubt!”
“The hall of Leofwyn is open,” said the messenger; “shall I say that the
guest dallieth? The Lady Elfrida is in her bridal robe; shall I say that
the bridegroom delayeth his purpose?” “I will go with thee,” said
Reginald.
“For my part, I say nought,” observed Naylis, “but life may be
preserved, and life may be thrown away; and one against a hundred is
fearful odds. Fathers will weep when children die; it matters not
whether by the naked sword or the poisoned cup.” “I will return with
thee!” said Reginald.
“Of a surety,” said Robin, “there is a venture both ways. If we advance,
life is perilled; and if we retreat, the lady is lost.” “I know not
whether to go or to return?” said Reginald.
“I will return to my master,” said the messenger; “peradventure he will
send to thee that shall remove thine apprehensions. Hasten not on the
way. Marry! it is well that the Lady Elfrida should wait the leisure of
Reginald d’Arennes;” and, turning his horse’s head, he was preparing to
depart, when Naylis seized his reins, exclaiming: “Not so, Sir
Discourteous! By our Lady thou departest not so lightly. Sir Reginald
wendeth to Kennet Hold, and if a hair of his head be injured thou diest,
an thou wert Leofwyn’s first-born!”
“Norman hound!” cried the messenger, with an exclamation of surprise,
“hast thou divined---- but no! thy thoughts were no parties to thy lips,
and I war not for a random word. I will go with ye--rather than your
master should lose his bride. By the soul of Hengist, it were pity!” As
he spoke he removed his hand, which he had laid upon the hilt of his
dagger, and bent upon Reginald a look in which there was much and deep
signification, although the standers-by were unable to read its import.
Naylis led his young lord apart, and spoke a few words in an earnest
whisper. Reginald still seemed irresolute; he began to reply hastily in
a tone between soliloquy and expostulation.
“Thou sayest right well, Roger, and with discretion; yet, by my spurs, a
younger head had given warmer counsel! How think you, my masters, were
it not a pleasant tale to tell that Reginald d’Arennes fled from the
bright eyes of his bride? Yet, as thou sayest, Roger, there is danger in
this adventure! Not that I heed shaft or spear, bill or battle-axe, in
the hand of a Saxon; thou knowest I am no craven, Roger! But then, as
thou sayest, Roger--my father, I do believe my death-wound would be his!
I will return to him--yet would he be shamed by my return! I will go
on--or rather, I will not; thou shalt hasten back to him, Roger, and
tell him--hum! I doubt!”
How long the contest might have lasted it is impossible to determine;
the remaining attendants were beginning to hazard surmises respecting
the eligibility of a night lodging _sub dio_, when Robin the Wily sprung
with a kind of harlequin step before his patron, and, throwing himself
into the attitude of a despairing maiden, sang, in a ludicrously
plaintive voice, some stanzas of a popular air, which may be thus
modernized:--
Oh! I am drest in my bridal vest,
The feast is on the board!
And whither fleeth my father’s guest?
Whither Elfrida’s lord?
I look to the east, and I look to the west,
The evening moon is toward;
But I see not yet my father’s guest,
I see not Elfrida’s lord!
Why am I dight in my kirtle of white,
My silken snood withal?
For not to-night that craven knight
Will cross my father’s hall.
She hath torn outright her kirtle of white,
Her silken snood withal;
And not to-night that craven knight
Will cross her father’s hall!
“I will go on to Kennet Hold,” said Reginald. There was something in the
look of the page, more than in the words he uttered, which had so deeply
inspired his master with that strongest of all incentives, the dread of
ridicule, that his determination was now inflexible. Well was it said by
the learned monk, Bedo Camerarius, “the resolution of a strong mind
giveth way to argument, but the obstinacy of a weak one never!” Naylis
was of the same opinion: he held another conference with his master in
whispers; the result of which was that Reginald exchanged his loose robe
for the rich suit of armour which was borne after him by his attendants.
They were preparing to separate upon their respective journeys, when
they discovered the first fruits of Reginald’s hesitation in the
departure of their purposed hostage. No orders had been given for his
forcible detention; and he had accordingly taken advantage of the
consultation which had engaged the attention of the party to effect his
retreat. “The hawk without a collar hath but brief thraldom,” said
Robin. “Thou art right, knave,” said Naylis; “had thy counsel been
earlier, yon slave should have made experiment of the weight of a Norman
gyve. But it matters not. Though the Saxon have the temper of his own
Zernbock, and the Furies to boot, he dare not--surely he dare not! Well
I wot our master would work so deep a requital that the heads of twenty
such miscreants should appear cheap ransom!”
“Fare thee well, good Naylis,” said Reginald; “bid my father be of good
cheer, and do honour to his son’s bridal! Ha! ha! Thou hast still thy
misdoubtings and thine apprehensions--I know thy mind!” “Would thou
didst know thine own but half as well!” muttered the old man, as he
turned slowly round, followed by the Norman attendants. The steeds, as
if rejoicing to be again in motion, arched their proud necks, and flung
back their thick manes in the wind: the clattering of their hoofs arose,
and sank, and died into silence.
Reginald and the knave, Robin, journeyed some miles without converse.
The latter seemed to be thinking of nothing but his new doublet, and the
former seemed to be thinking of nothing at all. After a considerable
pause, the Knight began the conversation. “I am doubting, Robin----”
“It is a wise man that solveth his own doubts!” returned his attendant.
“I am doubting, Robin,” continued Reginald, “whether thou or I be the
greater fool!”
“A gibe! a gibe!” cried the jester; “thy reasons, most convincing
disputant? thy proofs, most inventive master? thine arguments, most
incontrovertible Knight? Marry, an thou make me the greater fool, it
will ill become the servant to be greater than his master.”
“Imprimis, thou art a fool by thy name, which is Witless!”
“I will have license to make reply,” said the jester; “thou art a fool
to call a wise man by a fool’s name.”
“Secondly,” resumed Reginald, “thou art a fool by thy face!”
“Who is to choose,” said his antagonist, “between the folly that is seen
on the face and the folly which is spoken from the tongue?”
“Thirdly, thou art foolish in thy designs.”
“By Saint Swithin,” cried the respondent, “thou hast the better of me
there, for designs formest thou none.”
“Fourthly, thou art a fool by thine occupation!”
“There thou hast spoken well,” said the page; “I am serving-man to Sir
Reginald d’Arennes.”
“Finally, Robin,” said Reginald, relapsing into taciturnity, “thou
knowest that thou art a fool positive!”
“Thou hast the better of me again, Reginald,” said the complaisant
lackey, “for thou art greatly a fool, and surpassingly a fool--but never
a positive one.”
Reginald did not hear the import of his follower’s reply; or at least
made no answer to it. They proceeded for some minutes in silence, at a
brisk pace, when Reginald suddenly stopped, and exclaimed, “We have
wandered from our track!”
“Not a whit, not a whit,” replied his companion, “do not I know the
turnings and the windings of the way? Is it not the fourth time that I
have journeyed with thee on this path? Firstly, when thou didst do
penance at the Abbey of Brixhelm; secondly, when thou didst pillage the
fat friar of Torney Low; thirdly, when thou wert, at thine own pleasure,
a suitor to the miller’s daughter of Nesselray; fourthly, when thou art,
at thy father’s pleasure, a suitor to the thane’s daughter of Kennet
Hold. Truly the fool’s counsel is nought; but I hold the pillage more
profitable than the penance, and the miller a cheaper bargain than the
thane. Trust me, if there be in the hall of the Saxon another giant such
as he that escaped from us even now, there will be stronger trust in the
speed of black Launcelot than in the plating of thy Milan corselet.”
“He was, indeed.” said Reginald, “firm of sinew and large of bone; he
was, withal, free in his deportment, and ruled that sorrel courser full
knightly; and, as thou sayest, Robin, he bore in his hand a battle-axe,
against which ribs of steel were but weak protection.”
They had now proceeded far on their journey, and were winding round a
thick forest; the extremities of which were skirted by brushwood to a
very considerable extent. Reginald continued to discuss the personal
appearance of the herald of his father-in-law in a manner which showed
he was by no means deficient in natural observation. “He had the tone of
one not unused to command, and an eye right noble and piercing;
nevertheless, he is but a Saxon; and ill betide the day when Reginald
d’Arennes shall fear to cope with twenty Saxons.”
“Especially,” said Robin, with an expression of countenance more than
usually arch, “when Reginald d’Arennes hath by his side so true an
esquire. Well thou knowest I am a shrewd knave, and a wily!”
At this moment a shrill whistle rung in their ears, and five or six
stout yeomen rushed from the thicket, seized Launcelot’s rein, and
dragged his rider from the saddle ere he could raise his war-cry, or
draw his sword from its sheath. Robin was treated with no more ceremony
than his master, and both were hurried through the coppice. Reginald
seemed lost in astonishment; he made no resistance, and uttered no word.
Robin was not so quiet in his sufferings; his alarm broke out in various
unconnected exclamations: “Saints be merciful to me! The limbs of a
Roland or an Oliver could not stand this harrying! And the fair tunic
that was given me but yester-even is rent like a withered leaf! Truly,
my masters, these bushes are over-sharp for a delicate frame. Well I wot
my sides are torn as it were with the barbed points of twenty arrows;
and Sir Reginald heeds no more the brambles than if they were damosels’
arms! See now! Some are born to a corselet of steel, and some to a tunic
of cloth! Saint Christopher befriend me! I confessed myself but
yesterday! Bethink ye, my masters, why compass ye the death of an
innocent man! The bough hath reft me of my cap! Hold, for the love of
mercy! I am a poor knave and a witless!”
To such lamentations no answer was returned, save an occasional peal of
laughter. Knight and knave were borne rapidly onward, through paths
which not only seemed impervious to the tread, but were hardly
penetrable to the sight. At length, a sudden winding in their track
brought them into a large open space, which appeared to have been
cleared out in the middle of the forest. Here an extraordinary scene
burst upon them, which not a little heightened the astonishment of the
young lord, and even checked for a space the wailings of his attendant.
In a spacious area, surrounded by lofty trees, which seemed admirably
calculated for the concealment of parties met for the prosecution of
illicit designs, various groups of men were widely scattered. They
appeared to be principally composed of the lower sort of peasantry, who,
having no dependence on any one but those to whom they had been born
subject, were liable to be called, at a moment’s warning, to engage in
the quarrels of their feudal lord. And such seemed to be the purpose
which had collected together the force I am endeavouring to describe.
Some few were clad in the complete defensive armour of that period, and
might be supposed to be those retainers who were more immediately
attached to the person of their chief. There were others who were
prepared for less regular warfare by the boar-spear or the Norman
cross-bow; and others, again, who made little military display beyond
the knife which was stuck in their girdle or the rude mace that lay
beside them.
A short distance apart from these groups two figures were engaged in
conversation, one of whom appeared to be the leader of the party. He was
a tall, powerful man, apparently little more than thirty years of age;
he seemed to have been inured to toil and danger; and his manner, at
once graceful and dignified, gave the idea of one who had been bred up
alternately in the camp and the court from his earliest years. His
countenance was handsome, but nevertheless unpleasing; for its features
indicated a knowledge of the world which partook strongly of
dissimulation, and a valour which would not scruple to exert itself in a
bad cause. His dress was a mailed shirt, unadorned by any extraneous
decoration; but the richly wrought hilt of the dagger which he wore by
his side proved that he was a person of no ordinary rank. His attendant
was an esquire, who appeared to receive with much deference the
communications of his superior.
Reginald and his attendant were immediately conducted into the presence
of this chieftain. He had been conversing with his companion in a manner
and tone of much hauteur; but when, upon turning round, he beheld the
heroes of my story, every appearance of this kind immediately vanished;
his brow was in a moment perfectly calm, and his look wore all the
pliability and condescension which an able diplomatist knows so well how
to assume.
“Sir Knight,” he began, “I am, it is true, a stranger to thee, but I
have confidence that those features, and that bearing, bespeak one of
the house of d’Arennes.” Reginald bowed, in token of acquiescence; and
his new acquaintance (who, by-the-by, had received pretty certain
intelligence beforehand of the rank of the person he was addressing)
proceeded: “The disturbed state of our realm, Sir Knight, must be my
excuse for a measure which courtesy would else have shrunk from. It must
also excuse the interrogation which it constrains me to put. With what
purpose hast thou journeyed hither?”
Reginald seemed not sufficiently recovered from his surprise to make
reply. Robin answered for him, “Marry, with the purpose of journeying
back again.”
“Thou wouldest do well to keep thy counsel, friend,” said the querist;
“thy flippant tongue might elsewhere procure thee a cap and bells; but
here, trust me, it will exalt thee to little else than the bough that
waves over my head. I would pray of thee,” he continued to Reginald,
“brief answer and speedy.”
Reginald seemed somewhat roused from his torpidity by the overweening
tone in which he was addressed: “Hither I came,” he said, “with the
purpose of a bridal, and in bridal garment; mantle and cap have I
already exchanged for hauberk and helm; and, by thy goodwill, wedding
and wassail will briefly be transmuted to quarrel and fray.”
“Art thou so warm for a fray?” said the stranger. “It is the better;
thou hast gentle blood within thee, although thy first address did belie
it wofully. What if I were to lead thee to a fray, where an estate shall
be had for the buckling on of thy harness, and an earldom shall be the
requital of every blow? How sayest thou, Reginald d’Arennes? Is not
prince’s favour more worth the winning than lady’s love? and is not the
possession that is the guerdon of service in field more honourable than
the dower that is sued for on bended knee?”
Reginald seemed again frozen into inanimation. Alike ignorant of the
person who spoke to him, and of the purport of what he spoke, he had
recourse to his never-failing response, “I doubt.” Robin again stepped
forward with his ballad admonition, which I shall again endeavour to
modernize, “albeit unused to the rhyming mood.”
’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in fair greenwood,
When birds are blithely singing;
’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in foughten field,
When blows are bravely ringing.
“On to the fight!” saith King Arthure,
“Accurst be he that flies!
Riches and fame to him that lives!
And bliss to him that dies!
Why lingerest thou, Childe Celadon?”
Out spoke that cunning knave,
“The brightest gift thy crown can give,
What boots it in the grave!”
The very prudent and natural suggestion of “Childe Celadon” seemed to
have a marvellous effect upon Reginald, and would probably have
influenced his reply, had not the attention of his interrogator been
called off by another circumstance. To this we must also attribute the
safety of the songster’s neck, which, had not this seasonable
interruption taken place, would have been ill worth a minute’s purchase.
A messenger had suddenly arrived, and been conducted into the presence
of their unknown captor. He appeared to have come from a long distance;
and the disordered state of his dress, together with the fatigue which
was apparent on his pale countenance, sufficiently proved that he had
not spared whip or spur on the journey. He delivered to the chief the
letters of which he was the bearer, and retired in silence. The chief
broke open the packet; anxiety was strongly marked on his countenance;
yet his features changed not, as he read his advices: it was difficult
to form a conjecture whether he was rejoiced or displeased by their
contents. He called to him his esquire. They held a brief conference
apart.
“Cold news, Eustace! The Flemings have been beaten! The slaves fled as
the first weapon leaped from its sheath. De Lucy’s powers are drawn
together, and Bohun hath Leicester prisoner.”