Four weeks before the next Christmas the Baron proclaimed there would
be good cheer for all comers two days and nights at the castle. And
when the time came, the bell on the tower, which sounded only for
births, deaths, and weddings, rung merrily through the frosty air,
bonfires were lighted on the hills, the fountain ran wine, and every
man who chose might put in his cup and drink his fill. Outside the wall
were crowds of men gaming, wrestling, and trying their strength, and a
few bloody noses and a cracked skull or two; but that was nothing in
those rough times.
In the hall were knights and earls wearing belt, spur, and plume; gay
ladies in velvets, with sweeping trains; and children pages, and pert
maids, who did nothing but stand under the mistletoe; and then what
kissing, what blushing, what shouts, what laughter! The sun never shone
on so merry a Christmas!
Instead of the red rose, Ginevra wore a coronet of pearls; and in that
goodly company her beauty shone like a star, the brightest where ten
thousand are.
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The ladies’ hall was a lordly room, with long rows of columns, wreathed
with garlands; and there the guests assembled at night. As they walked
together, Ginevra said to Lord Lovel:
“I will give thee a weary chase for me some day. I will frighten thee
now.”
And, with a bound, she darted from column to column, and was out of
sight. Vexed and troubled, Lovel flew after her. He was swift as a
deer, but could not overtake her; and in the midst of the chase, she
stole behind and touched him on the shoulder, laughing merrily at his
fears.
“Promise me, sweetheart,” said he, “thou wilt never fly from me again,
till thou spread thy white wings for Heaven. Even Ban lost his breath
trying to follow thee.”
“I will not promise,” she said, shaking her sunny ringlets. “I love
to tease too well. Ban says my feet have wings, and with them I find
hiding-places where no one can follow.”
“I fear thou wilt be lost in some of these dark passages; no one living
understands all their windings; but I’ll hide thee next Christmas!”
“Where, my Lord? In the donjon keep, behind the iron gratings?”
“A safer place than that. In my heart, sweet love. There I’ll shut thee
up, and keep thee safe forever and a day.”
Then he gave a close kiss, and did not take his eyes off her till it
was time to part.
When the night was far spent, a strange minstrel came to the door, and
begged to look, if but for one moment, on the Lady Ginevra.
He was old and poor, and shook with cold. Room was made for him by the
fire; and when he had eaten and drank, he lifted his harp, and, moving
back from the crowd, passed under the mistletoe. Now, it was a great
slight for one to do this and not be kissed, and, of course, nobody
wanted to kiss an old beggar. He heard the laugh and jeer, and, looking
up, saw the green branch; then his head sunk on his breast with shame.
Ginevra saw it, and snatched an ivy wreath, and stepped toward him,
saying playfully,
“Kneel down!”
He knelt and kissed the hem of her robe. Not even she was ever more
beautiful than then.
“I crown thy harp, and call thee knight”--she touched his shoulder. “Be
thou wise, brave, and tuneful. Rise, Sir Minstrel, and let these lords
and ladies hear thy bravest harping.”
For a moment the old man was overcome. Then he swept the harp with such
skill and grace there was instant silence. He sang:
GINEVRA.
He had heard of her beauty, but the half had not been told; what his
eyes had this night seen would ever be a part of sight; his hand was
weak and old, but so long as he could touch a string it should be to
her name; and at his dying hour thought of her tender pity would warm
his heart as it had never warmed with wine.
Praises ran through the crowd; the Baron sent Alfred with a purse of
broad gold pieces, but the minstrel put it back with a smile, and
unclasped the ragged cloak; down dropped hood, mask, and gray hair; out
stepped a youth, tall, straight, and handsome; on his neck a sparkling
chain the Baron knew right well.
“It is Prince Edward! Long live the Prince!” he exclaimed.
And every man knelt and shouted, till the arches rang,
“Long live Prince Edward!”
He bowed his thanks, and lightly touched the harp again. His fingers
strayed uncertainly among the strings, like one busy with memory; a
moment more, and he seemed to catch the melody, and, resting his
burning glance upon Ginevra’s fair face, he sang:
PRINCE EDWARD’S SONG.
“In blinding snow, as wild winds blow,
I left the forest’s gloom,
And, following sounds that change the night
To brightness and to bloom,
“I’ve found where all sweet flowers live,
Where summer sings and never dies,
Its roses, Lady, on thy cheek,
Its violets in thine eyes.
“The harp and sword I bring to thee
Are not an offering meet;
With them, my hand and England’s crown,
I lay before thy feet.
“O, Lady, like the evening star,
Bend to me now or never;
For I will see thee ne’er again,
Unless I see thee ever.”
Then the Prince led Ginevra to the dance, and it was whispered she was
fit to be a queen; but the Baron shook his head, even in that proud
hour, and said:
“She must wed whom she will. I cannot force her heart.”
When the holidays were ended, Lovel set off to Holy Land, to be gone a
twelvemonth and a day. Ginevra wept bitterly, but promised to keep true
heart and constant mind till he should come home, never, day nor night,
to leave her more.
The King’s son tarried and wooed her with words women love to hear; but
she quietly said:
“I will wed my own true love, or die a nun.”
He prayed her to give him a favor, a scarf, a glove, a ring; but no;
she spoke so firmly he saw it was useless to stay longer, and went
away, swearing he would spring into the Thames or the depths of the
sea, and drown himself.
Ginevra watched a splendid train escort him through the forest, and
when it was out of sight, said:
“Ban, dost thou think he will kill himself? It would be a sad thing to
lose our Crown Prince.”
Ban smiled grimly; he had been a wild one, but was tame enough now.
“Lady Ginevra,” he said, “ever since the world was made, men have died
from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love. Prince
Edward’s heart is sound; he will marry in less than a twelvemonth and a
day.”
And so he did.
Now there were many curious things about this castle which have not
been mentioned. In the bell-tower, so high, it seemed to touch the sky,
lived a crow, said to be a hundred years old, and an owl that hooted
at night, and winked and blinked by day. There were lonesome cells
where monks used to live; narrow corridors and winding ways easy to be
lost in; and secret doors in odd places where you would never think of
looking for a door; but Ginevra knew every dark corner from turret to
foundation; in every black closet her bright eyes had peered, and under
every hidden archway her fairy feet had glided along.
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Looking from the highest tower of the castle, a dim line of heavenly
blue marked the Ocean. More than any other view Ginevra loved that.
When the day was fine, she could see the curlews and herons in the
glancing light, and almost hear their screaming and the lapping of the
water among the stones of the pebbly shore. Sometimes it showed as many
tints as though the sea-shells from the depths had swum to the surface,
opened to the sun, and floated on the top of the waters like many
colored blossoms. And when the sun went down it was a path of gold, a
splendor like the pathways of angels. In calm or storm, in leaden sky
or roseate light, through every change, Ginevra loved the sea. Ban used
to watch her to the top of the tower, and grumble and mutter: “My Lady
will come to grief all along of her skipping and racing into strange
places. She’ll be sorry for it some day.”
“Is it so very hard, my good Ban,” she would say, laughing at him, “for
a strong soldier, who fought in Flanders, to follow one girl over one
house?”
And he would bow and smile back again, as he said:
“I was only thinking of my Lady’s safe keeping. There’s no tiring me.
No, no, no! I would march my feet off for her.”
So petted and guarded, so gay and full of pleasantness was her life,
that every day of the year was happy as a birthday.
The Baron did not worry Ginevra with teachers and grammars. He did not
think much of book knowledge, calling it a weariness of the flesh,
and a wiser man than any Baron called it that, three thousand years
ago. Nor was her nurse allowed to tell her frightful tales, though the
old woman liked nothing better than to scare the servants with ghost
stories in windy nights. Her orders were to tell no Christmas stories,
except such as the Bible told; and she used to show a book with
pictures of the Holy Family, the shepherds listening to the angels’
songs, heard but once on earth, and the flight into Egypt. This last
was a very choice engraving of Mary, the Virgin Mother, asleep under
a palm-tree, and baby angels bending back the leaves, smiling sunnily
down on the Divine Child, whose light lightened the bank of lilies
where they lay. Then the nurse would explain how the Mother of Christ
still lives, and is always near motherless children, listening to their
prayers and waiting to comfort them. And Ginevra loved the tale and
believed it, and never spoke a word she would not wish the Holy Mother
to hear.
In those good old times people played and laughed more than we do, and
a first-rate story-teller was better thought of than a fine musician
nowadays.
So, with play and needlework, time went on. Knights, earls, and
gentlemen tried to win Ginevra from her vows; but she sent them away
more madly in love than when they came to offer hand and heart. At the
hour when the nightingale sings, minstrels and lovesick troubadours
harped under her lattice; but she kept true heart and constant
mind, and when six months had passed, a carrier-dove--a tame, fond
thing--flew to the balcony, bearing a letter tied around its neck,
sealed with red, and stamped with a rose. It was from Lord Lovel, who
wrote he would be home Christmas.
The Baron went to London for her wedding-clothes. They were rich and
rare as any princess’s; her veil was like silver mist; but nothing was
so fine as a pair of slippers of white velvet, embroidered with pearls.
Had you seen them, you would have said they were for some little child.
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