The castle gates were strait unbarred,
And he sprang before his bleeding lord;
He passed the page unheeded by,
And tracked the stranger’s steps on high;
Till at the door, that closed him in,
Loud and dread became his din.
The doors are burst, and the spectre-light
Betrayeth the form of the blood-tracked knight:
He was armed all over in coat of mail,
But nothing did steel that night avail;
He fell a torn corpse, beside that chair,
Whereunto the page did late appear,
By the dark glamour-art revealed,
His murdered lord with lance and shield.
The _murderer_ fell, and his death-wound found
In the terrible fangs of the true blood-hound.
* * * * *
Here the voice of the minstrel ceased; and, after striking a few notes
of his harp, full and deep, he rested with a look of sorrow. His eyes
dwelt on the Lady Barbara—but she heeded him not; but sat with head
inclined, as if still listening to his dismal tale. There followed a
dread silence in the room, as of expectation of that which was to
follow. Some there were, who said the ditty was already ended; yet they
would fain have heard something of the pitiful history of that unhappy
lady, whose portraiture was in the tower-chamber, and would have known
what was the guilty motive of the knight against the Lord of Eglamore;
and how it chanced he came so unwittingly to his castle. Others there
were then present, who, having noticed the young Gaston de Blondeville
to be ill at ease, the while the minstrel sung, and being, perchance,
already moved by the merchant’s strange accusation, scrupled not to
think the story touched him nearly; and that Pierre rested, not because
his ditty was at an end, or from weariness; but that he doubted whether
it would be well to proceed to the second part.
However this may be, he needed not have stayed his strain, for Sir
Gaston was no longer in the chamber. Whether Pierre knew this or not, he
began once more to strike upon the harp; when, on a sudden, the king’s
trumpets were heard blowing up near the stair; and anon, his Highness
entered the bower, it being almost time that he should go to his rest
for “all-night.”
There was no more harping; Pierre tuning not up his second fit; and
belike, if his Highness had been there at first, he would have bidden
him to shorten his ballad by one-half.
The King looked about for Sir Gaston; and, espying him not, asked
wherefore he was not there; but, before any answer could be given, the
knight had returned, and now approached his Highness. He was then
commanded to dance a round with the Lady Barbara, and he obeyed; but
many there noted the sadness on his brow, though his steps were light
and gay.
A more pleasureful sight could not be than the Queen’s bower, as it was
at that time, where she sat in estate, under a cloth of gold, her ladies
standing about her chair, and her maidens on either hand, below the
steps of her throne; and two young damsels of surpassing beauty and
richly bedight, sitting on the first step, at her feet; the same, that
were used so to sit, when her Highness kept state in the great hall at
festivals.
Behind them, half encircling the throne, stood twenty household
esquires, holding great wax torches, right richly beseen in the king’s
livery, and proud to wear it, gentils as they were, as I said before,
and of ancient families in the countries from whence they came.
The arched roof was curiously wrought in that fashion, which King Henry
had newly brought into favour; and, besides these lights, a great
crystal lamp, that hung from the roof, shone over the chamber and upon
the goodly assemblage, as they looked upon the Lady Barbara, passing so
winningly in the dance. That night, the Earl of Richmond bore the
Queen’s spice-plate, and Sir Philip de Kinton her cup.
When the Lady Barbara had ended her dance, the Queen called her to her
chair; and, making her take of the sweetmeats from her own plate, spoke
commendable words to her, as did his Highness King Henry. Then the
Queen, turning to the Lady Gloucester, took from her hands a girdle,
richly beset with jewels, and, clasping it on the Lady Barbara, kissed
her, and bade her wear it ever, for her sake and for her honour. Her
Highness then stretched out her hand to Sir Gaston, who, kneeling, put
it to his lips. “May you, Sir knight,” said her Highness, “as well
deserve this lady, as she deserves this token of my regard!”
Then, the King said many gracious things, and seemed so merry of heart,
that he made all around him gladsome; till, the Voide being ended, he
went forth with the Queen, the trumpets blowing before them; and the
chamber was then speedily avoided for all night.
While these things were passing in the chambers of estate, there were
divers wassailings and merriments making in other places of the castle.
In the great hall were feasting and revelling, but not of estate. There
were tumblers and jugglers and morrice-dancers and mimicks and mummers,
with pipings and blowings, that made the roofs ring.
The monks at the priory heard them afar, while at the last even-song,
and long after; and well I wote, that had it not been the King’s castle,
there had been some rebuke, as indeed due, for such noise made. The
Prior in his chamber sat alone; listening, I guess, in gloomy mood to
the revelry; and, all that night, only Edmund the monk and mass Peter
with him: he came not forth to midnight-song.
But now I must return, and so must ye that hear, or read, to the castle.
In the hall there was a dancer on stilts, playing the while on a
recorder; there were dancers on one leg, and dancers upon the head; but
that which most rejoiced many of the beholders, were the disguisings and
the quaint antics of the mummers. There came a whole troop, some wearing
the heads of asses, some of bulls, some of calves, some of cats, who
brayed and kicked, bellowed and tossed, scratched and mewed, to the very
life. Others, like stags and hares, hounds and apes, kept not so
pertinently to their pretended natures, but marched on with solemn
state, as much as might be, hand in hand, as if they had been loving
friends and neighbours; yet each with a dagger stuck in his girdle. And
others again, with fools’ girdles and bells hanging to them; tossing
their heads, and cutting such strange capers, to the noise of pipes and
drums, as made the sides of many to shake with laughter, and roused up
every hawk on perch there to shake his bells in concert.
But all this was child’s play, though it was often done before the
worshipfullest estates, in comparison of the sayer’s art; which, when he
could be heard between whiles, when the loud revelry paused and held
breath, was marvellous to hear: and, as soon as those mad-heads caught
the words of that tale-teller, sooth to say, they soon were still and
hushed, as though no living soul but he breathed there; listening to his
dismal tradey, with tears in their eyes, or quaking for fear of the
strange things he told them. He, the while, with solemn visage, showing
as though he himself believed all the marvels he related, and not
showing roguish smiles, as some do, kept on always to the far end of his
long tale: though some learned clerks would oft-times comment to their
neighbours upon his marvels, as if he had purported lofty matter worth
their notice, and did not merely strive to while an idle tide away.
In other parts of the castle were those gentils and honest gentlewomen,
that, misliking the loud revelry of the hall, drew together in chambers
apart; and delighted themselves with histories of times past, the sad
hopes of lovers, or the deeds of brave knights, or otherwise in singing
and harping, after their own manner.
In the lower hall too was feasting, and the mirth did not stop short of
the “Kuchane,” so that every man to the lowest degree was joyous; and
each chamber and tower rung with song, or laughter, save the prison
tower of the poor merchant. He, as he lay on his pallet-bed, heard those
sounds of music and jollity, in confused uproar rising through the
courts, while his heart was stricken with fear and sadness; for, whether
he were right or not in believing Sir Gaston to be the murderer of his
friend, it is certain, that he had seen his friend murdered, and that
too, as he had said, in the woods of Ardenn.
He was, at this time, far from his home and friends, and had been
travelling, over these parts, a lonesome stranger, along the foss-way
from Lincoln, southward; having been on his merchandize into the north
seas, and having landed on the eastern coast. Coming again to that
place, where, a few years back, he had buried his friend, the
remembrance of him broke out in fresh grief; and, hearing that the king
was coming to keep festival in Kenilworth, he resolved to break the
matter to him; as well as to adventure to tell him, the times were such
it was no longer safe to journey in any part of his kingdom.
The most audacious robberies, certes, were then committed at noon-day
with impunity; nay, the very thieves themselves feared not to be seen
walking about, little attempt being made to seize them, or, in any wise,
to suppress these scandalous outrages. Not only then did the sad fall of
his friend, but also the fearful condition of the living, urge the
merchant to make the truth known to the king.
With this design he had rested at Kenilworth, but not at the house where
he had formerly suffered such affliction; and, on the king’s arrival,
had gone forth in the crowd to behold him, though he had not intended to
present his petition in that time of turmoil. But, when he saw near his
Highness, riding as it were in the top of favour, the very man, whom he
thought to be the slayer of his kinsman; when he beheld that look, which
he felt to dart into his heart, and to revive there all the horror he
had felt at the aspect of the murderer, at the moment when his friend
had been stricken down—then it was, that, overcome by the strength of
his feelings, he dropped down senseless in the castle court, as hath
been related.
And now, what had he gained by his courageous demand of justice?
Suspicion, contempt, fear, grief, a prison, and, perhaps, death. Yet did
he not repent the effort he had made, so honest was his grief for the
fate of his kinsman; so much was his mind possessed with the notion,
that he had accused his very murderer; so confident was he that he was
performing a duty; and, what is more, so sure was he, that to perform
his duty in this world is the wisest, the most truly cunning thing a man
can contrive to do. Whether his suspicions concerning the knight were
just or not; these, his conclusions touching his own conduct, none but
fools, or villains, that is, none but fools—will deny.
Thus he lay on his pallet, alike deprived of sleep by the jollity of
others and by his own grievous reflections. A lamp burned beside him,
but it served only to show the forlornness of his condition, in this
high and distant tower. Sometimes, he would rise and look through his
grated window upon the inner court of the castle, listening there awhile
to the distant minstrelsy and to the confusion of numberless voices,
footsteps and closing doors, that rose from many a chamber below. Anon,
a torch-bearer would pass the court, a page, perhaps, or a yeoman; and
would show the gloomy towers above and the steps of the guest he led at
their feet. But, this passed, nothing could the prisoner see, save here
and there, a lamp burning through a casement of glass (and a goodly show
there was of such windows now in this castle) like stars through a
clouded sky; but mostly the glorious beams of the great hall, that
struck through the windows and lighted the air above. Once he heard the
trumpets blow, and thought the King was coming forth, and once he
fancied he saw, in the person of one who followed a torch-bearer, Sir
Gaston himself. Then turned he from the casement, looked no more, and
fell upon his pallet.
At last, every distant sound grew fainter; the noise of the dancers
ceased; then the minstrelsy sunk low; the voices of the hall revellers
became few; he heard less frequently the doors opened and shut; and then
he heard the fastening of bolts and bars: and, afar off, the castle
gates closed for the night; and soon all grew still, as though no living
creature inhabited there.
And thus it kept, until the wayte piped his second watch in all the
courts. Then the stranger arose, and, looking again through his grate,
saw him well, by the light his groom carried, piping the hour. And, when
the man had finished his saye, he went round the court, his boy-groom
holding up the torch, while he tried every door, and found that all was
safe. By this light too, he perceived the wardour’s men on guard; but no
living being else was seen. The windows of the great hall were dark;
and, the torch being gone, nothing glimmered through the night, save one
great star, which wizards say is evil. It stayed, at his hour, right
over King Henry’s lodgings; but for whom it watched, who was there that
might tell? The prisoner knew the star, and all that was thought of it,
and he betook him to his pallet groaning heavily.
He had not long been there, when, as he thought, a voice near him spoke
his name. Now, there was a small grate looked out from his chamber upon
the stair; and thence the voice seemed to come. The prisoner, raising
himself from his pallet, turned, and saw there the figure of a man
passing away. He kept his eyes fixed, for some space, upon the grate,
but the figure appeared no more, and he sunk again on his pallet.
The voice, faint and passing as it was, had thrilled him with dread.
Whose it was, wherefore it had called him by a name known but to few,
and had then passed away, without communing with him, he tried in vain
to understand; yet seemed it not wholly new to him.