Chronicles of the Canongate 9781474432665

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THE EDINBURGH EDITION OF THE WAVERLEY NOVELS      - -      Professor David Hewitt

 The Royal Society of Edinburgh : The University of Edinburgh    Bank of Scotland   Lord Sutherland of Houndwood, Chairman Sir Eric Anderson : Professor Andrew Hook Professor R. D. S. Jack : Professor Douglas Mack Professor Susan Manning : Allan Massie Professor Jane Millgate : Professor David Nordloh   Dr J. H. Alexander, University of Aberdeen Professor P. D. Garside, University of Edinburgh Professor Claire Lamont, University of Newcastle Dr Alison Lumsden, University of Aberdeen G. A. M. Wood, University of Stirling Typographical Adviser The late Ruari McLean

  [] THE BETROTHED

EDINBURGH EDITION OF THE WAVERLEY NOVELS

to be complete in thirty volumes Each novel is published separately but original conjoint publication of certain works is indicated in the     volume numbering [4a, b; 7a, b, etc.]. 1 2 3 4a 4b 5 6 7a 7b 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18a 18b 19 20 21 22 23a 23b 24 25a 25b

Waverley [1814] P. D. Garside Guy Mannering [1815] P. D. Garside The Antiquary [1816] David Hewitt The Black Dwarf [1816] P. D. Garside The Tale of Old Mortality [1816] Douglas Mack Rob Roy [1818] David Hewitt The Heart of Mid-Lothian [1818] David Hewitt & Alison Lumsden The Bride of Lammermoor [1819] J. H. Alexander A Legend of the Wars of Montrose [1819] J. H. Alexander Ivanhoe [1820] Graham Tulloch The Monastery [1820] Penny Fielding The Abbot [1820] Christopher Johnson Kenilworth [1821] J. H. Alexander The Pirate [1822] Mark Weinstein and Alison Lumsden The Fortunes of Nigel [1822] Frank Jordan Peveril of the Peak [1822] Alison Lumsden Quentin Durward [1823] J. H. Alexander and G. A. M. Wood Saint Ronan’s Well [1824] Mark Weinstein Redgauntlet [1824] G. A. M. Wood with David Hewitt The Betrothed [1825] J. B. Ellis The Talisman [1825] J. B. Ellis Woodstock [1826] Tony Inglis with others Chronicles of the Canongate [1827] Claire Lamont The Fair Maid of Perth [1828] A. Hook and D. Mackenzie Anne of Geierstein [1829] J. H. Alexander Count Robert of Paris [1831] J. H. Alexander Castle Dangerous [1831] J. H. Alexander The Shorter Fiction Graham Tulloch and Judy King Introductions and Notes from the Magnum Opus edition of 1829–33 Introductions and Notes from the Magnum Opus edition of 1829–33

WALTER SCOTT

THE BETROTHED

Edited by J. B. Ellis with J. H. Alexander and David Hewitt

 University Press

© The University Court of the University of Edinburgh 2009 Edinburgh University Press 22 George Square, Edinburgh Typeset in Linotronic Ehrhardt by Speedspools, Edinburgh and printed and bound in Great Britain on acid-free paper at CPI Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham, Wilts.  978 0 7486 0581 1 e-PDF ISBN 978 1 4744 3266 5

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without the prior permission in writing from the publisher.

FOREWORD

T  P           of Waverley in 1814 marked the emergence of the modern novel in the western world. It is difficult now to recapture the impact of this and the following novels of Scott on a readership accustomed to prose fiction either as picturesque romance, ‘Gothic’ quaintness, or presentation of contemporary manners. For Scott not only invented the historical novel, but gave it a dimension and a relevance that made it available for a great variety of new kinds of writing. Balzac in France, Manzoni in Italy, Gogol and Tolstoy in Russia, were among the many writers of fiction influenced by the man Stendhal called ‘notre père, Walter Scott’. What Scott did was to show history and society in motion: old ways of life being challenged by new; traditions being assailed by counter-statements; loyalties, habits, prejudices clashing with the needs of new social and economic developments. The attraction of tradition and its ability to arouse passionate defence, and simultaneously the challenge of progress and ‘improvement’, produce a pattern that Scott saw as the living fabric of history. And this history was rooted in place; events happened in localities still recognisable after the disappearance of the original actors and the establishment of new patterns of belief and behaviour. Scott explored and presented all this by means of stories, entertainments, which were read and enjoyed as such. At the same time his passionate interest in history led him increasingly to see these stories as illustrations of historical truths, so that when he produced his final Magnum Opus edition of the novels he surrounded them with historical notes and illustrations, and in this almost suffocating guise they have been reprinted in edition after edition ever since. The time has now come to restore these novels to the form in which they were presented to their first readers, so that today’s readers can once again capture their original power and freshness. At the same time, serious errors of transcription, omission, and interpretation, resulting from the haste of their transmission from manuscript to print can now be corrected. D D  University Press

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

viii

General Introduction

xi

THE BETROTHED Volume I

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Volume II

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Essay on the Text . . genesis

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composition

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the later editions . .

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the present text

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Emendation List

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End-of-line Hyphens .

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Historical Note

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Explanatory Notes Glossary

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The Scott Advisory Board and the editors of the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels wish to express their gratitude to The University Court of the University of Edinburgh for its commitment in supporting the preparation of the first critical edition of Walter Scott’s fiction. Those Universities which employed the editors have also contributed greatly in paying salaries, and awarding research leave and grants for travel and materials. In addition to the universities, the project could not have prospered without the help of the sponsors cited below. Their generosity has met the direct costs of the initial research and of the preparation of the text of the novels appearing in this edition.    The collapse of the great Edinburgh publisher Archibald Constable in January 1826 entailed the ruin of Sir Walter Scott who found himself responsible for his own private debts, for the debts of the printing business of James Ballantyne and Co. in which he was co-partner, and for the bank advances to Archibald Constable which had been guaranteed by the printing business. Scott’s largest creditors were Sir William Forbes and Co., bankers, and the Bank of Scotland. On the advice of Sir William Forbes himself, the creditors did not sequester his property, but agreed to the creation of a trust to which he committed his future literary earnings, and which ultimately repaid the debts of over £120,000 for which he was legally liable. In the same year the Government proposed to curtail the rights of the Scottish banks to issue their own notes; Scott wrote the ‘Letters of Malachi Malagrowther’ in their defence, arguing that the measure was neither in the interests of the banks nor of Scotland. The ‘Letters’ were so successful that the Government was forced to withdraw its proposal and to this day the Scottish Banks issue their own notes. A portrait of Sir Walter appears on all current bank notes of the Bank of Scotland because Scott was a champion of Scottish banking, and because he was an illustrious and honourable customer not just of the Bank of Scotland itself, but also of three other banks now incorporated within it—the British Linen Bank, Sir William Forbes and Co., and Ramsays, Bonars and Company. Bank of Scotland’s support of the EEWN continues its long and fruitful involvement with the affairs of Walter Scott. viii

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          Between 1992 and 1998 the EEWN was greatly assisted by the British Academy through the award of a series of research grants which provided most of the support required for employing a research fellow, without whom steady progress could not have been maintained. In 2000 the AHRB awarded the EEWN a major grant which ensured the completion of the Edition. To both of these bodies, the British Academy and the Arts and Humanities Research Board, the Advisory Board and the editors express their thanks.   The Advisory Board and the editors also wish to acknowledge with gratitude the generous grants and gifts to the EEWN from the P. F. Charitable Trust, the main charitable trust of the Fleming family which founded the City firm Robert Fleming Holdings, now incorporated within J. P. Morgan; the Edinburgh University General Council Trust, now incorporated within the Edinburgh University Development Trust; Sir Gerald Elliot; the Carnegie Trust for the Universities of Scotland; the Modern Humanities Research Association; and the Robertson Trust.

    Without the generous assistance of the National Library of Scotland it would not have been possible to have undertaken the editing of Scott’s novels, and the Scott Advisory Board and the editors cannot overstate the extent to which they are indebted to the Trustees and the staff.   The manuscript of The Betrothed is owned by the National Library of Scotland, and the proofs of the novel are owned by the Berg Collection, which is housed in the New York Public Library. A large proportion of the other manuscript material consulted and used in the preparation of this edition is in the National Library of Scotland. The editors are extremely grateful to both of these institutions for the access they have willingly given to these materials. To these should be added the Library of the University of Edinburgh, which provided a home for several important items (including the manuscript itself) during the temporary closure of the National Library of Scotland while this work was in progress. Furthermore, the Librarian of the Advocates’ Library responded willingly to requests for access to some volumes from the Abbotsford Library that related to this edition. The staff of all these institutions gave of their knowledge and skills unstintingly, and without this the production of this edition would have been impossible. Editing Scott demands scholarship beyond the command of any one individual. All along the way, John Ellis has received help and advice from a number of scholars and colleagues, which kept him on the right path.

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Alison Lumsden at the outset trained him in accuracy of collation and the interpretation of Scott’s manuscript. Thomas Craik provided scrupulous information on Shakespearean and other quotations; Roy Pinkerton likewise identified classical and Biblical references; and William Gillies gave shrewd advice on Welsh matters. Heinz Giegerich gave invaluable assistance in the interpretation and translation of an early nineteenth-century German letter. The General Editors came to the editor’s assistance in advocating the adoption of a series of manuscript readings in Chapters 8 and 9 of the second volume of the novel instead of following the normal practice of privileging the first edition. J. H. Alexander helped to perfect the Explanatory Notes and the Glossary. But overall, it has been the editor-in-chief who has been the greatest influence on this edition at every stage of its growth; his hand guided the Emendation List and he has continually made valuable contributions to all aspects of the editorial material, so that it is now only the titular editor who is fully aware of his indebtedness to his Chief. Above all a scholarly edition must offer a reliable version of the text, and those who have helped to establish the reliability of this work include Ian Clark, Gillian Hughes, Rachel McGregor, and Ainsley McIntosh. To this number must be added the EEWN’s compositor, Harry McIntosh of Speedspools. I thank them all.

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

What has the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels achieved? The original version of this General Introduction said that many hundreds of readings were being recovered from the manuscripts, and commented that although the individual differences were often minor, they were ‘cumulatively telling’. Such an assessment now looks tentative and tepid, for the textual strategy pursued by the editors has been justified by spectacular results. In each novel up to 2000 readings never before printed are being recovered from the manuscripts. Some of these are major changes although they are not always verbally extensive. The restoration of the pen-portraits of the Edinburgh literati in Guy Mannering, the reconstruction of the way in which Amy Robsart was murdered in Kenilworth, the recovery of the description of Clara Mowbray’s previous relationship with Tyrrel in Saint Ronan’s Well—each of these fills out what was incomplete, or corrects what was obscure. A surprising amount of what was once thought loose or unidiomatic has turned out to be textual corruption. Many words which were changed as the holograph texts were converted into print have been recognised as dialectal, period or technical terms wholly appropriate to their literary context. The mistakes in foreign languages, in Latin, and in Gaelic found in the early printed texts are usually not in the manuscripts, and so clear is this manuscript evidence that one may safely conclude that Friar Tuck’s Latin in Ivanhoe is deliberately full of errors. The restoration of Scott’s own shaping and punctuating of speech has often enhanced the rhetorical effectiveness of dialogue. Furthermore, the detailed examination of the text and supporting documents such as notes and letters has revealed that however quickly his novels were penned they mostly evolved over long periods; that although he claimed not to plan his work yet the shape of his narratives seems to have been established before he committed his ideas to paper; and that each of the novels edited to date has a precise time-scheme which implies formidable control of his stories. The Historical and Explanatory Notes reveal an intellectual command of enormously diverse materials, and an equal imaginative capacity to synthesise them. Editing the texts has revolutionised the editors’ understanding and appreciation of Scott, and will ultimately generate a much wider recognition of his quite extraordinary achievement. The text of the novels in the Edinburgh Edition is normally based on the first editions, but incorporates all those manuscript readings which were lost through accident, error, or misunderstanding in the process of xi

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converting holograph manuscripts into printed books. The Edition is the first to investigate all Scott’s manuscripts and proofs, and all the printed editions to have appeared in his lifetime, and it has adopted the textual strategy which best makes sense of the textual problems. It is clear from the systematic investigation of all the different states of Scott’s texts that the author was fully engaged only in the early stages (manuscripts and proofs, culminating in the first edition), and when preparing the last edition to be published in his lifetime, familiarly known as the Magnum Opus (1829–33). There may be authorial readings in some of the many intermediate editions, and there certainly are in the third edition of Waverley, but not a single intermediate edition of any of the nineteen novels so far investigated shows evidence of sustained authorial involvement. There are thus only two stages in the textual development of the Waverley Novels which might provide a sound basis for a critical edition. Scott’s holograph manuscripts constitute the only purely authorial state of the texts of his novels, for they alone proceed wholly from the author. They are for the most part remarkably coherent, although a close examination shows countless minor revisions made in the process of writing, and usually at least one layer of later revising. But the heaviest revising was usually done by Scott when correcting his proofs, and thus the manuscripts could not constitute the textual basis of a new edition; despite their coherence they are drafts. Furthermore, the holograph does not constitute a public form of the text: Scott’s manuscript punctuation is light (in later novels there are only dashes, full-stops, and speech marks), and his spelling system though generally consistent is personal and idiosyncratic. Scott’s novels were, in theory, anonymous publications—no title page ever carried his name. To maintain the pretence of secrecy, the original manuscripts were copied so that his handwriting should not be seen in the printing house, a practice which prevailed until 1827, when Scott acknowledged his authorship. Until 1827 it was these copies, not Scott’s original manuscripts, which were used by the printers. Not a single leaf of these copies is known to survive but the copyists probably began the tidying and regularising. As with Dickens and Thackeray in a later era, copy was sent to the printers in batches, as Scott wrote and as it was transcribed; the batches were set in type, proof-read, and ultimately printed, while later parts of the novel were still being written. When typesetting, the compositors did not just follow what was before them, but supplied punctuation, normalised spelling, and corrected minor errors. Proofs were first read in-house against the transcripts, and, in addition to the normal checking for mistakes, these proofs were used to improve the punctuation and the spelling. When the initial corrections had been made, a new set of proofs went to James Ballantyne, Scott’s friend and partner in the printing firm

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which bore his name. He acted as editor, not just as proof-reader. He drew Scott’s attention to gaps in the text and pointed out inconsistencies in detail; he asked Scott to standardise names; he substituted nouns for pronouns when they occurred in the first sentence of a paragraph, and inserted the names of speakers in dialogue; he changed incorrect punctuation, and added punctuation he thought desirable; he corrected grammatical errors; he removed close verbal repetitions; and in a cryptic correspondence in the margins of the proofs he told Scott when he could not follow what was happening, or when he particularly enjoyed something. These annotated proofs were sent to the author. Scott usually accepted Ballantyne’s suggestions, but sometimes rejected them. He made many more changes; he cut out redundant words, and substituted the vivid for the pedestrian; he refined the punctuation; he sometimes reworked and revised passages extensively, and in so doing made the proofs a stage in the creative composition of the novels. When Ballantyne received Scott’s corrections and revisions, he transcribed all the changes on to a clean set of proofs so that the author’s hand would not be seen by the compositors. Further revises were prepared. Some of these were seen and read by Scott, but he usually seems to have trusted Ballantyne to make sure that the earlier corrections and revisions had been executed. When doing this Ballantyne did not just read for typesetting errors, but continued the process of punctuating and tidying the text. A final proof allowed the corrections to be inspected and the imposition of the type to be checked prior to printing. Scott expected his novels to be printed; he expected that the printers would correct minor errors, would remove words repeated in close proximity to each other, would normalise spelling, and would insert a printed-book style of punctuation, amplifying or replacing the marks he had provided in manuscript. There are no written instructions to the printers to this effect, but in the proofs he was sent he saw what Ballantyne and his staff had done and were doing, and by and large he accepted it. This assumption of authorial approval is better founded for Scott than for any other writer, for Scott was the dominant partner in the business which printed his work, and no doubt could have changed the practices of his printers had he so desired. It is this history of the initial creation of Scott’s novels that led the editors of the Edinburgh Edition to propose the first editions as base texts. That such a textual policy has been persuasively theorised by Jerome J. McGann in his A Critique of Modern Textual Criticism (1983) is a bonus: he argues that an authoritative work is usually found not in the artist’s manuscript, but in the printed book, and that there is a collective responsibility in converting an author’s manuscript into print, exercised by author, printer and publisher, and governed by the nature of the understanding between the author and the other parties. In Scott’s case

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the exercise of such a collective responsibility produced the first editions of the Waverley Novels. On the whole Scott’s printers fulfilled his expectations. There are normally in excess of 50,000 variants in the first edition of a three-volume novel when compared with the manuscript, and the great majority are in accordance with Scott’s general wishes as described above. But the intermediaries, as the copyist, compositors, proof-readers, and James Ballantyne are collectively described, made mistakes; from time to time they misread the manuscripts, and they did not always understand what Scott had written. This would not have mattered had there not also been procedural failures: the transcripts were not thoroughly checked against the original manuscripts; Scott himself does not seem to have read the proofs against the manuscripts and thus did not notice transcription errors which made sense in their context; Ballantyne continued his editing in post-authorial proofs. Furthermore, it has become increasingly evident that, although in theory Scott as partner in the printing firm could get what he wanted, he also succumbed to the pressure of printer and publisher. He often had to accept mistakes both in names and the spelling of names because they were enshrined in print before he realised what had happened. He was obliged to accept the movement of chapters between volumes, or the deletion or addition of material, in the interests of equalising the size of volumes. His work was subject to bowdlerisation, and to a persistent attempt to have him show a ‘high example’ even in the words put in the mouths of his characters; he regularly objected, but conformed nonetheless. From time to time he inserted, under protest, explanations of what was happening in the narrative because the literal-minded Ballantyne required them. The editors of modern texts have a basic working assumption that what is written by the author is more valuable than what is generated by compositors and proof-readers. Even McGann accepts such a position, and argues that while the changes made in the course of translating the manuscript text into print are a feature of the acceptable ‘socialisation’ of the authorial text, they have authority only to the extent that they fulfil the author’s expectations about the public form of the text. The editors of the Edinburgh Edition normally choose the first edition of a novel as base-text, for the first edition usually represents the culmination of the initial creative process, and usually seems closest to the form of his work Scott wished his public to have. But they also recognise the failings of the first editions, and thus after the careful collation of all pre-publication materials, and in the light of their investigation into the factors governing the writing and printing of the Waverley Novels, they incorporate into the base-text those manuscript readings which were lost in the production process through accident, error, misunderstanding, or a misguided attempt to ‘improve’. In certain cases they also introduce into the base-texts revisions found in editions published almost immediately

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after the first, which they believe to be Scott’s, or which complete the intermediaries’ preparation of the text. In addition, the editors correct various kinds of error, such as typographical and copy-editing mistakes including the misnumbering of chapters, inconsistencies in the naming of characters, egregious errors of fact that are not part of the fiction, and failures of sense which a simple emendation can restore. In doing all this the editors follow the model for editing the Waverley Novels which was provided by Claire Lamont in her edition of Waverley (Oxford, 1981): her base-text is the first edition emended in the light of the manuscript. But they have also developed that model because working on the Waverley Novels as a whole has greatly increased knowledge of the practices and procedures followed by Scott, his printers and his publishers in translating holograph manuscripts into printed books. The result is an ‘ideal’ text, such as his first readers might have read had the production process been less pressurised and more considered. The Magnum Opus could have provided an alternative basis for a new edition. In the Advertisement to the Magnum Scott wrote that his insolvency in 1826 and the public admission of authorship in 1827 restored to him ‘a sort of parental control’, which enabled him to reissue his novels ‘in a corrected and . . . an improved form’. His assertion of authority in word and deed gives the Magnum a status which no editor can ignore. His introductions are fascinating autobiographical essays which write the life of the Author of Waverley. In addition, the Magnum has a considerable significance in the history of culture. This was the first time all Scott’s works of fiction had been gathered together, published in a single uniform edition, and given an official general title, in the process converting diverse narratives into a literary monument, the Waverley Novels. There were, however, two objections to the use of the Magnum as the base-text for the new edition. Firstly, this has been the form of Scott’s work which has been generally available for most of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries; a Magnum-based text is readily accessible to anyone who wishes to read it. Secondly, a proper recognition of the Magnum does not extend to approving its text. When Scott corrected his novels for the Magnum, he marked up printed books (specially prepared by the binder with interleaves, hence the title the ‘Interleaved Set’), but did not perceive the extent to which these had slipped from the text of the first editions. He had no means of recognising that, for example, over 2000 differences had accumulated between the first edition of Guy Mannering and the text which he corrected, in the 1822 octavo edition of the Novels and Tales of the Author of Waverley. The printed text of Redgauntlet which he corrected, in the octavo Tales and Romances of the Author of Waverley (1827), has about 900 divergences from the first edition, none of which was authorially sanctioned. He himself made about 750 corrections to the text of Guy Mannering and

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200 to Redgauntlet in the Interleaved Set, but those who assisted in the production of the Magnum were probably responsible for a further 1600 changes to Guy Mannering, and 1200 to Redgauntlet. Scott marked up a corrupt text, and his assistants generated a systematically cleanedup version of the Waverley Novels. The Magnum constitutes the author’s final version of his novels and thus has its own value, and as the version read by the great Victorians has its own significance and influence. To produce a new edition based on the Magnum would be an entirely legitimate project, but for the reasons given above the Edinburgh editors have chosen the other valid option. What is certain, however, is that any compromise edition, that drew upon both the first and the last editions published in Scott’s lifetime, would be a mistake. In the past editors, following the example of W. W. Greg and Fredson Bowers, would have incorporated into the firstedition text the introductions, notes, revisions and corrections Scott wrote for the Magnum Opus. This would no longer be considered acceptable editorial practice, as it would confound versions of the text produced at different stages of the author’s career. To fuse the two would be to confuse them. Instead, Scott’s own material in the Interleaved Set is so interesting and important that it will be published separately, and in full, in the two parts of Volume 25 of the Edinburgh Edition. For the first time in print the new matter written by Scott for the Magnum Opus will be wholly visible. The Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels aims to provide the first reliable text of Scott’s fiction. It aims to recover the lost Scott, the Scott which was misunderstood as the printers struggled to set and print novels at high speed in often difficult circumstances. It aims in the Historical and Explanatory Notes and in the Glossaries to illuminate the extraordinary range of materials that Scott weaves together in creating his stories. All engaged in fulfilling these aims have found their enquiries fundamentally changing their appreciation of Scott. They hope that readers will continue to be equally excited and astonished, and to have their understanding of these remarkable novels transformed by reading them in their new guise.   January 1999

INTRODUCTION ————— MINUTES               -            ,                 ,     , ’ , Edinburgh, 1st June, 1825. ————— [The reader must have remarked, that the various editions of the proceedings at this meeting were given in the public papers with rather more than usual inaccuracy. The cause of this was no ill-timed delicacy on the part of the gentlemen of the press to assert their privilege of universal presence wherever a few are met together, and to commit to the public prints whatever may then and there pass of the most private nature. But very unusual and arbitrary methods were resorted to on the present occasion to prevent the reporters using a right which is generally conceded to them by almost all meetings, whether of a political or commercial description. Our own reporter, indeed, was bold enough to secrete himself under the Secretary’s table, and was not discovered till the meeting was well nigh over. We are sorry to say, he suffered much in person from fists and toes, and two or three principal pages were torn out of his note-book, which occasions his report to break off abruptly. We cannot but consider this behaviour as more particularly illiberal on the part of men who are themselves a kind of gentlemen of the press; and, considering the annoying frequency of their publications, even of the periodical press; and they ought to consider themselves as fortunate that the misused reporter has sought no other vengeance than from the tone of acidity with which he has seasoned his account of their proceedings.—Edinburgh Newspaper.]

A  of the gentlemen and others interested in the celebrated publications called the Waverley Novels, having been called by public advertisement, the same was respectably attended by various literary 3

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characters of eminence. And it being in the first place understood that individuals were to be denominated by the names assigned to them in the publications in question, the Eidolon was unanimously called to the chair, and Jonathan Oldbuck, Esq. of Monkbarns, was requested to act as secretary. The Preses then addressed the meeting to the following purpose:— “G        , “I need scarce remind you, that we have a joint interest in the valuable Property which has accumulated under our common labours. While the public have been idly engaged in ascribing to one individual or another the immense mass of various matter which the labours of many had accumulated, you, gentlemen, well know, that every person in this numerous assembly has had his share, before now, in the honours and profits of our common success. It is indeed to me a mystery how the sharp-sighted could suppose so huge a mass of sense and nonsense, jest and earnest, humorous and pathetic, good, bad, and indifferent, amounting to scores of volumes, could be the work of one hand, when we know the doctrine so well laid down by the immortal Adam Smith, concerning the division of labour. Were those who entertained an opinion so strange, not wise enough to know that it requires twenty pair of hands to make a thing so trifling as a pin—twenty couple of dogs to kill an animal so insignificant as a fox?”— “Hout, man!” said a stout countryman, “I have a grew-bitch at hame will worry the best tod in Pomaragrains, before ye could say Dumpling.” “Who is that person?” said the Preses, with some warmth, as it appeared to us. “A son of Dandie Dinmont’s,” answered the unabashed rustic. “God, ye may mind him, I think!—ane o’ the best in your aught, I reckon. And, ye see, I am come into the farm, and maybe something mair, and a wheen shares in this buik-trade of yours.” “Well, well,” replied the Preses, “peace, I pray thee, peace.—Gentlemen, when thus interrupted, I was on the point of introducing the business of this meeting, which, as is known to most of you, is the discussion of a proposition now on your table, which I myself had the honour to suggest at last meeting, namely, that we do apply to the Legislature for an Act of Parliament in ordinary, to associate us into a corporate body, and give us a persona standi in judicio, with full power to prosecute and bring to conviction all encroachers upon our exclusive

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privilege, in the manner therein to be made and provided. In a letter from the ingenious Mr Dousterswivel which I have received——” Oldbuck, warmly—“I object to that fellow’s name being mentioned; he is a common swindler.” “For shame! Mr Oldbuck,” said the Preses, “to use such terms respecting the ingenious inventor of the great patent machine erected at Groningen, where they put in raw hemp at one end, and take out ruffled shirts at the other, without aid of hackle or rippling-comb, loom, shuttle, or weaver, scissars, needle, or seamstress. He is just completing it, by addition of a piece of machinery to perform the work of the laundress; but when it was exhibited before his honour the burgo-master, it had the inconvenience of heating the smoothingirons red hot; excepting which, the experiment was entirely satisfactory. He will become as rich as a Jew.” “Well,” added Mr Oldbuck, “if the scoundrel——” “Scoundrel, Mr Oldbuck,” said the Preses, “is a most unseemly expression, and I must call you to order. Mr Dousterswivel is only an eccentric genius.” “Pretty much the same in the Greek,” muttered Mr Oldbuck; and then said aloud, “and if this eccentric genius has work enough in singeing the Dutchman’s linen, what the devil has he to do here?” “Why, he is of opinion, that at the expense of a little mechanism, some part of the labour of composition of these novels might be saved by the use of steam.” There was a murmur of disapprobation at this proposal, and the words, “Blown up,” and “Bread taken out of our mouths;” and “They might as well construct a steam parson,” were whispered. And it was not without repeated calls to order, that the Preses obtained an opportunity of resuming his address. “Order!—Order! Pray, support the chair! Hear, hear, hear the chair!” “Gentlemen, it is to be premised, that this mechanical operation can only apply to those parts of the narration which are at present composed out of common-places, such as the love-speeches of the hero, the description of the heroine’s person, the moral observations of all sorts, and the distribution of happiness at the conclusion of the piece. Mr Dousterswivel has sent me some drawings, which go far to show, that, by placing the words and phrases technically employed on these subjects, in a sort of frame-work, like that of the Sage of Laputa, and changing them by such a mechanical process as that by which weavers of damask alter their patterns, many new and happy combinations cannot fail to occur, while the author, tired of pumping his own brains, may have an agreeable relaxation in the use of his fingers.”

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“I speak for information, Mr Preses,” said the Rev. Mr Lawrence Templeton; “but I am inclined to suppose the late publication of Walladmor to have been the work of Dousterswivel, by the help of the steam-engine.” “For shame, Mr Templeton,” said the Preses; “there are good things in Walladmor, I assure you, had the writer known anything about the country in which he laid the scene.” “Or had he had the wit, like some of ourselves, to lay the scene in such a remote or distant country that nobody should be able to backspeer him,” said Mr Oldbuck. “Why, as to that,” said the Preses, “you must consider the thing was got up for the German market, where folks are no better judges of Welsh manners than of Welsh crw.” “I make it my prayer that this be not found the fault of our own next venture,” said Dr Dryasdust, pointing to some books which lay on the table. “I fear the manners expressed in that ‘Betrothed’ of ours, will scarce meet the approbation of the Cymmerodion; I could have wished that Llhuyd had been looked into—that Powel had been consulted—that Lewis’s History had been quoted, the preliminary dissertations particularly, in order to give due weight to the work.” “Weight?” said Captain Clutterbuck; “by my soul, it is heavy enough already, Doctor.” “Speak to the chair,” said the Preses, rather peevishly. “To the chair, then, I say it,” said Captain Clutterbuck, “that ‘The Betrothed’ is heavy enough to break down the chair of John of Gaunt, or Cador-Edris itself. I must add, however, that, in my poor mind, ‘The Talisman’ goes more trippingly off.” “It is not for me to speak,” said the worthy minister of Saint Ronan’s Well; “but yet I must say, that being so long engaged upon the Siege of Ptolemais, my work ought to have been brought out, humble though it be, before any other upon a similar subject at least.” “Your Siege, Parson!” said Mr Oldbuck, with great contempt; “will you speak of your paltry prose-doings in my presence, whose great Historical Poem, in twenty books, with notes in proportion, has been postponed ad Græcas Kalendas? ” The Preses, who appeared to suffer a great deal during this discussion, now spoke with dignity and determination. “Gentlemen,” he said, “this sort of discussion is highly irregular. There is a question before you, and to that, gentlemen, I must confine your attention. Priority of publication, let me remind you, gentlemen, is always referred to the Committee of Criticism, whose determination on such subjects is without appeal. I declare I will leave the chair, if any more extraneous matter be introduced.—And now, gentlemen, that we are

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once more in order, I would wish to have some gentleman speak upon the question, whether, as associated to carry on a joint-stock trade in fictitious narrative, in prose and verse, we ought not to be incorporated if possible by Act of Parliament? What say you, gentlemen, to the proposal? Vis unita fortior, is an old and true adage.” “Societas mater discordiarum, is a brocard as ancient and as veritable,” said Oldbuck, who seemed determined, on this occasion, to be pleased with no proposal that was countenanced by the chair. “Come, Monkbarns,” said the Preses, in his most coaxing manner, “you have studied the monastic institutions deeply, and know there must be an union of persons and talents to do anything respectable, and attain a due ascendance over the spirit of the age. Tres faciunt collegium—it takes three monks to make a convent.” “And nine tailors to make a man,” replied Oldbuck, not in the least softened in his opposition; “a quotation as much to the purpose as the other.” “Come, come,” said the Preses, “you know the Prince of Orange said to Mr Seymour, ‘Without an association, we are a rope of sand.’” “I know,” replied Oldbuck, “it would have been as seemly that none of the old leaven had been displayed on this occasion, though you be the author of a Jacobite novel. I know nothing of the Prince of Orange after 1688; but I have heard a good deal of the immortal William the Third.” “And, to the best of my recollection,” said Mr Templeton, whispering Oldbuck, “it was Seymour made the remark to the Prince, not the Prince to Seymour. But this is a specimen of our friend’s accuracy, poor gentleman! He trusts too much to his memory! of late years— failing fast, sir—breaking up.” “And breaking down, too,” said Mr Oldbuck. “But what can you expect of a man too fond of his own hasty and flashy compositions, to take the assistance of men of reading and of solid parts?” “No whispering—no caballing—no private business, gentlemen,” said the unfortunate Preses,—who reminded us somewhat of a Highland drover, engaged in gathering and keeping in the straight road his excursive black cattle. “I have not yet heard,” he continued, “a single reasonable objection to applying for the Act of Parliament, of which the draught lies on the table. You must be aware that the extremes of rude and of civilized society are, in these our days, on the point of approaching to each other. In the patriarchal period, a man is his own weaver, tailor, butcher, shoemaker, and so forth; and, in the age of Stock-companies, as the present may be called, an individual may be said, in one sense, to exercise the same plurality of trades. In fact, a man who has dipped

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largely into these speculations, may combine his own expenditure with the improvement of his own income, just like the ingenious hydraulic machine, which, by its very waste, raises its own supplies of water. Such a person buys his bread from his own Baking Company, his milk and cheese from his own Dairy Company, takes off a new coat for the benefit of his own Clothing Company, illuminates his house to advance his own Gas Establishment, and drinks an additional bottle of wine for the benefit of the General Wine Importation Company, of which he is himself a member. Every act, which would otherwise be one of mere extravagance, is, to such a person, seasoned with the odor lucri, and reconciled to prudence. Even if the price of the article consumed be extravagant, and the quality indifferent, the person, who is in a manner his own customer, is only imposed upon for his own benefit. Nay, if the Joint-stock Company of Undertakers shall unite with the Medical Faculty, as proposed by the late facetious Doctor G——, under the firm of Death and the Doctor, the share-holder might contrive to secure to his heirs a handsome slice of his own death-bed and funeral expenses. In short, Stock-Companies are the fashion of the age, and an incorporating Act will, I think, be particularly useful in bringing back the body, over whom I have the honour to preside, to a spirit of subordination, highly necessary to success in every enterprize where joint wisdom, talent, and labour, are to be employed. It is with regret that I state, that, besides several differences amongst yourselves, I have not myself for some time been treated with that deference among you which circumstances entitled me to expect.” “Hinc illæ lachrymæ,” muttered Mr Oldbuck. “But,” continued the Chairman, “I see other gentlemen impatient to deliver their opinions, and I desire to stand in no man’s way. I therefore—my place in this chair forbidding me to originate the motion—beg some gentleman may move a committee for revising the draught of the bill now upon the table, and which has been duly circulated among those having interest, and take the necessary measures to bring it before the House early next session.” There was a short murmur in the meeting, and at length Mr Oldbuck again rose. “It seems, sir,” he said, addressing the chair, “that no one present is willing to make the motion you point at. I am sorry no more qualified person has taken on him to show any reasons in the contrair, and that it has fallen on me, as we Scotsmen say, to bell-thecat with you; anent whilk phrase, Pitscottie hath a pleasant jest of the great Earl of Angus.” Here a gentleman whispered the speaker, “Have a care of Pitscottie,” and Mr Oldbuck, as if taking the hint, went on.

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“But that’s neither here nor there.—Well, gentlemen, to be short, I think it unnecessary to enter into the general reasonings whilk have this day been delivered, as I may say, ex cathedra; nor will I charge our worthy Preses with an attempt to obtain over us, per ambages, and under colour of an Act of Parliament, a despotic authority, inconsistent with our freedom: But this I will say, that times are so much changed above stairs, that whereas last year you might have obtained an act incorporating a Stock Company for riddling ashes, you will not be able to procure one this year for gathering pearls. What signifies, then, wasting the time of the meeting, by inquiring whether or not we ought to go in at a door which we know to be bolted and barred in our face, and in the face of all the companies for fire or air, land or water, which we have of late seen blighted?” Here there was a general clamour, seemingly of approbation, in which the words might be distinguished, “Needless to think of it” —“Money thrown away”—“Lost before the committee,” &c. &c. &c. But above the tumult, the voices of two gentlemen, in different corners of the room, answered each other clear and loud, like the blows of the two figures on Saint Dunstan’s clock; and although the Chairman, in much agitation, endeavoured to silence them, his interruption had only the effect of cutting their words up into syllables, thus,— First Voice. “The Lord Chan——” Second Voice. “Lord Lau——” Chairman, (loudly.) “Scandalum magnatum.” First Voice. “The Lord Chancel——” Second Voice. “The Lord Lauder——” Chairman, (louder yet.) “Breach of Privilege.” First Voice. “The Lord Chancellor—” Second Voice. “My Lord Lauderdale—” Chairman, (at the highest pitch of his voice.) “Called before the House.” Both Voices together. “Will never consent to such a bill.” A general assent seemed to follow this last proposition, which was propounded with as much emphasis as could be contributed by the united clappers of the whole meeting, joined to those of the voices already mentioned. Several persons present seemed to consider the business of the meeting as ended, and were beginning to handle their hats and canes, with a view to departure, when the Chairman, who had thrown himself back in his chair with an air of manifest mortification and displeasure, again drew himself up, and commanded attention. All stopped, though some shrugged their shoulders, as if under the predominating

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influence of what is called a bore. But the tenor of his discourse soon excited anxious attention. “I perceive, gentlemen,” he said, “that you are like the young birds, who are impatient to leave their mother’s nest—take care your own pen-feathers are strong enough to support you; since, as for my part, I am tired of supporting on my wing such a set of ungrateful gulls. But it signifies nothing speaking—I will no longer avail myself of such weak ministers as you—I will discard you—I will unbeget you, as Old Absolute says—I will leave you and your whole hacked stock in trade —your caverns and your castles—your modern antiques, and your antiquated moderns—your confusion of times, manners, and circumstances—your properties, as player-folk say of scenery and dresses— the whole of your exhausted expedients, to the fools who choose to deal with them. I will vindicate my own fame with my own right-hand, without appealing to such halting assistants, Whom I have used for sport, rather than need.

—I will lay my foundations better than on quick-sands—I will rear my structure of better materials than painted cards;—in a word, I will write H  .” There was a tumult of surprise, amid which our reporter detected the following expressions:—“The devil you will!”—“You, my dear sir, you? ”—“The old gentleman forgets that he is the greatest liar since Sir John Mandeville.” “Not the worse historian for that,” said Oldbuck, “since history, you know, is half fiction.” “I’ll answer for that half,” said the former speaker; “but for the scantling of truth which is necessary after all, Lord help us!—Geoffrey of Monmouth will be Lord Clarendon to him.” As the confusion began to abate, more than one member of the meeting was seen to touch his forehead significantly, while Captain Clutterbuck humm’d, Be by your friends advised, Too rash, too hasty, dad, Maugre your bolts and wise head, The world will think you mad.

“The world, and you, gentlemen, may think what you please,” said the Chairman, elevating his voice; “but I intend to write the most wonderful book which the world ever read—a book in which every incident shall be incredible, yet strictly true—a work recalling recollections with which the ears of this generation once tingled, and which shall be read by our children with an admiration approaching to incredulity. Such shall be the L  N B, by the A of W!”

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In the general start and exclamation which followed this annunciation, Mr Oldbuck dropped his snuff-box; and the Scottish rappee, which dispersed itself in consequence, had effects upon the nasal organs of our reporter, ensconced as he was under the secretary’s table, which occasioned his being discovered and extruded in the illiberal and unhandsome manner we have mentioned, with threats of farther damage to his nose, ears, and other parts of his body, on the part especially of Captain Clutterbuck. Undismayed by these threats, which indeed those of his profession are accustomed to hold at defiance, our young man hovered about the door of the tavern, but could only bring us the further intelligence, that the meeting had broken up in about a quarter of an hour after his expulsion, “in much-admired disorder.”

TALES OF THE CRUSADERS

tale 1 THE BETROTHED

Chapter One Now in these dayes were hotte wars upon the Marches of Wales. L   ’  History

T  Chronicles, from which this narrative is extracted, assure us, that, during the long period when the Welch princes maintained their independence, the year —— was peculiarly marked as favourable to peace betwixt them and their warlike neighbours, the Lords Marchers, who inhabited those formidable castles along the frontiers of the ancient British, on the ruins of which the traveller gazes with wonder. This was the time when Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, accompanied by the learned Giraldus de Barri, afterwards Bishop of Saint David’s, preached the Crusade from castle to castle, from town to town; awakened the inmost valleys of his native Cambria with the call to arms for recovery of the Holy Sepulchre; and, while he deprecated the feuds and wars of Christian men against each other, held out to the martial spirit of the age a general object of ambition, and a scene of adventure, where the favour of Heaven, as well as earthly renown, was to reward the successful champions. Yet the British chieftains, among the thousands whom this spiritstirring summons called from their native land to a distant and perilous expedition, had perhaps the best excuse for declining the summons. The superior skill of the Anglo-Norman knights, who were engaged in constant inroads on the Welch frontier, and who were frequently detaching from it large portions, which they fortified with castles, thus making good what they had won, was avenged, indeed, but not compensated, by the furious inroads of the British, who, like the billows of a retiring tide, rolled on successively, with noise, fury, and devastation; but, on each retreat, yielded ground insensibly to their invaders. 13

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Vol. 1, ch. 1

A union among the native princes might have opposed a strong barrier to the encroachments of the strangers; but they were, unhappily, as much at discord among themselves as they were with the Normans, and were constantly engaged in private war with each other, of which the common enemy had the sole advantage. The invitation to the Crusade promised something at least of novelty to a nation peculiarly ardent in their temper; and it was accepted by many, regardless of the consequence which must ensue to the country which they left defenceless. Even the most celebrated enemies of the Saxon and Norman race laid aside their enmity against the invaders of their country, to enroll themselves under the banners of the Crusade. Among these was reckoned Guenwyn, (or more properly Guenwynwen, though we retain the briefer appellative,) who continued to exercise a precarious sovereignty over such parts of Powis-land as had not been subjugated by the Mortimers, Guarines, Latimers, FitzAlans, and other Norman nobles, who, under various pretexts, and sometimes contemning all others than the open avowal of superior force, had severed and appropriated large portions of that once extensive and independent principality, which, when Wales was unhappily divided into three parts on the death of Roderick Mawr, fell to the lot of his youngest son Mervyn. The undaunted resolution and stubborn ferocity of Guenwyn, descendant of that prince, had long made him beloved among the “Tall men,” or Champions of Wales; and he was enabled, more by the number of soldiers who served under him, attracted by his reputation, than by the natural strength of his dilapidated principality, to retaliate the encroachments of yonder English by the most wasteful inroads. Yet even Guenwyn on the present occasion seemed to forget his deeply sworn hatred against his dangerous neighbours. The Torch of Pengwern, (for so Guenwyn was called, from his frequently laying the province of Shrewsbury in conflagration,) seemed at present to burn as calmly as a taper in the bower of a lady; and the Wolf of Plinlimmon, another name with which the bards had graced Guenwyn, now slumbered as peacefully as the shepherd’s dog on the domestic hearth. But it was not alone the eloquence of Baldwin or of Gerald which had lulled into peace a spirit so restless and fierce. It is true, their exhortations had done more towards it than Guenwyn’s followers had thought possible. The Archbishop had induced the British Chief to break bread, and to mingle in sylvan sports, with his nearest, and hitherto one of his most determined enemies, the old Norman warrior Sir Raymond Berenger, who, sometimes beaten, sometimes victorious, but never subdued, had, in spite of Guenwyn’s hottest incursions,

[Chap. 1]

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maintained his Castle of Garde Douloureuse, upon the marches of Wales; a place strong by nature and well fortified by art, which the Welch prince had found it impossible to conquer, either by open force or by stratagem, and which, remaining with a strong garrison in his rear, often checked his incursions, by rendering his retreat precarious. On this account, Guenwyn of Powis-Land had an hundred times vowed the death of Raymond Berenger, and the demolition of his castle; but the policy of the sagacious old warrior, and his perfect experience with all warlike practice, were such as, with the aid of his more powerful countrymen, enabled him to defy the attempts of his fiery neighbour. If there was a man, therefore, throughout England, whom Guenwyn hated more than another, it was Raymond Berenger; and yet the good Archbishop Baldwin could prevail on the Welch prince to meet him as a friend and ally in the cause of the Cross. He even invited Raymond to the autumn hospitality of his Welch palace, where the old knight, in all honourable courtesy, feasted and hunted for more than a week in the dominions of his hereditary foe. To requite his hospitality, Raymond invited the Prince of Powis, with a chosen but limited train, during the ensuing Christmas, to the Garde Douloureuse, which some antiquaries have endeavoured to identify with the Castle of Colune, on the river of the same name. But the length of time, and some geographical difficulties, throw doubts upon this ingenious conjecture. As the Welchman crossed the draw-bridge, he was observed by his faithful bard to shudder with involuntary emotion; nor did Cadwallon, experienced as he was in life, and well acquainted with the character of his master, make any doubt that he was at that moment strongly urged by the apparent opportunity, to seize upon the strength which had been so long the object of his cupidity, even at the expense of violating his good faith. Dreading lest the struggle of his master’s conscience and his ambition should terminate unfavourably for his fame, the bard arrested his attention by whispering in their native language, that “the teeth which bite hardest are those which are out of sight;” and Guenwyn looking around him, became aware that, though only unarmed squires and pages appeared in the court-yard, yet the towers and battlements protecting it were garnished with archers and men-at-arms. They proceeded to the banquet, at which Guenwyn, for the first time, beheld Eveline Berenger, the sole child of the Norman castellane, the inheritor of his domains and of his supposed wealth, aged only sixteen, and the most beautiful damsel upon the Welch marches. Many a spear had already been shivered in maintenance of her charms; and the gallant Hugo de Lacy, Constable of Chester, one of

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the most redoubted warriors of the time, had laid at Eveline’s feet the prize which his chivalry had gained in a great tournament held near that ancient town. Guenwyn considered these triumphs as so many additional recommendations to Eveline; her beauty was incontestible, and she was heiress of the fortress which he so much longed to possess, and which he began now to think might be acquired by means more smooth than those with which he was in the use of working out his will. Again, the hatred which subsisted between the British and their Saxon and Norman invaders; his long and ill-extinguished feud with this very Raymond Berenger; a general recollection that alliances between the Welch and English had rarely been happy; and a consciousness that the measure which he meditated would be unpopular among his followers, and appear a dereliction of the systematic principles on which he had hitherto acted, refrained him from speaking his wishes to Raymond or his daughter. No idea of rejection of his suit for a moment occurred to him; he was convinced he had but to speak his wishes, and that the daughter of a Norman castellane, whose rank or power were not of the highest order among the nobles of the frontiers, must be delighted and honoured by a proposal from the sovereign of a hundred mountains. There was indeed another objection, which in later times would have been of considerable weight—Guenwyn was already married. But Brengwain was a childless bride; sovereigns, (and among sovereigns the Welch prince ranked himself,) marry for lineage, and the Pope was not like to be scrupulous, where the question was to oblige a prince who had assumed the Cross with such ready zeal, even although, in fact, his thoughts had been much more upon Garde Douloureuse than upon Jerusalem. In the meanwhile, if Raymond Berenger was not liberal enough to permit Eveline to hold the temporary rank of concubine, which the manners of Wales warranted Guenwyn to offer as an interim arrangement, he had only to wait a few months, and sue for a divorce through the Bishop of Saint David’s, or some other intercessor at the Court of Rome. Agitating these thoughts in his mind, Guenwyn prolonged his residence at the castle of Berenger, from Christmas till Twelfth-day; and endured the presence of the Norman cavaliers who resorted to Raymond’s festal halls, although, regarding themselves, in virtue of their rank of knighthood, as equal to the most potent sovereigns, they made small account of the long descent of the Welch prince, who, in their eyes, was but the chief of a semi-barbarous province; while he, on his part, considered them little better than a sort of privileged robbers, and with the utmost difficulty restrained himself from manifesting his

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open hatred, when he beheld them careering in the exercises of chivalry, the habitual use of which rendered them such formidable enemies to his country. At length, the term of feasting was ended, and knight and squire departed from the castle, which once more assumed the aspect of a solitary and guarded frontier fort. But the Prince of Powis-Land, while pursuing his sports on his own mountains and vallies, found that even the superior plenty of the game, as well as his release from the society of the Norman chivalry, who affected to treat him as an equal, profited him nothing, so long as the light and beautiful form of Eveline, on her white palfrey, was banished from the train of sportsmen. In short, he hesitated no longer, but took in his confidence his chaplain, an able and sagacious man, whose pride was flattered by his patron’s communication, and who, besides, saw in the proposed scheme some contingent advantages for himself and his order. By his counsel, the proceedings for Guenwyn’s divorce were commenced under favourable auspices, and the unfortunate Brengwain was removed to a nunnery, which perhaps she found a more cheerful habitation than the lonely retreat in which she had led a neglected life ever since Guenwyn had despaired of her bed being blessed with issue. Father Einion also dealt with the chiefs and elders of the land, and represented to them the advantage which in future wars they were certain to obtain by possession of the Garde Douloureuse, which had for more than a century covered and protected a considerable tract of country, rendered their advance difficult, and their retreat perilous, and, in a word, prevented their carrying their incursions as far as the gates of Shrewsbury. As for the union with the Saxon damsel, the fetters which it was to form would not (the good father hinted,) be found more permanent than those which had bound Guenwyn to her predecessor, Brengwain. These arguments, mingled with others adapted to the views and wishes of different individuals, were so prevailing, that the chaplain in the course of a few weeks was able to report to his princely patron, that his proposed match would meet with no opposition from the elders and nobles of his dominions. A golden bracelet, six ounces in weight, was the instant reward of the priest’s dexterity in negotiation, and he was appointed by Guenwyn to commit to paper those proposals, which he doubted not were to throw the Castle of Garde Douloureuse, notwithstanding its melancholy name, into an ecstacy of joy. With some difficulty the chaplain prevailed on his patron to say nothing in this letter upon his temporary plan of concubinage, which he wisely judged might be considered as an affront both by Eveline and her father. The matter of the divorce he represented as almost entirely settled, and wound up his letter with a moral application, in which

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were many allusions to Vashti, Esther, and Ahasuerus. Having dispatched this letter by a swift and trusty messenger, the British prince opened in all solemnity the feast of Easter, which had come round during the course of these external and internal negotiations. Upon the approaching holy-tide, to propitiate the minds of his subjects and vassals, they were invited in large numbers to partake a princely festivity at Castell-Coch or the Red Castle, as it was then called, since better known by the name of Powis-Castle, and afterwards the princely seat of the Duke of Beaufort. The architectural magnificence of this noble residence was of a much later period than that of Guenwyn, whose palace was a long, low-roofed edifice of red stone, whence the castle derived its name; while a ditch and palisade, in addition to the commanding situation, were its most important defences.

Chapter Two At Madoc’s tent the clarion sounds, With rapid clangor hurried far; Each hill and dale the note rebounds, But when return the sons of war! Thou, born of stern Necessity, Dull Peace! the valley yields to thee, And owns thy melancholy sway. Welch Poem

T  feasts of the ancient British princes usually exhibited all the rude splendour and liberal indulgence of mountain hospitality, and Guenwyn was, on the present occasion, anxious to purchase popularity by even an unusual display of profusion; for he was sensible that the alliance which he meditated might indeed be tolerated, but could not be approved, by his subjects and followers. The following incident, trifling in itself, confirmed his apprehensions. Passing one evening, when it was become nearly dark, by the open window of a guard-room, usually occupied by some few of his most celebrated soldiers, who relieved each other in watching his palace, he heard Morgan, a man distinguished for strength, courage, and ferocity, say to the companion with whom he was sitting by the watch-fire, “Guenwyn is turned to a priest, or a woman! When was it before these last months, that a follower of his was obliged to gnaw the meat from the bone so closely, as I am now peeling the morsel which I hold in my hand?” “Wait but a while,” replied his comrade, “till the Norman match be

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accomplished; and so small will be the prey we shall then drive from the Saxon churls, that we may be glad to swallow, like hungry dogs, the very bones themselves.” Guenwyn heard no more of their conversation; but this was enough to alarm his pride as a soldier, and his jealousy as a prince. He was sensible, that the people over whom he ruled were at once fickle in their disposition, impatient of long repose, and full of hatred against their neighbours; and he almost dreaded the consequences of the inactivity to which a long truce might reduce them. The risk was now incurred, however; and to display even more than his wonted splendour and liberality, seemed the best way of reconciling the wavering affections of his subjects. A Norman would have despised the barbarous magnificence of an entertainment, consisting of kine and sheep roasted whole, of goats’ flesh and deers’ flesh seethed in the skins of the animals themselves; for the Normans piqued themselves on the quality rather than the quantity of their food, and, eating rather delicately than largely, ridiculed the coarser taste of the Britons, although the last were in their banquets much more moderate than were the Saxons. Nor would the oceans of Crw and hydromel, which overwhelmed the guests like a deluge, have made up, in their opinion, for the absence of the more elegant and costly beverage which they had learned to love in the south of Europe. Milk, prepared in various ways, was another material of the entertainment, which would not have received their approbation, although a nutriment which, on ordinary occasions, often supplied the want of all others amongst the ancient British, whose country was rich in flocks and herds, but poor in agricultural produce. The banquet was spread in a long low hall, built of rough wood lined with shingles, having a fire at each end, the smoke of which, unable to find its way through the imperfect vents in the roof, rolled in cloudy billows above the heads of the revellers, who sat on low seats, purposely to avoid its stifling fumes. The mien and appearance of the company assembled was wild, and, even in their social hours, almost terrific. Their prince himself had the gigantic port and fiery eye fitted to sway an unruly people, whose delight was in the field of battle; and the long moustaches which he and most of his champions wore, added to the formidable dignity of his presence. Like most of those present, Guenwyn was clad in a simple tunic of white linen cloth, a remnant of the dress which the Romans had introduced into provincial Britain; and he was distinguished by the Eudor-chawg, or chain of twisted gold links, with which the Celtic tribes always decorated their chiefs. The collar, indeed, was common to chieftains of inferior rank, many of whom bore it in virtue of their birth, or had won it by military

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exploits; but a ring of gold, bent around the head, intermingled with Guenwyn’s dark hair—for he still claimed the rank of one of three diademed princes of Wales, and his armlets and anklets, of the same metal, were peculiar to the Prince of Powis, as an independent sovereign. Two squires of his body, who dedicated their whole attention to his service, stood at the Prince’s back; and at his feet sat a page, whose duty it was to keep them warm by chafing them and by wrapping them in his mantle. The same right of sovereignty, which assigned to Guenwyn his golden crownlet, gave him title to the attendance of the footbearer, or youth, who lay on the rushes, and whose duty it was to cherish the Prince’s feet in his lap or bosom. Notwithstanding the military disposition of the guests, and the risk arising from the feuds into which they were divided, few of the feasters wore any defensive armour, excepting the light goat-skin buckler, which hung behind each man’s seat. On the other hand, they were well provided with store of offensive weapons; besides the broad, sharp, short two-edged sword, another legacy of the Romans. Most added a wood-knife or poniard; and there were store of javelins, darts, bows and arrows, pikes, halberds, Danish axes, and Welch hooks and bills; so, in case of ill-blood arising during the banquet, there was no lack of weapons to work mischief with. But although the form of the feast was somewhat disorderly, and that the revellers were unrestrained by the stricter rules of good breeding which the laws of chivalry imposed, the Easter banquet of Guenwyn possessed, in the attendance of twelve eminent bards, one source of the most elegant pleasure, in a much higher degree than the proud Normans could themselves boast. The latter, it is true, had their minstrels, a race of men trained to the profession of poetry, song, and music. But although those arts were highly honoured, and the individual professors, when they attained to eminence, were often richly rewarded, the order of minstrels, as such, was held in low esteem, being composed chiefly of worthless and dissolute strollers, by whom the art was assumed, in order to escape from the necessity of labour, and to have the means of pursuing a wandering and dissipated course of life. Such, in all times, has been the censure imposed upon the calling of those who dedicate themselves to the public amusement; among whom those distinguished by individual excellence are sometimes raised high in the social circle, while far the more numerous professors are depressed into the lower scale. But such was not the case with the order of the bards in Wales, who, succeeding to the dignity of the Druids under whom they had originally formed a subordinate fraternity, had many immunities, were held in the highest reverence and esteem, and exercised much influence over their coun-

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trymen. Their power over the public mind even rivalled that of the priests themselves, to whom indeed they bore some resemblance; for they never wore arms, were initiated into their order by secret and mystic solemnities, and homage was rendered to their Awen, or flow of poetic inspiration, as if it had been indeed marked with a divine character. Thus possessed of power and consequence, the bards were not unwilling to exercise their privileges, and sometimes, in doing so, their manners rather savoured of caprice. This was perhaps the case with Cadwallon, the chief bard of Guenwyn, and who, as such, was expected to have poured forth the tide of song in the banquetting-hall of his prince. But neither the anxious and breathless expectation of the assembled chiefs and champions— neither the dead silence which stilled the roaring hall, when his harp was reverently placed before him by his attendant—nor even the commands or entreaties of the Prince himself—could extract from Cadwallon more than a short and interrupted prelude upon the instrument, the notes of which arranged themselves into an air inexpressibly mournful, and died away in silence. The Prince frowned darkly on Cadwallon, who was himself far too deeply lost in gloomy thought, to offer any apology, or even to observe his displeasure. Again he touched a few wild notes, and, raising his looks upward, seemed to be on the very point of bursting forth into a tide of song similar to those with which this master of his art was wont to enchant his hearers. But the effort was in vain—he declared that his right hand was withered, and pushed the instrument from him. A murmur went round the company, and Guenwyn read in their aspects that they received the unusual silence of Cadwallon on this high occasion as a bad omen. He called hastily on a young and ambitious bard, named Caradoc of Menwygent, whose rising fame was likely soon to vie with the established reputation of Cadwallon, and summoned him to sing something which might command the applause of his sovereign and the gratitude of the company. The young man was ambitious, and understood the arts of a courtier. He commenced a poem, in which, although under the feigned name of ——, he drew such a poetic picture of Eveline Berenger, that Guenwyn was enraptured; and all who had seen the beautiful original at once recognized the resemblance, and the eyes of the Prince confessed at once his passion for the subject, and his admiration for the poet. The figures of Celtic poetry, in themselves highly imaginative, were scarce sufficient for the enthusiasm of the ambitious bard, rising in his tone as he perceived the feelings which he was exciting. The praises of the Prince mingled with those of the Norman beauty; and “as a lion,” said the poet, “can only be led by the hand of a chaste and beautiful

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maiden, so a chief can only acknowledge the empire of the most virtuous, the most lovely of her sex. Who asks of the noon-day sun, in what quarter of the world he was born? and who shall ask of such charms as hers, to what country they owe their birth?” Enthusiasts in pleasure as in war, and possessed of imaginations which answered readily to the summons of their poets, the Welch chiefs and leaders united in acclamations of applause; and the song of the bard went farther to render popular the intended alliance of the Prince, than had all the graver arguments of his priestly intercessor. Guenwyn himself, in a transport of delight, tore off the golden bracelets which he wore, to bestow them upon a bard whose song had produced an effect so desirable; and said, as he looked at the silent and sullen Cadwallon, “The silent harp was never strung with golden wires.” “Prince,” answered the bard, whose pride was at least equal to that of Guenwyn himself, “you pervert the proverb of Taliessin—It is the flattering harp which never lacked golden strings.” Guenwyn, turning sternly towards him, was about to make an angry answer, when the sudden appearance of Iorworth, the messenger whom he had dispatched to Raymond Berenger, arrested his purpose. This rude envoy entered the hall bare-legged, excepting the sandals of goat-skin which he wore, and having on his shoulder a cloak of the same, and a short javelin in his hand. The dust on his garments, and the flush on his brow, shewed with what hasty zeal his errand had been executed. Guenwyn demanded of him eagerly, “What news from Garde Douloureuse, Iorworth ap Ieuan?” “I bear them in my bosom,” said the son of Ieuan, and, with much reverence, delivered to the Prince a packet, bound with silk, and sealed with the impression of a swan, the ancient cognisance of the House of Berenger. Himself ignorant of writing or reading, Guenwyn, in anxious haste, delivered the letter to Cadwallon, who usually acted as secretary when the chaplain was not in presence, as chanced then to be the case. Cadwallon, looking at the letter, said briefly, “I read no Latin—ill betide the Norman, who writes to a Prince of Powis in other language than that of Britain! and well was the hour, when that alone was spoken from Tintadgel to Cairleoil.” Guenwyn only replied to him with an angry glance. “Where is Father Einion?” said the impatient prince. “He assists in the church,” replied one of his attendants, “for it is the feast of Saint——” “Were it the feast of Saint David,” said Guenwyn, “and were the pyx between his hands, he must come hither to me instantly!” One of the Chief’s henchmen sprang off, to command his attend-

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ance, and, in the meantime, Guenwyn eyed the letter containing the secret of his fate, but which it required an interpreter to read, with such eagerness and anxiety, that Caradoc, elated by his former success, threw in a few notes to divert, if possible, the tenor of his patron’s thoughts during the interval. A light and lively air, touched by a hand which seemed to hesitate, like the submissive voice of an inferior, fearing to interrupt his master’s meditations, introduced a stanza or two applicable to the subject. “And what though thou, O scroll,” he said, apostrophizing the letter, which lay on the table before his master, “doest speak with the tongue of the stranger? Hath not the cuckow a harsh note, and yet she tells us of green buds and springing flowers—What if thy language be that of the stoled priest, is it not the same which binds hearts and hands together at the altar? And what though thou delayst to render up thy treasures, are not all pleasures most sweet, when enhanced by expectation? What were the chace, if the deer dropped at our feet the instance he started from the cover—or what value were there in the love of the maiden, were it yielded without coy delay?” The song of the bard was here broken short by the entrance of the priest, who, hasty in obeying the summons of his impatient master, had not tarried to lay aside even the stole, which he had worn in the holy service; and many of the elders thought it was no good omen, that, so habited, a priest should appear in a festive assembly, and amid profane minstrelsy. The priest opened the letter of the Norman Baron, and, struck with surprise at the contents, lifted his eyes in silence. “Read it!” exclaimed the fierce Guenwyn. “So please you,” replied the more prudent chaplain, “a smaller company were a fitter audience.” “Read it aloud!” repeated the Prince, in a still higher tone; “there sit none here who respect not the honour of their prince, or who deserve not his confidence. Read it, I say, aloud! and by Saint David, if Raymond the Norman hath dared”—— He stopped short, and, reclining on his seat, composed himself to an attitude of attention; but it was easy for his followers to fill up the breach in his exclamation which prudence had recommended. The voice of the Chaplain was low and ill-assured as he read aloud the following epistle:— “Raymond Berenger, the noble Norman Knight, Seneschal of the Garde Douloureuse, to Guenwyn, Prince of Powis, (May Peace be between them!) sendeth Health. “Your letter, craving the hand of our daughter Eveline Berenger to

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wife, was safely delivered to us by your servant, Iorworth ap Ieuan, and we thank you heartily for the good meaning therein expressed to us and to ours. But, considering within ourselves the difference of blood and lineage, with the impediments and causes of offence which have often arisen in the like cases, we hold it fitter to match our daughter within her own people; and this by no case in disparagement of you, but solely for the weal of you, of ourselves and our mutual dependants, who will be the more safe from the risk of quarrel betwixt us, that we essay not to draw the bonds of our intimacy more close than beseemeth. The sheep and the goats feed together in peace on the same pastures, but they mingle not in blood, or race, the one with the other. Moreover, our daughter Eveline hath been sought in marriage by a noble and potent Lord of the Marches, Hugo de Lacy, the Constable of Chester, to which most honourable suit we have returned a favourable answer. It is therefore impossible that we should in this matter grant to you the boon you seek; nevertheless, you shall at all times find us, in other matters, willing to pleasure you; and hereunto we call God, and Our Lady, and Saint Mary Magdalen of Quatford, to witness, to whose keeping we heartily recommend you. “Written by our command, at our Castle of Garde Douloureuse, within the Marches of Wales, by a reverend priest, Father Aldrovand, a black monk of the house of Wenlock; and to which we have appended our seal, upon the eve of the blessed martyr Saint Alphegius, to whom be honour and glory.” The voice of Father Einion faltered, and the scroll which he held in his hand trembled in his grasp, as he arrived at the conclusion of this epistle; for well he knew that insults more slight than Guenwyn would hold the slightest word it contained, were sure to put every drop of his British blood into the most vehement commotion. Nor did it fail to do so. The Prince had gradually drawn himself up from the posture of repose in which he had prepared to listen to the epistle; and when it concluded, he sprung on his feet like a startled lion, spurning from him as he rose the foot-bearer, who rolled at some distance on the floor. “Priest,” he said, “hast thou read that accursed scroll fairly? for if thou hast added, or diminished, one word, or one letter, I will have thine eyes so handled, that thou shalt never read letter more!” The monk replied, trembling, (for he was well aware that the sacerdotal character was not uniformly respected among the irascible Welchmen,) “By the oath of my order, mighty prince, I have read word for word, and letter for letter.” There was a momentary pause, while the fury of Guenwyn, at this unexpected affront, offered to him in the presence of all his Uckelwyr,

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(i.e. noble chiefs, literally men of high stature,) seemed too big for utterance, when the silence was broken by a few notes from the hitherto mute harp of Cadwallon. The Prince looked round at first with displeasure at the interruption, for he was himself about to speak. But when he beheld the bard bending over his harp with an air of inspiration, and blending together, with unexampled skill, the wildest and most exalted tones of his art, he himself became an auditor instead of a speaker, and Cadwallon, not the Prince, seemed to become the central point of the assembly, on whom all eyes were bent, and to whom each ear was turned with breathless eagerness, as if his strains were the responses of an oracle. “We wed not with the stranger,”—thus flowed the song which burst from the lips of the poet like the living waters from the gushing stream. “We wed not with the stranger. Vortigern wedded with the stranger; thence came the first woe upon Britain, and a sword upon her nobles, and a thunderbolt upon his palace. We wed not with the enslaved Saxon—the free and princely stag seeks not for his bride the heifer whose neck the yoke has worn. We wed not with the rapacious Norman—the noble hound scorns to seek a mate from the herd of ravening wolves. When was it heard that the Cymry, the descendants of Brute, the true children of the soil of fair Britain, were plundered, oppressed, bereft of their birth-right, and insulted even in their last retreats?—when, but since they stretched their hand in friendship to the stranger, and clasped to their bosom the daughter of the Saxon? Which of the two is feared?—the empty water-course of summer, or the channel of the headlong winter torrent?—A maiden smiles at the summer-shrunk brook while she crosses, but a barbed horse and its rider will fear to stem the wintry flood—Men of Mathraval and Powis, be the dreaded flood of winter—Guenwyn, son of Cyvelioc, may thy plume be the foremost of its waves!” All thoughts of peace, thoughts which, in themselves, were foreign to the hearts of the warlike British, passed before the song of Cadwallon like dust before the whirlwind, and the unanimous shout of the assembly declared for instant war. The Prince himself spoke not, but, looking proudly around him, flung abroad his arm, as one who cheers his followers to the attack. The priest, had he dared, might have reminded Guenwyn, that the Cross which he had assumed on his shoulder, had consecrated his arm to the Holy War, and precluded his engaging in any civil strife. But the task was too dangerous for Father Einion’s courage, and he shrunk from the hall to the seclusion of his own convent. Caradoc, whose brief hour of popularity was past, also retired, with humbled and dejected looks, and not without a glance of indignation at his

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triumphant rival, who had so judiciously reserved his display of art for the theme of war, that was ever most popular with the audience. The chiefs resumed their seats no longer for the purpose of festivity, but to arrange in the hasty manner customary amongst these prompt warriors the point on which they were to assemble their forces, which, upon such occasion, comprehended almost all the able-bodied males of the country, for all, excepting the priests and the bards, were soldiers,—and to settle the order of their descent upon the devoted marches, where they proposed to signalize, by general ravage, their sense of the insult which their prince had received, by the rejection of his suit.

Chapter Three The sands are number’d, that make up my life; Here must I stay, and here my life must end. Henry VI. Act I. Scene IV

W   Raymond Berenger had dispatched his missive to the Prince of Powis, he was not unsuspicious, though altogether fearless, of the result. He sent messengers to the several dependants who held their fiefs by the tenure of cornage, and warned them to be on the alert, that he might receive instant notice of the approach of the enemy. These vassals, as is well known, occupied the numerous towers, which, like so many falcon-nests, had been built on the points most convenient to defend the frontiers, and were bound to give signal of any incursion of the Welch, by blowing their horns; which sounds, answered from tower to tower, and from station to station, gave the alarm for general defence. But although Raymond considered these precautions as necessary, from the fickle and precarious temper of his neighbours, and for maintaining his own credit as a soldier, he was far from believing the danger so imminent; for the preparations of the Welch, though on a much more extensive scale than had lately been usual, were as secret as their resolution of war had been suddenly adopted. It was upon the second morning after the memorable festival of Castell-Coch, that the tempest broke on the Norman frontier. At first a single, long, and keen bugle-blast, announced the approach of the enemy; presently the signals of alarm were echoed from every castle and tower on the borders of Shropshire, where every place of habitation was then a fortress. Beacons were lighted upon crags and eminences, the bells were rung backwards in the churches and towns, while the general and earnest summons to arms announced an extremity of

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danger which even the inhabitants of that unsettled country had not hitherto experienced. Amid this general alarm, Raymond Berenger, having busied himself in arranging his few but gallant followers and adherents, and taken such modes of procuring intelligence of the enemy’s strength and motions as were in his power, at length ascended the watchtower of the castle, to observe in person the country around, already obscured in several places by the clouds of smoke, which announced the progress and the ravages of the invaders. He was speedily joined by his favourite squire, to whom the unusual heaviness of his master’s looks was cause of much surprise, for till now they had ever been blithest at the hour of battle. The squire held in his hand his master’s helmet, for Sir Raymond was all armed, saving the head. “Dennis Morolt,” said the veteran soldier, “are our vassals and liegemen all mustered?” “All, noble sir, but the Flemings, who are not yet come in.” “The lazy hounds, why tarry they?” said Raymond. “Ill policy it is to plant such sluggish natures on our borders. They are like their own steers, fitter to tug a plough than for aught that requires mettle.” “With your favour,” said Dennis, “the knaves can do good service notwithstanding. That Wilkin Flammock of the Green can strike like the hammers of his own fulling-miln.” “He will fight, I believe, when he cannot help it,” said Raymond; “but he has no stomach for such exercise, and is as slow and as stubborn as a mule.” “And therefore are his countrymen rightly matched with the Welch,” replied Dennis Morolt, “that their solid and unyielding temper may be a fit foil to the fiery and headlong dispositions of our dangerous neighbours, just as restless waves are best opposed by steadfast rocks.—Hark, sir, I hear Wilkin Flammock’s step ascending the turret-stair, as deliberately as ever monk mounted to matins.” Step by step the heavy sound approached, until the form of the huge and substantial Fleming at length issued from the turret-door to the platform where they were conversing. Wilkin Flammock was armed in bright armour, cleaned with an exceeding care, which marked the neatness of his nation, and of unusual weight and thickness; but, contrary to the custom of the Normans, entirely plain, and void of carving, gilding, or any sort of ornament. The bacinet, or steel cap, had no visor, and left exposed a broad countenance, with heavy and unpliable features, which announced the character of his temper and understanding. He carried in his hand a heavy mace. “So, Sir Fleming,” said the Castellane, “you are in no hurry, methinks, to repair to the rendezvous.”

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“So please you,” answered the Fleming, “we were compelled to tarry, that we might load our wains with our bales of cloth and other property.” “Ha! wains?—how many wains have you brought with you?” “Six, noble sir,” replied Wilkin Flammock. “And how many men?” demanded Raymond Berenger. “Twelve, valiant sir,” answered Flammock. “Only two men to each baggage-wain? I wonder you would thus encumber yourself,” said Berenger. “Under your favour, sir, once more,” replied Wilkin, “it is only the value which I and my comrades set upon our goods, that inclines us to defend them with our bodies; and, had we been obliged to leave our cloth to the plundering clutches of yonder vagabonds, I should have seen small policy in stopping here to give them the opportunity of adding murther to robbery. Gloucester should have been my first halting-place.” The Norman knight gazed on the Flemish artizan, for such was Wilkin Flammock, with such a mixture of surprise and contempt, as excluded indignation. “I have heard much,” he said, “but this is the first time that I have heard one with a beard on his lip avouch himself a coward.” “Nor do you hear it now,” answered Flammock, with the utmost composure—“I am always ready to fight for life and property; and my coming to this country, where they are both in constant danger, shews that I care not much how often I do so. But a sound skin is better than a slashed one, for all that.” “Well,” said Raymond Berenger, “fight after thine own fashion, so thou wilt but fight stoutly with that long body of thine. We are like to have need for all that we can do.—Saw you aught of these rascaille Welch?—have they Guenwyn’s banner amongst them?” “I saw it with the white dragon displayed,” replied Wilkin; “I could not but know it, since it was broidered in my own loom.” Raymond looked so grave upon this intelligence, that Dennis Morolt, unwilling the Fleming should remark it, thought it necessary to withdraw his attention. “I can tell thee,” he said to Flammock, “that when the Constable of Chester joins us with his lances, you shall see your handy-work, the dragon, fly faster homeward than ever flew the shuttle which wove it.” “It must fly before the Constable comes up, Dennis Morolt,” said Raymond Berenger, “else it will fly triumphant over all our dead bodies.” “In the name of God and the Holy Virgin!” said Dennis, “what may you mean, Sir Knight?—not that we should fight with the Welch

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before the Constable joins us?”—He paused, and then, well understanding the firm, yet melancholy glance, with which his master answered the question, he proceeded, with yet more vehement earnestness—“You cannot mean it—you cannot intend that we shall quit this castle, which we have so often made good against them, and contend in the field with two hundred men against thousands—Think better of it, my beloved master, and let not the rashness of your old age blemish that character for wisdom and warlike skill, which your former life has so nobly won.” “I am not angry with you for blaming my purpose, Dennis,” answered the Norman, “for I know you do it in love to me and mine. But, Dennis Morolt, this thing must be. We must fight the Welchman within these three hours, or the name of Raymond Berenger must be blotted from the genealogy of his house.” “And so we will—we will fight them, my noble master,” said the esquire; “fear not cold counsel from Dennis Morolt, where battle is the theme. But we will fight them under the walls of the castle, with honest Wilkin Flammock and his cross-bows on the wall to protect our flanks, and afford us some balance against the numerous odds.” “Not so, Dennis,” answered his master—“in the open field we must fight them, or thy master must rank but as a man-sworn knight. Know, that when I feasted yonder wily savage in my halls at Christmas, and when the wine was flowing fastest around, Guenwyn threw out some praises of the fastness and strength of my castle, in a manner that intimated it was these advantages alone which had secured me in former wars from defeat and captivity. I spoke in answer, when I had far better been silent; for what availed my idle boast, but as a fetter to bind me to a deed next to madness? If, I said, a prince of the Cymry shall again come in hostile fashion before the Garde Douloureuse, let him pitch his standard down in yonder plain by the bridge, and, by the word of a good knight, and the faith of a Christian man, Raymond Berenger will meet him as willingly, be he many or be he few, as was ever Welchman met withal.” Dennis was struck speechless when he heard of a promise so rash, so fatal; but his was not the casuistry which could release his master from the fetters with which his unwary confidence had bound him. Not so Wilkin Flammock. He stared—he almost laughed, notwithstanding the reverence due to the Castellane, and his own insensibility to risible emotions. “And is this all?” he said. “If your honour had pledged yourself to pay one hundred florins to a Jew or to a Lombard, no doubt you must have kept the day, or forfeited your pledge; but surely one day is as good as another to keep a promise for fighting, and that day is best in which the promiser is strongest. But indeed, after

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all, what signifies any promise over a wine-flaggon?” “It signifies as much as a promise can do which is given elsewhere. The promiser,” said Berenger, “escapes not the sin of a word-breaker, because he hath been a drunken braggart.” “For the sin,” said Dennis, “sure I am, that rather than you should do such deed of dole, the Abbot of Glastonbury would absolve you for a florin.” “But what shall wipe out the shame?” demanded Berenger—“how shall I dare to shew myself again among press of knights, who have broken my word of battle pledged, for fear of a Welchman and his naked savages? No! Dennis Morolt, speak on it no more. Be it for weal or woe, we fight them to-day, and upon yonder fair field.” “It may be,” said Flammock, “yonder Guenwyn may have forgotten the promise, and so fail to appear to claim it on the appointed space; for, as we heard, your wines of France flooded his Welch brains deeply.” “He again alluded to it on the morning after it was made,” said the Castellane—“trust me, he will not forget what will give him such a chance of removing me from his path forever.” As he spoke, they observed that large clouds of dust, which had been seen at different points of the landscape, were drawing down towards the opposite side of the river, over which an ancient bridge extended itself to the appointed place of combat. They were at no loss to conjecture the cause. It was evident that Guenwyn, recalling the parties who had been engaged in partial devastation, was bending with his whole forces towards the bridge and the plain beyond it. “Let us rush down and secure the pass,” said Dennis Morolt; “we may debate with them with some equality by the advantage of defending the bridge. Your word bound you to the plain as to a field of battle, but it did not oblige you to forego such advantages as the passage of the bridge would afford. Our men, our horses are ready—let our bowmen secure the banks, and my life on the issue.” “When I promised to meet him in yonder field, I meant,” replied Raymond Berenger, “to give the Welchman the full advantage of equality of ground. I so meant it—he so understood it, and what avails keeping my word in the letter, if I break it in the sense? We move not till the last Welchman has crossed the bridge; and then”—— “And then,” said Dennis, “we move to our death—May God forgive our sins! But——” “But what?” said Raymond Berenger; “something sticks in thy mind that should have vent?” “My young lady—your daughter the Lady Eveline——” “I have told her what is to be. She shall remain in the castle, where I

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will leave a few chosen veterans, with you, Dennis, to command them—In twenty-four hours the siege will be relieved, and we have defended it longer with a slighter garrison—Then to her aunt, the Abbess of the Benedictine sisters—thou, Dennis, wilt see her placed there in honour and safety, and my sister will care for her future provision as her wisdom shall determine.” “I leave you at this pinch?” said Dennis Morolt, bursting into tears —“I shut myself up within walls, when my master rides to his last of battles?—I become esquire to a lady, even though it be to the Lady Eveline, when he lies dead under his shield?—Raymond Berenger, is it for this that I have buckled thy armour so often?” The tears gushed from the old warrior’s eyes as fast as from those of a girl who weeps for her lover; and Raymond, taking him kindly by the hand, said, in a soothing tone, “Do not think, my good old servant, that, were honour to be won, I would drive thee from my side. But this is a wild and an inconsiderate deed, to which my fate or my folly has bound me. I die to save my name from dishonour; but, alas! I must leave on my memory the charge of imprudence.” “Let me share your imprudence, my dearest master,” said Dennis Morolt, earnestly;—“the poor esquire has no business to be thought wiser than his master. In many a battle my valour derived some little fame from partaking in the deeds which won your renown—deny me not the right to share in the blame which your temerity may incur; let them not say, that so rash was his action, even his old esquire was not permitted to partake in it! I am part of yourself—it is murder to every man whom you take with you, if you leave me behind.” “Dennis,” said Berenger, “you make me feel yet more bitterly the folly I have yielded to. I would grant you the boon you ask, sad as it is— But my daughter——” “Sir Knight,” said the Fleming, who had listened to this dialogue with somewhat less than his usual apathy, “it is not my purpose this day to leave this castle; now, if you could trust my troth to do what a plain man may for the protection of the Lady Eveline”—— “How, sirrah!” said Raymond; “you do not propose to leave the castle? Who gives you right to propose or dispose in the case, until my pleasure is known?” “I shall be sorry to have words with you, Sir Castellane,” said the imperturbable Fleming;—“but I hold here, in this township, certain mills, tenements, cloth-yards, and so forth, for which I am to pay manservice in defending this Castle of the Garde Douloureuse, and in this I am ready to do my best. But if you call on me to march from hence, leaving the same castle defenceless, and to offer up my life in a battle

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which you acknowledge to be desperate, I must needs say my tenure binds me not to obey thee.” “Base mechanic!” said Morolt, laying his hand on his dagger, and menacing the Fleming. But Raymond Berenger interfered with voice and hand—“Harm him not, Morolt, and blame him not. He hath a sense of duty, though not after our manner; and he and his knaves will fight best behind stone walls. They are taught also, these Flemings, by the practice of their own country, the attack and defence of walled cities and fortresses, and are especially skilful in working of mangonels and military engines. There are several of his countrymen in the castle, besides his own followers. These I propose to leave behind, and I think they will obey him more readily than any but thyself—how thinkst thou?— Thou wouldst not, I know, from a misconstrued point of honour, or a blind love to me, leave this important place, and the safety of Eveline, in doubtful hands.” “Wilkin Flammock is but a Flemish clown, noble sir,” answered Dennis, as much overjoyed as if he had obtained some important advantage; “but I must needs say he is as stout and true as any whom you might trust; and, besides, his own shrewdness will teach him there is more to be gained by defending such a castle as this, than by yielding it to strangers, who may not be likely to keep the terms of surrender, however fairly they may offer them.” “It is fixed then,” said Raymond Berenger. “Thou, Dennis Morolt, thou shalt go with me, and he shall remain behind.—Wilkin Flammock,” he said, addressing the Fleming solemnly, “I speak not to thee in the language of chivalry, of which thou knowst nothing; but, as thou art an honest man, and a true Christian, I conjure thee to stand to the defence of this castle. Let no promise of the enemy draw thee to any base composition, no threat to any surrender. Relief must speedily arrive; if you fulfil your trust to me and to my daughter, Hugo de Lacy will reward you richly—if you fail, he will punish you severely.” “Sir Knight,” said Flammock, “I am pleased you have your trust so far in a plain handycraftman. For the Welch, I am come from a land for which we were compelled—yearly compelled—to struggle with the sea; and they who can deal with the waves in a tempest, need not fear an undisciplined people in their fury. Your daughter shall be as dear to me as mine own; and in that faith you may prick forth—if, indeed, you will not still, like a wiser man, shut gate, down portcullis, up draw-bridge, and let your archers and my cross-bows man the wall, and tell the knaves you are not the fool that they take you for.” “Good fellow, that must not be,” said the Knight. “I hear my daughter’s voice,” he added hastily; “I would not again meet her,

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again to part from her. To Heaven’s keeping I commit thee, honest Fleming—Follow me, Dennis Morolt.” The old castellane descended the stair of the southern tower hastily, just as his daughter Eveline ascended that of the eastern turret, to throw herself at his feet once more. She was followed by the Father Aldrovand, chaplain of her father; by an old and almost invalided huntsman, whose more active services in the field and the chase had been for some time chiefly limited to the superintendence of the Knight’s kennels, and the charge especially of his more favourite hounds; and by Rose Flammock, the daughter of Wilkin, a blue-eyed Flemish maiden, round, plump, and shy as a partridge, who had been for some time permitted to keep company with the high-born Norman damsel, in a doubtful station betwixt that of an humble friend and a superior domestic. Eveline rushed upon the battlements, her hair dishevelled, and her eyes drowned in tears, and eagerly demanded of the Fleming where her father was? Flammock made a clumsy reverence, and attempted some answer; but his voice seemed to fail him. He turned his back upon Eveline without ceremony, and totally disregarding the anxious inquiries of the huntsman and the chaplain, he said hastily to his daughter, in his own language, “Mad work! mad work! look to the poor maiden, Roschen—Der alter Herr ist verruckt.”* Without farther speech he descended the stairs, and never paused till he reached the buttery. Here he called like a lion for the controller of these regions, by the various names of Kammerer, Keller-master, and so forth, to which the old Reinold, an ancient Norman esquire, answered not, until the Netherlander fortunately recollected his proper title of Butler. This, his regular name of office, was the key to the buttery hatch, and the old man instantly appeared, with his grey cassock, and high rolled hose, a ponderous bunch of keys suspended by a silver chain to his broad leathern girdle, which, in consideration of the emergency of the time, he had thought it right to balance on the left side with a huge falchion, which seemed much too weighty for his old arm to wield. “What is your will,” he said, “Master Flammock? or what are your commands, since it is my lord’s pleasure that they shall be laws to me for a time?” “Only a cup of wine, good Meister Keller-master—Butler, I mean.” “I am glad you remember the name of mine office,” said Reinold, with some of the petty resentment of a spoiled domestic, who thinks * The old lord is frantic.

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that a stranger has been irregularly put in command over him. “A flagon of Rhenish, if you love me,” answered the Fleming, “for my heart is low and poor within me, and I must needs drink of the best.” “And drink you shall,” said Reinold, “if drink will give you the courage which perhaps you may want.”—He descended to the secret crypts, of which he was the guardian, and returned with a silver flagon, which might contain about a quart.—“Here is such wine,” said Reinold, “as thou hast seldom tasted,” and was about to pour it out into a cup. “Nay, the flagon—the flagon, friend Reinold; I love a deep and solemn draught when the business is weighty,” said Wilkin. He seized on the flagon accordingly, and drinking a preparatory mouthful, paused as if to estimate the strength and flavour of the generous liquor. Apparently he was pleased with both, for he nodded in approbation to the butler; and, raising the flagon to his mouth once more, he slowly and gradually brought the bottom of the vessel parallel with the roof of the apartment, without suffering one drop of the contents to escape him. “That hath savour, Herr Keller-master,” said he, while he was recovering his breath by intervals, after so long a suspense of respiration; “but, may heaven forgive you for thinking it the best I have ever tasted.—You little know the cellars of Ghent and of Ypres.” “And I care not for them,” said Reinold; “those of gentle Norman blood hold the wines of Gascony and France, generous, light, and cordial, worth all the acid potations of the Rhine and the Neckar.” “All is matter of taste,” said the Fleming; “but hark ye—Is there much of this wine in the cellar?” “Methought but now it pleased not your dainty palate,” said Reinold. “Nay, nay, my friend,” said Wilkin, “I said it had savour—I may have drunk better—but this is right good, where better may not be had.—Again, how much of it hast thou?” “The whole butt, man,” answered the butler; “I have broached a fresh piece for you.” “Good,” replied Flammock; “get me presently four stout varlets; heave the cask up into this same buttery, and let each soldier of this castle be served with such a cup as I have now swallowed. I feel it hath done much good—my heart was sinking when I saw the black smoke arising from mine own fulling-mills yonder. Let each man, I say, have a full quart-pot of Christian measure. Men defend not castles on thin liquors.” “I must do as you will, good Wilkin Flammock,” said the butler;

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“but bethink all men are not alike. That which will but warm your Flemish hearts, will put wildfire into Norman brains; and what may only encourage your countrymen to man the walls, will make ours fly over the battlements.” “Well, you know the conditions of your own countrymen best; serve out to them what wines and measure you list. Only let each Fleming have a solemn quart of Rhenish.—But what will you do for the English churls, of whom there are right many left with us?” The old butler paused, and rubbed his brow.—“Here is a strange waste of liquor,” he said; “and yet I may not deny that the emergency may defend the expenditure. But for the English, they are, as you wot, a mixed breed, having much of your German sullenness, together with a plentiful touch of the hot blood of yonder Welch furies. Light wines stir them not; strong heavy draughts would madden them. What think you of ale—an invigorating, strengthening liquor, that warms the heart without inflaming the brain?” “Ale!” said the Fleming.—“Hum—ha—is your ale mighty, Sir Butler?—is it double ale?” “Do you doubt my skill?” said the butler.—“March and October have witnessed me ever as they came round, for twenty years, deal with the best barley in Shropshire.—You shall judge.” He filled, from a large hogshead in the corner of the buttery, the flagon which the Fleming had just emptied, and which was no sooner replenished than Wilkin again drained it to the bottom. “Good ware,” he said, “Master Butler, strong stinging ware. The English churls will fight like devils upon it—let them be furnished with mighty ale along with their beef and brown bread. And now, having given you your charge, Master Reinold, it is time I should look after mine own.” Wilkin Flammock left the buttery, and with a mien and judgment alike undisturbed by the deep potations in which he had so recently indulged, undisturbed also by the various rumours concerning what was passing without doors, he made the round of the castle and its out-works, mustered the little garrison, and assigned to each their posts, reserving to his own countrymen the management both of the arblasts, or cross-bows, and of the military engines which were contemned by the proud Normans, and were incomprehensible to the ignorant English, or, more properly, Anglo-Saxons, of the period, but which his more adroit countrymen managed with great address. The jealousies entertained by both the Normans and English, at being placed under the temporary command of a Fleming, gradually yielded to the military and mechanical skill which he displayed, as well as to a sense of the emergency, which became greater with every moment.

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Chapter Four Beside yon brigg out ower yon burn, Where the water bickereth bright and sheen, Shall many a falling courser spurn, And knights shall die in battle keen. Prophecy of Thomas the Rymour

T  daughter of Raymond Berenger, with the attendants whom we have mentioned, continued to remain upon the battlements of the Garde Douloureuse, in spite of the exhortations of the priest that she would rather await the issue of this terrible interval of suspense in the chapel, and amid the rites of religion. He perceived, at length, that she was incapable, from grief and fear, of attending to, or understanding his advice; and, sitting down beside her, while the huntsman and Rose Flammock stood by, endeavoured to suggest such comfort as perhaps he scarcely felt himself. “This is but a sally of your noble father’s,” said he; “and though it may seem it is made on great hazard, yet who ever questioned Sir Raymond Berenger’s policy of wars?—He is close and secret in his purposes—I guess right well he had not marched out as he proposes, unless he knew that the noble Earl of Arundel, or the mighty Constable of Chester, were close at hand.” “Think you this assuredly, good father?—Go, Raoul—go, my dearest Rose—look to the east—see if you cannot see banners or clouds of dust.—Listen—listen—hear you no trumpets from that quarter?” “Alas! lady,” said Raoul, “the thunder of heaven could scarce be heard amid the howling of yonder Welch wolves.” Eveline turned as he spoke, and looking towards the bridge, she beheld an appalling spectacle. The river, whose stream washes on three sides the base of the proud eminence on which the castle is, curves away from the fortress and its corresponding village on the west, and the hill sinks downward to an extensive plain, so extremely level as to indicate its alluvial origin. Lower down, at the extremity of this plain, where the banks again close on the river, were situated the manufacturing houses of the stout Flemings, which were now burning in a bright flame. The bridge, a high, narrow combination of arches of unequal size, was about half a mile distant from the castle, in the very centre of the plain. The river itself ran in a deep rocky channel, was often unfordable, and at all times difficult of passage, giving considerable advantage to the defenders of the castle, who had spent on other occasions many a dear drop of blood to defend the pass, which Raymond Berenger’s fantastic

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scruples now induced him to abandon. The Welchmen, seizing the opportunity with the avidity with which men grasp an unexpected benefit, were fast crowding over the high and steep arches, while new bands, collecting from different points upon the farther bank, increased the continued stream of warriors, who, passing leisurely and uninterrupted, formed their line of battle on the plain opposite to the castle. At first Father Aldrovand viewed their motions without anxiety, nay, with the scornful smile of one who observes an enemy in the act of falling into the snare spread for them by superior skill. Raymond Berenger with his little body of infantry and cavalry were drawn up on the easy hill which is betwixt the castle and the plain, ascending from the former towards the fortress; and it seemed clear to the Dominican, who had not entirely forgotten in the cloister his ancient military experience, that it was the Knight’s purpose to attack the disordered enemy when a certain number had crossed the river, and while the others were partly on the farther side, and partly engaged in the slow and perilous manœuvre of effecting their passage. But when large bodies of the white-mantled Welchmen were permitted without interruption to take such order on the plain as their habits of fighting recommended, the monk’s countenance, though he still endeavoured to speak encouragement to the terrified maiden, assumed a different and an anxious expression; and his acquired habits of resignation contended strenuously with his ancient military ardour. “Be patient,” he said, “my daughter, and be of good comfort; thine eyes shall behold the dismay of yonder barbarous enemy. Let but a minute elapse, and thou shalt see them scattered like dust.—Saint George, they will surely cry thy name now, or never!” The monk’s beads passed meanwhile rapidly through his hands, but many an expression of military impatience mingled itself with his orisons. He could not conceive the cause why each successive throng of mountaineers, led under their different banners, and headed by their respective chieftains, was permitted, without interruption, to pass the difficult defile, and extend themselves in battle array on the near side of the bridge, while the English, or rather Anglo-Norman cavalry, remained stationary, without so much as laying their lances in rest. There remained, he thought, but one hope—one only rational explanation of this unaccountable inactivity—this voluntary surrender of every advantage of ground, when that of numbers was so tremendously on the side of the enemy. Father Aldrovand concluded accordingly that the succours of the Constable of Chester, and other Lord Marchers, must be in the immediate vicinity, and that the Welch were only permitted to pass the river without opposition, that their retreat

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might be the more effectually cut off, and their defeat, with a deep river in their rear, rendered the more signally calamitous. But even while he clung to this hope, the monk’s heart sunk within him, as, looking in every direction from which the expected succours might arrive, he could neither see nor hear the slightest token which announced their approach. In a frame of mind approaching more nearly to despair than to hope, the old man continued alternately to tell his beads, to gaze anxiously around, and to address some words of consolation in broken phrases to the young lady, until the general shout of the Welch, ringing from the bank of the river to the battlements of the castle, warned him, in a note of exultation, that the very last of the British had defiled through the pass, and that their whole formidable array stood prompt for action upon the hither side of the river. This thrilling and astounding clamour, to which each of the Welch lent his voice with all the energy of defiance, thirst of battle, and hope of conquest, was at length answered by the blast of the Norman trumpets,—the first sign of activity which had been exhibited on the part of Raymond Berenger. But cheerily as they rung, the trumpets, in comparison of the shout which they answered, sounded like the whistle of the stout mariner amid the howling of the tempest. At the same moment when the trumpets were blown, Berenger gave signal to the archers to discharge their arrows, and the men-at-arms to advance under a hail-storm of shafts, javelins, and stones, shot, darted, and slung by the Welch against their steel-clad assailants. The veterans of Raymond, on the other hand, stimulated by many victorious recollections, confident in the talents of their accomplished leader, and undismayed even by the desperation of their circumstances, charged the mass of the Welchmen with their usual determined valour. It was a gallant sight to see this little body of cavalry advance to the onset, their plumes floating above their helmets, their lances in rest, and projecting six feet in length before the breasts of their coursers; their shields hanging from their necks, that their left hands might have freedom to guide their horses; and the whole body rushing on with an equal front, and a momentum of speed, which increased with every minute. Such an onset might have startled naked men, (for such were the Welch, in respect of the mail-sheathed Normans,) but it brought no terrors to the ancient British, who had long made it their boast that they exposed their bare bosoms and white tunics to the lances and swords of the men-at-arms, with as much confidence as if they had been born invulnerable. It was not indeed in their power to withstand the weight of the first shock, which, breaking their ranks, densely as they were arranged, carried the barbed horses

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into the very centre of their host, and well nigh up to the fatal standard, to which Raymond Berenger, bound by his fatal vow, had that day conceded so much vantage-ground. But they yielded like the billows, which give way, indeed, to the gallant ship, but only to assail her sides, and to unite in her wake. With wild and horrible clamours, they closed their tumultuous ranks around Berenger and his devoted followers, and a deadly scene of strife ensued. The best warriors of Wales had on this occasion joined the standard of Guenwyn; the arrows of the men of Gwentland, whose skill in archery almost equalled that of the Normans themselves, rattled on the helmets of the men-at-arms; and the spears of the people of Deheubarth, renowned for the sharpness and temper of their steel heads, were employed against the cuirasses not without fatal effect, notwithstanding the protection which these afforded to the rider. It was in vain that the archery belonging to Raymond’s little band, stout yeomen, who, for the most part, held possessions by military tenure, exhausted their quivers on the broad mark afforded them by the Welch army. It is probable, that every shaft carried a Welchman’s life on its point; yet, to have afforded important relief to the cavalry, now closely and inextricably engaged, the slaughter ought to have been twentyfold at least. Meantime, the Welch, galled by this incessant discharge, answered it by vollies from their own archers, whose numbers made some amends for their inferiority, and who were supported by numerous bodies of darters and slingers. So that the Norman archers, who had more than once attempted to descend from their position to operate a diversion in favour of Raymond and his devoted band, were now so closely engaged in front, as obliged them to abandon all thoughts of such a movement. Meanwhile, that chivalrous leader, who from the first had hoped for no more than an honourable death, laboured with all his power to render his fate signal by involving in it that of the Welch Prince, the author of the war. He cautiously avoided the expenditure of his strength by hewing among the British; but, with the shock of his managed horse, repelled the numbers who pressed on him, and leaving the plebeians to the swords of his companions, shouted his warcry, and made his way towards the fatal standard of Guenwyn, beside which, discharging at once the duties of a skilful leader and a brave soldier, the Prince had stationed himself. Raymond’s experience of the Welch disposition, subject equally to the highest flood, and most sudden ebb of passion, gave him some hope that a successful attack upon this point, followed by the death or capture of the Prince, and the downfall of his standard, might even yet strike such a panic, as should change the fortunes of the day, otherwise so nearly desperate. The

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veteran, therefore, animated his comrades to the charge by voice and example; and, in spite of all opposition, forced his way gradually onward. But Guenwyn in person, surrounded by his best and noblest champions, offered a defence as obstinate as the assault was intrepid. In vain they were borne to the earth by the barbed horses, or hewed down by the invulnerable riders. Wounded and overthrown, the Britons continued their resistance, clung round the legs of the Norman steeds, and cumbered their advance; while their brethren, thrusting with pikes, proved every joint and crevice of the plate and mail, or grappling with the men-at-arms, strove to pull them from their horses by main force, or beat them down with their bills and Welch hooks. And woe betided those who were by these various means dismounted, for the long sharp knives worn by the Welch soon pierced them with a hundred wounds, and were then only merciful when the first which was inflicted was deadly. The combat was at this point, and had raged for more than half an hour, when Berenger, having forced his horse within two spears’ length of the British standard, and Guenwyn were so near to each other as to exchange tokens of mutual defiance. “Turn thee, Wolf of Wales,” said Berenger, “and abide, if thou darest, one blow of a good knight’s sword! Raymond Berenger spits at thee and thy banner.” “False Norman churl!” said Guenwyn, swinging around his head a mace of prodigious weight, and already clottered with blood, “thy iron head-piece shall ill protect thy lying tongue, with which I will this day feed the ravens.” Raymond made no farther answer, but pushed his horse towards the Prince, who advanced to meet him with equal readiness. But ere they came within reach of each other’s weapons, a Welch champion, devoted like the Romans who opposed the elephants of Pyrrhus, finding that the armour of Raymond’s horse resisted the repeated thrusts of his spear, threw himself under the animal, and stabbed him in the belly with his long knife. The noble horse reared and fell, crushing with his weight the Briton who had wounded him—the helmet of the rider burst its clasps in the fall, and rolled away from his head, giving to view his noble features and gray hairs. He made more than one effort to extricate himself from the fallen horse, but ere he could succeed, received his death’s-wound from the hand of Guenwyn, who hesitated not to strike him dead with his mace. During the whole of this bloody day, Dennis Morolt’s horse had kept pace for pace, and his arm blow for blow, with his master’s. It seemed as if two different bodies had been moving under one act of volition. He husbanded his strength, or put it forth, exactly as he

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observed his knight did, and was close by his side when he made the last deadly effort. At that fatal moment, when Raymond Berenger rushed on the chief, the brave squire forced his way up to the standard, and, grasping it firmly, struggled for possession of it with a gigantic Briton, to whose care it had been confided, and who now exerted his utmost strength to defend it. But even while engaged in this mortal struggle, the eye of Morolt scarcely left his master; and when he saw him fall, his own force seemed by sympathy to abandon him, and the British champion had no longer any trouble in laying him prostrate among the slain. The victory of the British was now complete. Upon the fall of their leader, the followers of Raymond Berenger would willingly have fled or surrendered. But the first was impossible, so closely had they been enveloped; and in the cruel wars maintained by the Welch upon their frontiers, quarter to the vanquished was out of question. A few of the men-at-arms were lucky enough to disentangle themselves from the tumult, and, not even attempting to enter the castle, fled in various directions, to carry their own fears among the inhabitants of the marches, by announcing the loss of the battle, and the fate of the far renowned Raymond Berenger. The archers of the fallen leader, as they had never been so deeply involved in the combat, which had been chiefly maintained by the cavalry, became now, in their turn, the sole object of the enemy’s attack. But when they saw the multitude come roaring towards them like a sea, with all its waves, they abandoned the bank which they had hitherto bravely defended, and began a regular retreat to the castle in the best order which they could, as the only remaining means of securing their lives. A few of their light-footed enemies attempted to intercept them, during the execution of this prudent manœuvre, by outstripping them in their march, and throwing themselves into the hollow way which led to the castle, to oppose their retreat. But the coolness of the English archers, accustomed to extremities of every kind, supported them on the present occasion. While a part of them, armed with glaives and bills, dislodged the Welch from the hollow way, the others, facing in the opposite direction, and parted into divisions, which alternately halted and retreated, maintained such a countenance as to check pursuit, and exchange a severe discharge of missiles with the Welch, by which both parties were considerable sufferers. At length, having left more than two-thirds of their brave companions behind, the yeomanry attained the point, which, being commanded by arrows and engines from the battlements, might be considered as that of comparative safety. A volley of large stones, and square-headed bolts of great size and thickness, effectually stopped the

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farther progress of the pursuit, and those who had led it drew back their desultory forces to the plain, where, with shouts of jubilee and exultation, their countrymen were employed in securing the plunder of the field; while some, impelled by hatred and revenge, mangled and mutilated the limbs of the dead Normans, in a manner unworthy of their cause and their own courage. The fearful yells with which this dreadful work was consummated, while it struck horror into the minds of the slender garrison of the Garde Douloureuse, inspired them at the same time with the resolution rather to defend the fortress to the last extremity, than submit to the mercy of so vengeful an enemy.

Chapter Five That Baron he to his castle fled, To Barnard Castle then fled he; The uttermost walls were eathe to win, The Earls have won them speedilie;— The uttermost walls were stone and brick; But though they won them soon anon, Long ere they won the inmost walls, For they were hewn in rock of stone. P    ’  Reliques of Ancient Poetry

T  unhappy fate of the battle was soon evident to the anxious spectators upon the watch-towers of the Garde Douloureuse, which name the castle that day too well deserved. With difficulty the confessor mastered his own emotions to control those of the females on whom he attended, and who were now joined in their lamentation by many others—women, children, and infirm old men, the relatives of those whom they saw engaged in this unavailing contest. These helpless beings had been admitted to the castle for security’s sake, and they had now thronged to the battlements, from which Father Aldrovand found difficulty in making them descend, aware that the sight of them on the towers, that should have appeared lined with armed men, would be an additional encouragement to the exertions of the assailants. He urged the Lady Eveline to set an example to this groupe of helpless, yet untractable mourners. Preserving, at least endeavouring to preserve, even in the extremity of grief, that composure which the manners of the times enjoined— for chivalry had its stoicism as well as philosophy—Eveline replied with a voice which she would fain have rendered firm, and which was tremulous in her despite—“Yes, father, you say well—here is no longer aught left for maidens to look upon—Warlike meed and honoured deed sunk when yonder white plume touched the bloody

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ground—Come, maidens—there is no longer aught left us to look upon—to mass, to mass—the tourney is over.” There was wildness in her tone, and when she rose, with the air of one who would lead out a procession, she staggered, and would have fallen but for the support of the confessor. Hastily wrapping her head in her mantle, as if ashamed of the agony of grief which she could not refrain, and of which her sobs and the low moaning sounds that issued from under the folds enveloping her face, declared the excess, she suffered Father Aldrovand to conduct her whither he would. “Our gold,” he said, “has changed to brass, our silver to dross, our wisdom to folly—it is His will, who confounds the councils of the wise, and shortens the arm of the mighty—To the chapel, to the chapel, Lady Eveline, and instead of vain repining, let us pray to God and the saints to turn away their displeasure, and to save the feeble remnant from the jaws of the devouring wolf.” Thus speaking, he half led, half supported Eveline, who was at the moment almost incapable of thought and action, to the castle-chapel, where, sinking before the altar, she assumed the attitude at least of devotion, though her thoughts, despite the pious words which her tongue faltered out mechanically, were upon the field of battle, beside the body of her slaughtered parent. Among the mourners who imitated their lady’s devotional posture and shared in the distractions of her thoughts, the consciousness that so many of the garrison had been cut off in Raymond’s incautious sally, added to their sorrows the sense of personal insecurity, which was exaggerated by the cruelties too often exercised by the enemy, who, in the heat of victory, were said to spare neither sex nor age. The monk, however, assumed among them the tone of authority which his character warranted, rebuked their wailing and ineffectual complaints, and having, as he thought, brought them to such a state of mind as better became their condition, he left them to their private devotions, to indulge his own anxious curiosity by enquiry into the defences of the castle. Upon the outward walls he found Wilkin Flammock, who, having done the office of a good and skilful captain in the mode of managing his artillery, and beaten back, as we have already seen, the advanced guard of the enemy, was now with his own hand measuring out to his little garrison no stinted allowance of wine. “Have a care, good Wilkin,” said the father, “that thou doest not overdo in this matter. Wine is, thou knowst, like fire and water, an excellent servant, yet a very bad master.” “It will be long ere it overflow the deep and solid skulls of my countrymen,” said Wilkin Flammock. “Our Flemish courage is like our Flanders horses—the one needs the spur, and the other must have

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a taste of the wine-pot; but, credit me, father, they are of an enduring generation, and will not shrink in the washing.—But were I to give the knaves a cup more than enough, it were not altogether amiss, since they are like to have a platter the less.” “How do you mean?” cried the monk, starting; “I trust in the saints the provisions have been cared for.” “Not so well as in your convent, good father,” replied Wilkin, with the same immovable stolidity of countenance. “We had kept, as you know, too jolly a Christmas to have a very fat Easter. Yon Welch hounds, who holped to eat up our victuals, are now like to get into our hold for the lack of them.” “Thou talkest mere folly,” answered the monk; “orders were last evening given by our lord, (whose soul God assoilzie!) to fetch in the necessary supplies from the country around.” “Ay, but the Welch were too sharp set to permit us to do that at our ease this morning, which should have been done weeks and months since. Our lord deceased, if deceased he be, was one of those who trusted to the edge of his sword, and even so hath come of it. Commend me to a cross-bow and a well-victualled castle, if I must needs fight at all—You look pale, my good father, a cup of wine will revive you.” The monk motioned away from him the untasted cup, which Wilkin pressed him to with clownish civility. “We have now, indeed,” he said, “no refuge, save in prayer.” “Most true, good father,” again replied the impassible Fleming; “pray therefore as much as you will. I will content myself with fasting, which will come whether I will or no.”—At this moment a horn was heard before the gate.—“Look to the portcullis and the gate, ye knaves!—What news, Neil Hansen?” “A messenger from the Welch tarries at the Mill-hill, just within shot of the cross-bows; he has a white flag, and demands admittance.” “Admit him not, upon thy life, till we be prepared for him,” said Wilkin. “Bend the bonnie mangonel upon the place, and shoot if he dare to stir from the spot where he stands till we get all prepared to receive him,” said Flammock, in his native language. “And, Neil, thou houndsfoot, bestir thyself—let every pike, lance, and pole in the castle be ranged along the battlements, and pointed through the shot-holes —cut up some tapestry into the shape of banners, and shew them from the highest towers.—Be ready, when I give a signal, to strike naker,* and blow trumpets, if we have any—if not, some cow-horns—anything for a noise—And, hark ye, Neil Hansen, do you, and one or two of your fellows, go to the armoury and slip on coats-of-mail—our Neth* Naker—Drum.

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erlandish corslets do not appal them so much. Then let the Welch thief be blindfolded and brought in amongst us—Do ye hold up your heads and keep silence—leave me to deal with him—only have a care there be no English amongst us.” The monk, who in his travels had acquired some slight knowledge of the Flemish language, had well nigh started when he heard the last article in Wilkin’s instructions to his countryman, but commanded himself, although a little surprised, both at this suspicious circumstance, and at the readiness and dexterity with which the rough-hewn Fleming seemed to adapt his preparations to the rules of war and those of sound policy. Wilkin, on his part, was not very certain whether the monk had not heard and understood more of what he said to his countryman than what he had intended. As if to lull asleep any suspicion which Father Aldrovand might entertain, he repeated to him in English most of the directions which he had given, adding, “Well, good father, what think you of it?” “Excellent well,” answered the father, “and done as you had practised war from the cradle, instead of weaving broad-cloth.” “Nay, spare not your gibes, father,” answered Wilkin.—“I know full well that you English think Flemings have nought in their brainpan but sodden beef and cabbage; yet you see there goes wisdom to weaving of webs.” “Right, Master Wilkin Flammock,” answered the father; “but, good Fleming, wilt thou tell me what answer thou wilt make to the Welch Prince’s summons?” “Reverend father, first tell me what the summons will be,” replied the Fleming. “To surrender this castle upon the instant,” answered the monk. “What will be your reply?” “My answer will be—Nay, unless upon good composition.” “How, Sir Fleming! dare you mention composition and the Castle of the Garde Douloureuse, in one sentence?” said the monk. “Not if I may do better,” answered the Fleming. “But would your reverence have me dally until the question amongst the garrison be, whether a plump priest or a fat Fleming will be the better flesh to furnish their shambles?” “Pshaw,” replied Father Aldrovand, “thou canst not mean such folly. Relief must arrive within twenty-four hours at farthest. Raymond Berenger expected it for certain within such a space.” “Raymond Berenger hath been deceived this morning in more matters than one,” answered the Fleming. “Hark thee, Flanderkin,” answered the monk, whose retreat from

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the world had not altogether quenched his military habits and propensities, “I counsel thee to deal uprightly in this matter, as thou doest regard thine own life; for here be as many English left alive, notwithstanding the slaughter of the day, as may well suffice to fling thy Flemish bull-frogs into the castle-ditch, should they have cause to think thou meanest falsely, in the keeping of this castle, and the defence of the Lady Eveline.” “Let not your reverence be moved with unnecessary and idle fears,” replied Wilkin Flammock—“I am castellane in this house, by command of its lord, and what I hold for the advantage of mine service, that will I do.” “But I,” said the angry monk, “I am the servant of the Pope—the chaplain of this castle, with power to bind and to unloose. I fear me thou art no true Christian, Wilkin Flammock, but doest lean to the heresy of the mountaineers. Thou hast refused to take the blessed cross—thou hast breakfasted, and drunk both ale and wine, ere thou hast heard mass. Thou art not to be trusted, man—and I will not trust thee—I demand to be present at the conference betwixt thee and the Welchman.” “It may not be, good father,” said Wilkin, with the same smiling, heavy countenance, which he maintained on all occasions of life, however urgent. “It is true, as thou sayest, good father, that I have mine own reasons for not marching quite so far as the gates of Jericho at present; and lucky I have such reason, since I had not been here to defend the gate of the Garde Douloureuse. It is also true that I may have been sometimes obliged to visit my mills earlier than the chaplain was called by his zeal to the altar, and that my stomach brooks not working ere I break my fast. But for this, father, I have paid a mulct even to your worshipful reverence, and methinks since you are pleased to remember the confession so exactly, you should not forget the penance and the absolution.” The monk, in alluding to the secrets of the confessional, had gone a step beyond what the rules of his order and of the church permitted. He was baffled by the Fleming’s reply, and, finding him unmoved by the charge of heresy, he could only answer, in some confusion, “You refuse, then, to admit me to your conference with the Welchman?” “Reverend father,” said Wilkin, “it altogether respecteth secular matters. If aught of religious tenor should intervene, you shall be summoned without delay.” “I will be there in spite of thee, thou Flemish ox,” muttered the monk to himself, but in a tone not to be heard by the bystanders, and so speaking, left the battlements. Wilkin Flammock, a few minutes afterwards, having first seen that

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all was arranged on the battlements, so as to give an imposing idea of a strength which did not exist, descended to a small guardroom, betwixt the outer and inner gate, where he was attended by two or three of his own people, disguised in the Norman armour which they had found in the armoury of the castle,—their strong, tall, and bulky forms, and motionless postures, causing them to look rather like trophies of some past age, than living and existing soldiers. Surrounded by these huge and inanimate figures, in a little vaulted room which almost excluded day-light, Flammock received the Welch envoy, who was led in blindfolded betwixt two Flemings, yet not so carefully watched but that they permitted him to have a glimpse of the preparations on the battlements, which had, in fact, been made chiefly for the purpose of imposing on him. For the same purpose an occasional clatter of arms was made without; voices were heard, as if officers were going the rounds; and other sounds of active preparation seemed to announce that a numerous and regular garrison was preparing to receive an attack. When the bandage was removed from Iorworth’s eyes,—for the same individual who had formerly brought Guenwyn’s offer of alliance, now bore his summons of surrender,—he looked haughtily around him, and demanded to whom he was to deliver the commands of his master, the Guenwyn, son of Cyvelioc, Prince of Powis. “His highness,” answered Flammock, with his usual smiling indifference of manner, “must be contented to treat with Wilkin Flammock of the Fulling-mills, deputed governor of the Garde Douloureuse.” “Thou deputed governor!” exclaimed Iorworth; “thou, a lowcountry weaver!—it is impossible—low as they are, the English Crogan cannot have sunk to a point so low, as to be commanded by thee!—these men seem English, to them I will deliver my message.” “You may if you will,” replied Wilkin, “but if they return you any answer save by signs, you shall call me Schelm.” “Is this true?” said the Welch envoy, looking towards the men-atarms, as they seemed, by whom Flammock was attended. “Are you really come to this pass? I thought that the mere having been born on British earth, though the children of spoilers and invaders, had inspired you with too much pride to brook the yoke of a base mechanic—Or, if you are not courageous, should you not be cautious?—well speaks the proverb, woe to him that will trust a stranger! —Still mute—still silent?—Answer me by word or sign—Do you really call and acknowledge him as your leader?” The men in armour with one accord nodded their casques in reply to Iorworth’s question, and then remained motionless as before. The Welchman, with the acute genius of his country, suspected

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there was something in this which he could not entirely comprehend, but, preparing himself to be upon his guard, he proceeded as follows: “Be it as it may, I care not who hears the message of my sovereign, since it brings pardon and mercy to the inhabitants of this Castell an Carrig,* which you have called the Garde Douloureuse, to cover the usurpation of the territory by the change of the name. Upon surrender of the same to the Prince of Powis, with its dependencies, and with the arms which it contains, and with the maiden Eveline Berenger, all within the castle shall depart unmolested, and have safe conduct wheresoever they will to go beyond the marches of the Cymry.” “And how if we obey not this summons?” said the imperturbable Wilkin Flammock. “Then shall your portion be with Raymond Berenger, your late leader,” replied Iorworth, his eyes, while he was speaking, glancing with the vindictive ferocity which dictated his answer. “So many strangers as be here amongst ye, so many bodies to the ravens, so many heads to the gibbet!—It is long since the kites have had such a banquet of lurdane Flemings and false Saxons!” “Friend Iorworth,” said Wilkin, “if such be thy only message, bear mine answer back to thy master, That wise men trust not to the words of others that safety which they can secure by their own deeds. We have walls high and strong enough, deep moats, and plenty of munition, both long-bow and arblast—we will keep the castle, trusting the castle will keep us, till God shall send us succour.” “Do not peril your lives on such an issue,” said the Welch emissary, changing his language to the Flemish, which, from occasional communication with those of that nation in Pembrokeshire, he spoke fluently, and which he now adopted, as if to conceal the purport of his discourse from the supposed English in the apartment. “Hark thee hither,” he proceeded, “good Fleming; knowst thou not that he in whom is your trust, the Constable de Lacy, hath bound himself by his vow to engage in no quarrel till he crosses the sea, and cannot come to your aid without perjury? He and the other Lords Marchers have drawn their faces far northward to join the host of Crusaders. What will it avail you to put us to the toil and trouble of a long siege, when you can hope no rescue?” “And what will it avail me more,” said Wilkin, answering in his native language, and looking at the Welchman fixedly, yet with a countenance from which all expression seemed studiously banished, and which exhibited, upon features otherwise tolerable, a remarkable compound of dulness and simplicity, “what will it avail me whether your trouble be great or small?” * Castle of the Crag.

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“Come, friend Flammock,” said the Welchman, “frame thyself not more unapprehensive than nature hath formed thee. The glen is dark, but a sunbeam can light the side of it. Thy utmost effort cannot prevent the fall of this castle; but thou mayst hasten it, and that shall avail thee much.” Thus speaking, he drew close up to Wilkin, and sunk his voice to an insinuating whisper, as he said, “Never did the withdrawing of a bar, or the raising of a portcullis——” “I only know,” said Wilkin, “that the drawing the one, and the dropping the other, have cost me my whole worldly substance.” “Fleming, it shall be compensated to thee with an overflowing measure. The liberality of Guenwyn is as the summer rain.” “My whole mills and buildings have been this morning burned to the earth.” “Thou shalt have a thousand marks of silver, man, in the place of thy goods,” said the Welchman; but the Fleming continued, without seeming to hear him, to number up his losses. “My lands are forayed and twenty kine driven off.” “Threescore shall replace them,” answered Iorworth, “chosen from the most bright-skinned of the spoil.” “But my daughter—but the Lady Eveline,” said the Fleming, with some slight change in his monotonous voice, which seemed to express doubt and perplexity—“You are cruel conquerors, and”—— “To those who resist us we are fearful,” said Iorworth, “but not to such as shall deserve clemency by surrender. Guenwyn will forget the contumelies of Raymond, and raise his daughter to high honour among the daughters of the Cymry—for thine own child, form but a wish for her advantage, and it shall be fulfilled to the uttermost. Now, Fleming, we understand each other.” “I understand thee, at least,” said Flammock. “And I thee, I trust,” said Iorworth, bending his keen, wild blue eye on the stolid and unexpressive face of the Netherlander, like an eager student who seeks to discover some hidden and mysterious meaning in a passage, the direct import of which seems trite and trivial. “You believe that you understand me,” said Wilkin; “but here lies the difficulty,—which of us shall trust the other?” “Darest thou ask?” answered Iorworth. “Is it for thee, or such as thee, to express doubt of the purposes of the Prince of Powis?” “I know them not, good Iorworth, but through thee; and well I wot thou art not one who will let thy traffic miscarry for want of aid from the breath of thy mouth.” “As I am a Christian man,” said Iorworth, hurrying asseveration on asseveration—“by the soul of my father—by the faith of my mother— by the black rood of”——

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“Stop, good Iorworth—thou heapest thine oaths too thickly on each other, to value them to the right estimate,” said Flammock; “that which is so lightly pledged, is sometimes not thought worth redeeming —some part of the promised guerdon in hand the whilst, were worth an hundred oaths.” “Thou suspicious churl, darest thou doubt my word?” “No—by no means,” answered Wilkin; “ne’ertheless I will believe thy deed more readily.” “To the point, Fleming,” said Iorworth—“what wouldst thou have of me?” “Let me have some present sight of the money thou didst promise, and I will think of the rest of the proposal.” “Base silver-broker!” answered Iorworth, “thinkst thou the Prince of Powis has as many money-bags, as the merchants of thy land of sale and barter? He gathers treasures by his conquests, as the water-spout sucks up waters by its strength; but it is to disperse them among his followers, as the cloudy column restores its contents to earth and ocean. The silver that I promise thee has yet to be gathered out of the Saxon chests—nay, the casket of Berenger himself must be ransacked to make up the tale.” “Methinks I could do that myself, (having full power in the castle,) and so save you a labour,” said the Fleming. “True,” answered Iorworth, “but it would be at the expense of a cord and a noose, whether the Welch took the place or the Normans relieved it—the one would expect their booty entire—the other their countryman’s treasures to be delivered undiminished.” “Lo you, there now!” said the Fleming. “Well, say I were content to trust you thus far, why not return my cattle, which are in your own hands, and at your disposal? If you do not pleasure me in something beforehand, what can I expect of you afterwards?” “I would pleasure you in a greater matter,” answered the equally suspicious Welchman. “But what would it avail thee to have thy cattle within the fortress? They can be better cared for on the plain beneath.” “In faith,” replied the Fleming, “thou sayest truth—they will be but a cumber to us here, where we have so many already provided for the use of the garrison.—And yet, when I consider it more closely, we have enough of forage to maintain all we have, and more. Now, my cattle are of a peculiar stock, brought from the rich pastures of Flanders, and I desire to have them restored ere your axes and Welch hooks be busy with their hides.” “You shall have them this night, hide and horn,” said Iorworth; “it is but a small earnest of a great boon.”

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“Thanks to your munificence,” said the Fleming; “I am a simpleminded man, and bound my wishes to the recovery of my own property.” “Thou wilt be ready, then, to deliver the castle?” said Iorworth. “Of that we will talk farther to-morrow,” said Wilkin Flammock; “if these English and Normans should suspect such a purpose, we should have wild work—they must be fitly disposed ere I can hold farther communication on the subject. Meanwhile, I pray thee, depart suddenly, and as if offended with the tenor of our discourse.” “Yet would I fain know something more fixed and absolute,” said Iorworth. “Impossible—impossible,” said the Fleming; “see you not yonder tall fellow begins already to handle his dagger—Go hence in haste, and angrily—and forget not the cattle.” “I will not forget them,” said Iorworth; “but if thou keep not faith with us——” So speaking, he left the apartment with a gesture of menace, partly really directed to Wilkin himself, partly assumed in consequence of his advice. Flammock replied in English, as if that all around might understand what he said, “Do thy worst, Sir Welchman! I am a true man; I defy thy proposals of rendition, and will hold out this castle to thy shame and thy master’s!—Here—let him be blindfolded once more, and returned in safety to his attendants without; the next Welchman who appears before the gate of the Garde Douloureuse, shall be more sharply received.” The Welchman was blindfolded and withdrawn, when, as Wilkin Flammock himself left the guard-room, one of the so-seeming menat-arms who had been present at the interview, said in his ear in English, “Thou art a false traitor, Flammock, and shalt die a traitor’s death!” Startled at this, the Fleming would have questioned the man farther, but he had disappeared so soon as the words were uttered. Flammock was disconcerted by this circumstance, which shewed him that his interview with Iorworth had been observed, and its purpose known or conjectured, by some one who was a stranger to his confidence, and might thwart his intentions; and he quickly after learned that this was the case.

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Chapter Six T  daughter of the slaughtered Raymond had descended from the elevated station whence she had beheld the field of battle, in the agony of grief natural to a child whose eyes have beheld the death of an honoured and beloved father. But her station, and the principles of chivalry in which she had been trained up, did not permit any prolonged or needless indulgence of inactive sorrow. In raising the young and beautiful of the female sex to the rank of princesses, or rather goddesses, the spirit of that singular system exacted from them, in requital, a tone of character, and a line of conduct, superior and sometimes contradictory to that of natural or merely humane feeling. Its heroines frequently resembled portraits shewn by an artificial light —strong and luminous, and which placed in high relief the objects on which it was turned; but having still something of adventitious splendour, which, compared with that of the natural day, seemed glaring and exaggerated. It was not permitted to the orphan of the Garde Douloureuse, the daughter of a line of heroes, whose stem was to be found in the race of Thor, Balder, Odin, and other deified warriors of the North, whose beauty was the theme of a hundred minstrels, and her eyes the leading star of half the chivalry of the warlike marches of Wales, to mourn her sire with the ineffectual tears of a village maiden. Young as she was, and horrible as was the incident which she had but that instant witnessed, it was not altogether so appalling to her as to a maiden whose eye had not been accustomed to the rough, and often fatal sports of chivalry, and whose residence had not been among scenes and men where war and death had been the unceasing theme of every tongue, whose imagination had not been familiarized with wild and bloody events, or, finally, who had not been trained up to consider an honourable “death under shield,” as that of a field of battle was termed, as a more desirable termination to the life of a warrior, than that lingering and unhonoured fate which comes slowly on, to conclude the listless and helpless inactivity of prolonged old age. Eveline, while she wept for her father, felt her bosom glow when she recollected that he died in the blaze of his fame, and amidst heaps of his slaughtered enemies; and when she thought of the exigencies of her own situation, it was with the determination to defend her own liberty, and to avenge her father’s death, by every means which Heaven had left within her power. The aids of religion were not forgotten; and according to the cus-

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tom of the times, and the doctrines of the Roman church, she endeavoured to propitiate the favour of Heaven by vows as well as prayers. In a small crypt, or oratory, adjoining to the chapel, was hung over an altar-piece, on which a lamp constantly burned, a small picture of the Virgin Mary, revered as a household and peculiar deity by the family of Berenger, one of whose ancestors had brought it from the Holy Land, whither he had gone upon pilgrimage. It was of the period of the Lower Empire, a Grecian painting, not unlike those which in Catholic countries are often imputed to the Evangelist Luke. The crypt in which it was placed was accounted a shrine of uncommon sanctity—nay, supposed to have displayed miraculous powers; and Eveline, by the daily garland of flowers which she offered, and by the constant prayers with which they were accompanied, had constituted herself the peculiar votaress of Our Lady of the Garde Douloureuse, for so the picture was named. Now, apart from others, alone, and in secrecy, sinking in the extremity of her sorrow before the shrine of her patroness, she besought the protection of kindred purity for the defence of her freedom and honour, and invoked vengeance on the wild and treacherous chieftain who had slain her father, and was now beleaguering her place of strength. Not only did she vow a large donative in lands to the shrine of the protectress whose aid she implored; but the oath passed her lips, (even though they faltered, and though something within her remonstrated against the vow,) that whatsoever favoured knight Our Lady of the Garde Douloureuse might employ for her rescue, should obtain from her in guerdon whatever boon she might honourably grant, were it that of her virgin hand at the holy altar. Taught as she was to believe, by the assurances of many a knight, that such a surrender was the highest boon which Heaven could bestow, she felt as discharging a debt of gratitude when she placed herself entirely at the disposal of the pure and blessed patroness in whose aid she confided. Perhaps there lurked in this devotion some earthly hope of which she was herself scarce conscious, and which reconciled her to the indefinite sacrifice thus freely offered. The Virgin, this flattering hope might insinuate, kindest and most benevolent of patronesses, will use compassionately the power resigned to her, and He will be the favoured champion of Maria, upon whom her votaress would most willingly confer favour. But if there was such a hope, as something selfish will often mingle with our noblest and purest emotions, it arose unconscious of Eveline herself, who, in the full assurance of implicit faith, and fixing on the representative of her adoration eyes in which the most earnest supplication, the most humble confidence, struggled with unbidden tears,

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was perhaps more beautiful than she had been seen, when, young as she was, she was selected to bestow the prize of chivalry in the lists of Chester. It was no wonder that, in such a moment of high excitation, when prostrated in devotion before a being of whose power to protect her, and to make her protection assured by a visible sign, she doubted nothing, the Lady Eveline conceived she saw with her own eyes the acceptance of her vow. As she gazed on the picture with an overstrained eye, and an imagination heated with enthusiasm, the expression seemed to alter from the hard outline, fashioned by the Greek painter; the eyes appeared to become animated, and to return with looks of compassion the suppliant entreaties of the votaress, and the mouth visibly arranged itself into a smile of inexpressible sweetness. It even seemed to her that the head made a gentle inclination. Overpowered by supernatural awe at appearances, of which her faith permitted her not to question the reality, the Lady Eveline folded her arms on her bosom, and prostrated her forehead on the pavement, as the posture most fitting to listen to divine communication. But her vision went not so far; there was neither sound nor voice, and when, after stealing her eyes all around the crypt in which she knelt, she again raised them to the figure of Our Lady, the features seemed to be in the form in which the limner had sketched them, saving that, to Eveline’s imagination, they still retained an august and yet gracious expression, which she had not before remarked upon the countenance. With awful reverence, almost amounting to fear, yet comforted, and even elated, with the visitation she had witnessed, the maiden repeated again and again the orisons which she thought most grateful to the ear of her benefactress; and, rising at length, retired backwards, as from the presence of a sovereign, until she attained the outer chapel. Here one or two females still knelt before the saints which the walls and niches presented for adoration; but the rest of the terrified suppliants, too anxious to prolong their devotions, had dispersed through the castle to learn tidings of their friends, and to obtain some refreshment, or at least some place of repose for themselves and their families. Bowing her head, and muttering an ave to each saint as she passed his image, (for impending danger makes men observant of the rites of devotion,) the Lady Eveline had almost reached the door of the chapel, when a man-at-arms, as he seemed, entered hastily; and, with a louder voice than suited the holy place, unless when need was most urgent, demanded the Lady Eveline. Impressed with the feelings of veneration which the late scene had produced, she was about to rebuke his military rudeness, when he spoke again, and in anxious haste. “Daughter, we are betrayed!” And though the form, and the

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coat-of-mail which covered it, were those of a soldier, the voice was that of Father Aldrovand, who, eager and anxious at the same time, disengaged himself from the mail hood, and shewed his countenance. “Father,” she said, “what means this? Have you forgotten the confidence in Heaven which you are wont to recommend, that you bear other arms than your order assigns to you?” “It may come to that ere long,” said Father Aldrovand; “for I was a soldier ere I was a monk. But now I have donned this harness to discover treachery, not to resist force. Ah! my beloved daughter, we are dreadfully beset—foemen without—traitors within—the false Fleming, Wilkin Flammock, is treating for the rendition of the castle!” “Who dares say so?” said a veiled female, who had been kneeling unnoticed in a sequestered corner of the chapel, but who now started up and came boldly betwixt Lady Eveline and the monk. “Go hence, thou saucy minion,” said the monk, surprised at this bold interruption; “this concerns not thee.” “But it doth concern me,” said the damsel, throwing back her veil, and discovering the juvenile countenance of Rose, the daughter of Wilkin Flammock, her eyes sparkling, and her cheeks blushing with anger, the vehemence of which made a singular contrast with the very fair complexion, and almost infantine features of the speaker, whose whole form and figure was that of a girl who has scarce emerged from childhood, and indeed whose general manners were as gentle and bashful as they now seemed bold, impassioned, and undaunted.— “Doth it not concern me,” she said, “that my father’s honest name should be tainted with treason? Doth it not concern the stream when the fountain is troubled? It doth concern me, and I will know the author of the calumny.” “Damsel,” said Eveline, “restrain thy useless passion—the good father, though he cannot intentionally calumniate thy father, speaks, it may be, from false report.” “As I am an unworthy priest,” said the father, “I speak from the report of my own ears. Upon the oath of my order, myself heard this Wilkin Flammock chaffering with the Welchman for the surrender of the Garde Douloureuse. By help of this hauberk and mail hood, I gained admittance to a conference where he thought there were no English ears. They spoke Flemish too, but I knew the jargon of old.” “The Flemish,” said the angry maiden, whose headstrong passion led her to speak first in answer to the last insult offered, “is no jargon like your piebald English, half Norman, half Saxon, but a noble Gothic tongue, spoken by the brave warriors who fought against the Roman Kaisars, when Britain bent the neck to them—and as for this he has

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said of my father,” she continued, collecting her ideas into more order as she went on, “believe it not, my dearest lady; but, as you value the honour of your own noble father, confide, as in the Evangelists, in the honesty of mine!” This she spoke with an imploring tone of voice, mingled with sobs, as if her heart had been breaking. Eveline endeavoured to soothe her attendant. “Rose,” she said, “in this evil time suspicions will light on the best men, and misunderstandings will arise among the best friends. Let us hear the good father state what he hath to charge upon your parent—Fear not but that he shall be heard in his defence. Thou wert wont to be quiet and reasonable.” “I am neither quiet nor reasonable on this matter,” said Rose, with redoubled indignation; “and it is ill of you, lady, to listen to the falsehoods of that reverent mummer, who is neither true priest nor true soldier. But I will fetch one who shall confront him either in casque or cowl.” So saying, she went hastily out of the chapel, while the monk, with some pedantic circumlocution, acquainted the Lady Eveline with what he had overheard betwixt Iorworth and Wilkin, and proposed to her to draw together the few English who were in the castle, and take possession of the innermost square tower or keep, which, as usual in Gothic fortresses of the Norman period, was situated so as to make considerable defence, even after the exterior works of the castle, which it commanded, were in the hands of an enemy. “Father,” said Eveline, still confident in the vision she had lately witnessed, “this were good counsel in extremity, but otherwise, it were to create the very ill we fear, by setting our garrison at odds amongst themselves. I have a strong, and not unwarranted confidence, good father, in our blessed Lady of this Garde Douloureuse, that we will attain at once vengeance on our barbarous enemies, and escape from our present jeopardy; and I call you to witness the vow I have made, that to him whom Our Lady shall employ to work us succour, I will refuse nothing, were it my father’s inheritance, or the hand of his daughter.” “Ave Maria! Ave Regina Cœli!” said the priest; “on a rock more sure you could not have founded your trust.—But, daughter,” he continued, after the proper ejaculation had been made, “have you never heard, even by a hint, that there was a treaty for your hand betwixt our much honoured lord, of whom we are cruelly bereft, (may God assoilzie his soul!) and the great House of Lacy?” “Something I may have heard,” said Eveline, dropping her eyes, while a slight tinge suffused her cheek; “but I refer me to the disposal of Our Lady of Succour and Consolation.” As she spoke, Rose entered the chapel with the same vivacity she

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had shewn in leaving it, leading by the hand her father, whose sluggish though firm step, vacant countenance, and heavy demeanour, formed the strongest contrast to the rapidity of her motions, and the anxious animation of her address. Her task of dragging him forwards might have reminded the spectator of some of those ancient monuments on which a small cherub, singularly inadequate to the task, is often represented as hoisting upwards toward the empyrean the fleshly bulk of some ponderous tenant of the tomb, whose disproportioned weight bids fair to render ineffectual the benevolent and spirited exertions of its fluttering guide and assistant. “Roschen—my child—what gives this?” said the Netherlander, as he yielded to his daughter’s violence with a smile, which, being on the countenance of a father, had more of expression and feeling than those which seemed to have made their constant dwelling upon his lips. “Here stands my father,” said the impatient maiden; “impeach him with treason who can or dare! There stands Wilkin Flammock, son of Dieterick the Cramer of Antwerp,—let them accuse him to his face who slandered him behind his back!” “Speak, Father Aldrovand,” said the Lady Eveline; “we are young in our lordship, and, alas! the duty hath descended upon us in an evil hour, yet we will, so may God and Our Lady help us, hear and judge of your accusation to the utmost of our power.” “This Wilkin Flammock,” said the monk, “however bold he hath made himself in villainy, dares not deny that I heard him with my own ears treat for the surrender of the castle.” “Strike him, father!” said the indignant Rose,—“strike the disguised mummer—the steel hauberk may be struck, though not the monk’s frock—strike him, or tell him that he lies foully!” “Peace, Roschen, thou art mad,” said her father, angrily; “the monk hath more truth than sense about him, and I would his ears had been farther off when he thrust them into what concerned him not.” Rose’s countenance fell when she heard her father bluntly avow the treasonable communication of which she had thought him incapable —she dropped the hand by which she had dragged him into the chapel, and stared on the Lady Eveline, with eyes that seemed starting from their sockets, and a countenance from which the blood, with which it was so lately highly coloured, had retreated to garrison the heart. Eveline looked upon the culprit with a countenance in which sweetness and dignity were mingled with sorrow. “Wilkin,” she said, “I could not have believed this—What—on the very day of thy confiding benefactor’s death, canst thou have been tampering with his

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murtherers, to deliver up the castle, and betray thy trust!—But I will not upbraid thee—I deprive thee of the trust reposed in so unworthy a person, and appoint thee to be kept in ward in the western tower, till God send us relief; when, it may be, thy daughter’s merits shall atone for thy offences, and save further punishment.—See that our commands be presently obeyed.” “Yes!—yes—yes—” exclaimed Rose, hurrying one word on the other as fast and vehemently as she could articulate—“Let us go—let us go to the darkest dungeon—darkness befits us better than light.” The monk, on the other hand, perceiving that the Fleming made no motion to obey the mandate of arrest, came forwards, in a manner more suiting his ancient profession and present disguise, than his spiritual character; and with the words, “I attach thee, Wilkin Flammock, of acknowledged treason to your liege lady,” would have laid hand upon him, had not the Fleming stepped back and warned him off, with a menacing and determined gesture, while he said,—“Ye are mad!—all of you English are mad when the moon is full, and my silly girl hath caught the malady.—Lady, your honoured father gave me a charge, which I purpose to execute to the best for all parties, and you cannot, being a minor, deprive me of it at your idle pleasure.—Father Aldrovand, a monk makes no lawful arrests.—Daughter Roschen, hold your peace and dry your eyes—you are a fool.” “I am, I am,” said Rose, drying her eyes and regaining her elasticity of manner—“I am indeed a fool, and worse than a fool, in doubting for a moment my father’s probity.—Confide in him, dearest lady—he is wise though he is grave, and kind though he is plain and homely in his speech. Should he prove false he will fare the worse—for I will plunge myself from the pinnacle of the Warder’s Tower to the bottom of the moat, and he shall lose his own daughter for betraying his master’s.” “This is all frenzy,” said the monk, “who trusts avowed traitors?— Here, Normans, English, to the rescue of your liege lady—bows and bills—bows and bills!” “You may spare your throat for your next homily, good father,” said the Netherlander, “or call in good Flemish, since you understand it, for to no other language will those within hearing reply.” He then approached the Lady Eveline with a real or affected air of clumsy kindness, and something as nearly approaching to courtesy as his manners and features could assume. He bade her good night, and, assuring her that he would act for the best, left the chapel. The monk was about to break forth into revilings, but Eveline, with more prudence, checked his zeal. “I cannot,” she said, “but hope that this man’s intentions are honest”——

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“Now, God’s blessings on you, lady, for that very word!” said Rose, eagerly kissing her hand. “But if unhappily they are doubtful,” continued Eveline, “it is not by reproach that we can bring him to a better purpose. Good father, give an eye to the preparations for resistance, and see nought omitted that our means furnish for the defence of the castle.” “Fear nothing, my dearest daughter,” said Aldrovand; “there are still some English hearts amongst us, and we will rather kill and eat the Flemings themselves, than surrender the castle.” “That were food as dangerous to come by as bear’s venison, father,” answered Rose, bitterly, still on fire with the idea that the monk treated her nation with suspicion and contumely. On these terms they separated;—the women to indulge their fears and sorrows in private grief, or alleviate them by private devotion—the monk to try to discover what were the real purposes of Wilkin Flammock, and to counteract them if possible, should they seem to indicate treachery. His eye, however, though sharpened by strong suspicion, saw nothing to strengthen his fears, excepting that the Fleming had, with considerable military skill, placed the principal posts of the castle in the charge of his own countrymen, which must make any attempt to dispossess him of his present authority both difficult and dangerous. The monk at length retired, summoned by the duties of the evening service, and with the disposition to be stirring with the light the next morning.

Chapter Seven O, sadly shines the morning sun On leaguer’d castle wall, When bastion, tower, and battlement, Seem nodding to their fall. Old Ballad

T    to his resolution, and telling his beads as he went, that he might lose no time, Father Aldrovand began his rounds in the castle so soon as day-light had touched the top of the eastern horizon. A natural instinct led him first to those stalls which, had the fortress been properly victualled for siege, ought to have been tenanted by cattle. And what was his astonishment to see more than a score of fat kine and bullocks in the place which had last night been empty. One of them had already been carried to the shambles, and a Fleming or two, who played butcher on the occasion, were dividing the carcase for the cook’s use. The good father had well nigh cried out, a miracle; but, not to be too precipitate, he limited his transport to a private

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exclamation in honour of Our Lady of the Garde Douloureuse. “Who talks of lack of provender! who speaks of surrender now!” he said. “Here is enough to maintain us till Hugo de Lacy arrives, were he to sail back from Cyprus to our relief. I did purpose to have fasted this morning, as well to save victuals as on a religious score.—But the blessing of the saints must not be slighted.—Sir Cook, let me have half a yard or so of broiled beef presently; bid the pantler send me a manchet, and the butler a cup of wine. I will take a running breakfast on the western battlements.” At this place, which was rather the weakest point of the Garde Douloureuse, the good father found Wilkin Flammock anxiously superintending the necessary measures of defence. He greeted him courteously, congratulated him on the stock of provisions with which the castle had been supplied during the night, and was inquiring how they had been so happily introduced through the Welch besiegers, when Wilkin took the first occasion to interrupt him. “Of all this another time, good father; but I wish at present, and before other discourse, to consult thee on a matter which presses my conscience, and moreover deeply concerns my worldly estate.” “Speak on, my excellent son,” said the father, conceiving that he should thus gain the key to Wilkin’s real intentions. “O, a tender conscience is a jewel! and he that will not listen when it saith, ‘pour out thy doubts into the ear of the priest,’ shall one day have his own dolorous outcries choked with fire and brimstone. Thou wert ever of a tender conscience, son Wilkin, though thou hast but a rough and borrel bearing.” “Well, then,” said Wilkin, “you are to know, good father, that I have had some dealings with my neighbour, Jan Vanwelt, concerning my daughter Rose, and that he has paid me certain guilders on condition I will match her to him.” “Pshaw, pshaw! my good son,” said the disappointed confessor, “this gear can lie over—this is no time for marrying or giving in marriage, when we are all like to be murdered.” “Nay, but hear me, good father,” said the Fleming, “for this point of conscience concerns the present case more nearly than you wot of.— You must know I have no will to bestow Rose on this same Jan Vanwelt, who is old, and of ill conditions; and I would know of you whether I may, in conscience, refuse him my consent.” “Truly,” said Aldrovand, “Rose is a pretty lass, though somewhat hasty; and I think you may honestly withdraw your consent, always on paying back the guilders you have received.” “But there lies the pinch, good father,” said the Fleming—“the refunding this money will reduce me to utter poverty—the Welch

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have destroyed my substance, and this handful of money is all, God help me! on which I must begin the world again.” “Nevertheless, son Wilkin,” said Aldrovand, “thou must keep thy word, or pay thy forfeit; for what saith the text? Quis habitabit in tabernaculo, quis requiescet in monte sancto?—Who shall ascend to the tabernacle, and dwell in the holy mountain? Is it not said again, Qui jurat proximo et non decipit?—Go to, my son—break not thy plighted word for a little filthy lucre—better is an empty stomach and an hungry heart with a clear conscience, than a fatted ox with iniquity and word-breaking.—Sawest thou not our late noble lord, who (may his soul be happy!) chose rather to die in unequal battle, like a true knight, than live a perjured man, though he had but spoken a rash word to a Welchman over a wine flask?” “Alas! then,” said the Fleming, “this is even what I feared—we must e’en render up the castle, or restore to the Welchman, Iorworth, the cattle, by means of which I had schemed to victual and defend it.” “How—wherefore—what doest thou mean?” said the monk, in astonishment. “I speak to thee of Rose Flammock, and Jan Van-devil, or whatever you call him, and you reply with talk about cattle and castles, and I wot not what!” “So please you, holy father, I did but speak in parables. This castle was the daughter I had promised to deliver over—the Welchman is Jan Vanwelt, and the guilders were the cattle he has sent in, as a partpayment before-hand of my guerdon.” “Parables!” said the monk, colouring with anger at the trick put on him; “what has a boor like thee to do with parables?—but I forgive thee—I forgive thee.” “I am therefore to yield the castle to the Welchman, or restore him his cattle?” said the impenetrable Dutchman. “Sooner yield thy soul to Satan!” replied the monk. “I fear me it must be the alternative,” said the Fleming; “for the example of thy honourable lord”—— “The example of an honourable fool—” answered the monk; then presently subjoined, “Our Lady be with her servant!—this Belgicbrained boor makes me forget what I would say.” “Nay, but the holy text which your reverence cited to me even now——” continued the Fleming. “Go to,” said the monk; “what hast thou to do to presume to think of texts?—knowst thou not that the letter of the Scripture slayeth, and that it is the exposition which maketh to live?—Art thou not like one who, coming to a physician, conceals from him half the symptoms of the disease?—I tell thee, thou foolish Fleming—the text speaketh but of promises made unto Christians, and there is in the rubric a special

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exception of such as are made to Welchmen.” At this commentary the Fleming grinned so broadly as to shew his whole case of broad strong white teeth. Father Aldrovand himself grinned in sympathy, and then proceeded to say,—“Come, come, I see how it is. Thou hast studied some small revenge on me for doubting of thy truth; and, in verity, I think thou hast taken it wittily enough. But wherefore didst thou not let me into the secret from the beginning? I promise thee I had foul suspicions of thee.” “What!” said the Fleming, “is it possible I could ever think of involving your reverence in a little matter of deceit? Surely Heaven hath sent me more grace and manners.—Hark, I hear Iorworth’s horn at the gate.” “He blows like a town swine-herd,” said Aldrovand, in disdain. “It is not your reverence’s pleasure that I should restore the cattle unto him, then?” said Flammock. “Yes, thus far. Prithee deliver him straightway over the walls such a tub of boiling water as shall scald the hair from his goat-skin cloak. And, hark thee, do thou, in the first place, try the temperature of the kettle with thy fore-finger, and that shall be thy penance for the trick thou hast played me.” The Fleming answered this with another broad grin of intelligence, and they proceeded to the outer gate, to which Iorworth had come alone. Placing himself at the wicket, which, however, he kept carefully barred, and speaking through a small opening, contrived for such purpose, Wilkin Flammock demanded of the Welchman his business. “To receive rendition of the castle, agreeable to promise,” said Iorworth. “Ay? and art thou come on such an errand alone?” said Wilkin. “No, truly,” answered Iorworth; “I have some two score of men concealed among yonder bushes.” “Then thou hadst best lead them away quickly,” answered Wilkin, “before our archers let fly a sheaf of arrows amongst them.” “How, villain?—doest thou not mean to keep thy promise?” said the Welchman. “I gave thee none,” said the Fleming; “I promised but to think on what thou didst say. I have done so, and have communicated with my ghostly father, who will in no respect hear of my listening to thy proposal.” “And wilt thou,” said Iorworth, “keep the cattle, which I simply sent in to the castle on the faith of our agreement?” “I will excommunicate and deliver him over to Satan,” said the monk, unable to wait the phlegmatic and lingering answers of the Fleming, “if he give horn, hoof, or hair of them, to such an uncircum-

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cised Philistine as thou or thy master.” “It is well, shorn priest,” answered Iorworth, in great anger. “But mark me—reckon not on your frock for ransom. When Guenwyn hath taken this castle, as it shall not longer shelter such a pair of faithless tricksters, I will have ye sewed up each into the carcase of one of these kine, for which your penitent has forsworn himself, and lay you where wolf and eagle shall be your only companions.” “Thou wilt work thy will when it is matched with thy power,” said the sedate Netherlander. “False Welchman, we defy thee to thy teeth!” answered, in the same breath, the more irascible monk. “I trust to see the hounds gnaw thy joints ere that day come that ye talk of so proudly.” By way of answer to both, Iorworth drew back his arm with his levelled javelin, and shaking the shaft till it acquired a vibratory motion, he hurled it with equal strength and dexterity right against the aperture in the wicket. It whizzed through the opening at which it was aimed, and flew (harmlessly, however,) between the heads of the monk and the Fleming; the former of whom started back, while the latter only said, as he looked at the javelin, which stood quivering in the door of the guard-room, “That was well aimed, and happily baulked.” Iorworth, the instant he had flung his dart, hastened to the ambush which he had prepared, and gave them at once the signal and the example of a rapid retreat down the hill. Father Aldrovand would willingly have followed them with a volley of arrows, but the Fleming observed that ammunition was too precious with them to be wasted on a few run-aways—perhaps he remembered that they had come within the danger of such a salutation, in some measure, on his own assurance. When the noise of the hasty retreat of Iorworth and his followers had died away, there ensued a dead silence, well corresponding with the coolness and calmness of that early hour in the morning. “This will not last long,” said Wilkin to the monk, in a tone of foreboding seriousness, which found an echo in the good father’s bosom. “It will not, and it cannot,” answered Aldrovand. “We must expect a shrewd attack, which I should mind little, but that their numbers are great, ours few; the extent of the walls considerable, and the obstinacy of these Welch fiends almost equal to their fury. But we will do the best. I will to the Lady Eveline—she must shew herself upon the battlements. She is fairer in feature than becometh a man of my order to speak of, and she has withal a breathing of her father’s lofty spirit. The look and the word of such a lady will give a man double strength in the hour of need.”

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“It may be,” said the Fleming; “and I will go see that the good breakfast which I have appointed be presently served forth; it will give my Flemings more strength than the sight of the ten thousand virgins —may their help be with us!—were they all arranged on a fair field.”

Chapter Eight ’Twas when ye raised, ’mid sap and siege, The banner of your rightful liege At your she captain’s call, Who, miracle of womankind, Lent mettle to the meanest hind That mann’d her castle wall. W S R

T  morning light was scarce fully spread abroad, when Eveline Berenger, in compliance with her confessor’s advice, commenced her progress around the walls and battlements of the beleaguered castle, to confirm, by her personal entreaties, the minds of the valiant, and to rouse the more timid to hope and to exertion. She wore a rich collar and bracelets, as ornaments which indicated her rank and high descent; and her under tunic, in the manner of the times, was gathered around her slender waist by a girdle, embroidered with precious stones, and secured by a large buckle of gold. From one side of the girdle was suspended a pouch or purse, splendidly adorned with needle-work, and on the left side it sustained a small dagger of exquisite workmanship. A dark-coloured mantle, chosen as emblematic of her clouded fortunes, was flung loosely around her, and its hood was brought forwards, so as to shadow, but not hide, her beautiful countenance. Her looks had lost the high and ecstatic expression which had been inspired by supposed revelation, but they retained a sorrowful and mild, yet determined character—and, in addressing the soldiers, she used a mixture of entreaty and command, now throwing herself upon their protection, now demanding in her aid the just tribute of their allegiance. The garrison was divided, as military skill dictated, in groups, on the points most liable to attack, or from which an assailing enemy might be best annoyed; and it was this unavoidable separation of their force into small detachments, which shewed to disadvantage the extent of walls, compared with the number of the defenders; and though Wilkin Flammock had contrived several means of concealing this deficiency of force from the enemy, he could not disguise it from the defenders of the castle, who cast mournful glances on the length of battlements which were unoccupied save by sentinels, and then looked

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out to the fatal field of battle, loaded with the bodies of those who ought to have been their comrades in this hour of peril. The presence of Eveline did much to rouse the garrison from this state of discouragement. She glided from post to post, from tower to tower of the old grey fortress, as a gleam of light passes over a clouded landscape, and, touching its various points in succession, calls them out into beauty and effect. Sorrow and fear sometimes make sufferers eloquent. She addressed the various nations who composed her little garrison, each in appropriate language. To the English, she spoke as children of the soil—to the Flemings, as men who had become denizens by the right of hospitality—to the Normans, as descendants of that victorious race, whose sword had made them the nobles and sovereigns of every land where its edge had been tried. To them she used the language of chivalry, by whose rules the meanest of that nation regulated, or affected to regulate, his actions. The English she reminded of their good faith and honesty of heart; and to the Flemings she spoke of the destruction of their property, the fruits of their honest industry. To all she proposed vengeance for the death of their leader and his followers—to all she recommended confidence in God and Our Lady of the Garde Douloureuse; and she ventured to assure all, of the strong and victorious bands that were already in march to their relief. “Will the gallant champions of the cross,” she said, “think of leaving their native land, while the wail of women and of orphans is in their ears?—it were to convert their pious purpose into mortal sin, and to derogate from the high fame they have so well won. Yes—fight but valiantly, and perhaps, before the very sun that is now slowly rising shall sink in the sea, you will see it shining on the ranks of Shrewsbury and Chester. When did the Welchmen wait to hear the clangour of their trumpets, or the rustling of their silken banners? Fight bravely— fight freely but a while!—our castle is strong—our munition ample— your hearts are good—your arms are powerful—God is nigh to us, and our friends are not far distant. Fight, then, in the name of all that is good and holy—fight for yourselves, for your wives, for your children, and for your property—and oh! fight for an orphan maiden, who hath no other defenders but what a sense of her sorrows, and the remembrance of her father, may raise up among you!” Such speeches as these made a powerful impression on the men to whom they were addressed, already hardened, by habit and sentiment, against a sense of danger. The chivalrous Normans swore, on the cross of their swords, they would die to a man ere they would surrender their posts—the blunter Anglo-Saxons cried, “Shame on him who would render up such a lamb as Eveline to a

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Welch wolf, while he could make her a bulwark with his body!”— Even the cold Flemings caught a spark of the enthusiasm with which the others were animated, and muttered to each other praises of the young lady’s beauty, and short but honest resolves to do the best they might in her defence. Rose Flammock, who accompanied her lady with one or two attendants upon her circuit around the castle, seemed to have relapsed into her natural character of a shy and timid girl, out of the excited state into which she had been brought by the suspicions which in the evening before had attached to her father’s character. She tripped closely but respectfully after Eveline, and listened to what she said from time to time, with the awe and admiration of a child listening to its tutor, while only her moistened eye expressed how far she felt or comprehended the extent of the danger or the force of the exhortations. There was, however, a moment when the little maiden’s eye became more bright, her step more confident, her looks more elevated. This was when they approached the spot where her father, having discharged the duties of commander of the garrison, was now exercising those of engineer, and displaying great skill, as well as wonderful personal strength, in directing and assisting the establishment of a large mangonel, (a military engine used for casting stones,) upon a station commanding an exposed postern-gate, which led from the western side of the castle down to the plain; and where a severe assault was naturally to be expected. The greater part of his armour lay beside him, but covered with his cassock to screen it from morning dew; while in his leathern doublet, with arms bare to the shoulder, and a huge sledge-hammer in his hand, he set an example to the mechanics who worked under his direction. In slow and solid natures there is usually a touch of shamefacedness, and a sensitiveness to the breach of petty observances. Wilkin Flammock had been unmoved even to insensibility at the imputation of treason so lately cast upon him; but he coloured high, and was confused, while, hastily throwing on his cassock, he endeavoured to conceal the dishabille in which he had been surprised by the Lady Eveline. Not so his daughter. Proud of her father’s zeal, her eye glanced from him to her mistress with a look of triumph, which seemed to say, “And this faithful follower is he who was suspected of treachery.” Eveline’s own bosom made her the same reproach, and anxious to atone for her momentary doubt of his fidelity, she offered for his acceptance a ring of value, “in small amends,” she said, “of a momentary misconstruction.” “It needs not, lady,” said Flammock, with his usual bluntness, “unless I have the freedom to bestow the gaud upon Rose, for I think

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she was grieved enough at that which moved me little,—as why should it?” “Dispose of it as thou wilt,” said Eveline; “the stone it bears is as true as thine own faith.” Here Eveline paused, and looking on the broad expanded plain which extended between the site of the castle and the river, observed how silent and still the morning was rising over what had so lately been a scene of such extensive slaughter. “It will not be so long,” answered Flammock; “we shall have noise enough, and that nearer to our ears than yesterday.” “Which way lie the enemy?” said Eveline; “methinks I can spy neither tents nor pavilions.” “They use none, lady,” answered Wilkin Flammock. “Heaven has denied them the grace and knowledge to weave linen enough for such a purpose—yonder they lie on both sides of the river, covered with nought but their white mantles—would one think that a host of thieves and cut-throats could look so like the finest object in nature, a wellspread bleaching-field?—Hark—hark!—the wasps are beginning to buzz; they will soon be plying their stings.” In fact, there was heard among the Welch army a low and indistinct murmur, like that of Bees alarm’d, and arming in their hives.

Terrified at the hollow menacing sound, which grew louder every moment, Rose, who had all the irritability of a sensitive temperament, clung to her father’s arm, saying, in a terrified whisper, “It is like the sound of the sea the night before the great inundation.” “And it betokens too rough weather for women to be abroad in,” said Flammock. “Go to your chamber, Lady Eveline, if it be your will —and go you too, Roschen—God bless thee—Ye do but keep us idle here.” And, indeed, conscious that she had done all that was incumbent upon her, and fearful lest the chill which she felt creeping over her own heart should infect others, Eveline took her vassal’s advice, and withdrew slowly to her own apartment, often casting back her eye to the place where the Welch, now drawn out and under arms, were advancing their ridgy battalions, like the waves of an approaching tide. The Prince of Powis had, with considerable military skill, adopted a plan of attack suitable to the fiery genius of his followers, and calculated to alarm on every point the feeble garrison. The three sides of the castle which were defended by the river, were watched each by a numerous body of the British, with instructions to confine themselves to the discharge of arrows, unless they should

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observe that some favourable opportunity of close attack should occur. But far the greater part of Guenwyn’s forces, consisting of three columns of great strength, advanced along the plain on the western side of the castle, and menaced, with a desperate assault, the walls, which, in that direction, were deprived of the defence of the river. The first of these formidable bodies consisted entirely of archers, who dispersing themselves in front of the beleaguered place, and taking advantage of every bush and rising ground which could afford them shelter, then began to bend their bows and shower their arrows on the battlements and loopholes, suffering, however, a great deal more damage than they were able to inflict, as the garrison returned their shot in comparative safety, and with more secure deliberation. Under cover, however, of their discharge of arrows, two very strong bodies of Welch attempted to carry the outer defences of the castle by storm. They had axes to destroy the palisades, then called barriers; faggots to fill up the external ditches; torches to set fire to aught combustible which they might find; and, above all, ladders to scale the walls. These detachments rushed with incredible fury towards the point of attack, despite a most obstinate defence, and the great loss which they sustained by missiles of every kind, and continued the assault for nearly an hour, supplied by reinforcements which more than recruited their diminished numbers. When they were at length compelled to retreat, they seemed to adopt a new and yet more harassing species of attack. A large body assaulted one exposed point of the fortress with such fury as to draw thither as many of the besieged as could possibly be spared from other defended posts, and when there appeared a point less strongly manned than was adequate to defence, that in its turn was furiously assailed by a separate body of the enemy. Thus the defenders of the Garde Douloureuse resembled the embarrassed traveller engaged in repelling a swarm of hornets, which, while he brushes them from one part, fix in swarms upon another, and drive him to despair by their numbers, their boldness and the multiplicity of their attacks. The postern, being of course a principal point of attack, Father Aldrovand, whose anxiety would not permit him to be absent from the walls, and who, indeed, where decency would permit, took an occasional share in the active defence of the place, hasted thither as the point chiefly in danger. Here he found the Fleming, like a second Ajax, grim with dust and blood, working with his own hands the great engine which he had lately helped to erect, and at the same time giving heedful eye to all the exigencies around. “How thinkst thou of this day’s work?” said the monk in a whisper. “What skills it talking of it, father?” replied Flammock; “thou art no

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soldier, and I have no time for words.” “Nay, take thy breath,” said the monk, tucking up the sleeves of his frock; “I will try to help the whilst—although, Our Lady pity me, I know nothing of these strange devices,—not even the names—but our rule commands us to labour—there be no harm, therefore, in turning this winch—or in placing this steel-headed piece of wood opposite to the cord, (suiting his action to his words,) nor in seeing aught uncanonical in adjusting the lever thus—or in touching this spring.” The large bolt whizzed through the air as he spoke, and was so successfully aimed, that it struck down a Welch chief of eminence, to whom Guenwyn himself was in the act of giving some important charge. “Well done, trebuchet—well flown, quarrell! ” cried the monk, unable to contain his delight, and giving, in his triumph, the technical names to the engine, and the javelin which it discharged. “And well aimed, monk,” added Wilkin Flammock; “I think thou knowst more than is in thy breviary.” “Care not thou for that,” said the father; “and now that thou seest I can work an engine, and that the knaves seem something low in stomach, what thinkst thou of our estate?” “Well enough—for a bad one—if we may hope for speedy succour; but men’s bodies are of flesh, not of iron, and we may be at last wearied out by numbers. Only one soldier to four yards of wall, is a fearful odds; and the villains are aware of it, and keep us to sharp work.” The renewal of the assault here broke off their conversation, nor did the active enemy permit them to enjoy much repose until sunset, alarming them with repeated menaces of attack upon different points, besides two or three formidable and furious assaults upon different points that left them scarce time to breathe, or to take a moment’s refreshment. Yet the Welch paid a severe price for their temerity, for, while nothing could exceed the bravery with which their men repeatedly advanced to the attack, those which were made latest in the day had less of animated desperation than their first onset; and it is probable, that the sense of having sustained great loss, and apprehension of its effects on the spirits of his people, made nightfall, and the interruption of the contest, as acceptable to Guenwyn as to the exhausted garrison of the Garde Douloureuse. But in the camp or leaguer of the Welch there was glee and triumph, for the loss of the past day was forgotten in recollection of the signal victory which had preceded this siege, and the dispirited garrison could hear from their walls the laugh and the song, the sound of harping and gaiety, which triumphed by anticipation over their surrender.

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The sun was for some time sunk, the twilight deepened, and night closed with a blue and cloudless sky, in which the thousand spangles that deck the firmament received double brilliancy from some slight touch of frost, although the pale planet, their mistress, was but in her first quarter. The necessities of the garrison were considerably aggravated by that of keeping a very strong and watchful guard, ill according with the weakness of their numbers, at a time which appeared favourable to any sudden nocturnal alarm; and, so urgent was this duty, that those who had been more slightly wounded on the preceding day, were obliged to take their share in it, notwithstanding their hurts. The monk and Fleming, who now perfectly understood each other, went in company around the walls at midnight, exhorting the warders to be watchful, and examining with their own eyes the state of the fortress. It was in the course of these rounds, and as they were ascending an elevated platform by a range of narrow and uneven steps, something galling to the monk’s tread, that they perceived on the summit to which they were ascending, instead of the black corslet of the Flemish sentinel who had been placed there, two white forms, the appearance of which struck Wilkin Flammock with more dismay than he had shewn during any of the doubtful events of the preceding day’s fight. “Father,” he said, “betake yourself to your tools—es spuckt—there are hobgoblins here.” The good father had not learned as a priest to defy the spiritual host, whom, as a soldier, he had dreaded more than any mortal enemy, but he began to recite with chattering teeth, the exorcism of the church, “Conjuro vos omnes, spiritus maligni, magni, atque parvi,”— when he was interrupted by the voice of Eveline who called out, “Is it you, Father Aldrovand?” Much lightened at heart by finding they had no ghost to deal with, Wilkin Flammock and the priest advanced hastily to the platform, where they found the lady with her faithful Rose, the former with a half pike in her hand, like a sentinel on duty. “How is this, daughter?” said the monk; “how came you here, and thus armed?—and where is the sentinel,—the lazy Flemish hound, that should have kept the post?” “May he be a lazy hound, yet not a Flemish one, father?” said Rose, who was ever awakened by anything which seemed a reflection upon her country; “methinks, I have heard of such curs of English breed.” “Go to, Rose, you are too malapert for a young maiden,” said her father. “Once more, where is Peterkin Voorst, who should have kept his post?” “Let him not be blamed for my fault,” said Eveline, pointing to a

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place where the Flemish sentinel lay in the shade of the battlement fast asleep.—“He was overcome with toil—had fought hard and bled much through the day, and when I saw him asleep as I came hither, like a wandering spirit that cannot taste slumber or repose, I would not disturb the rest which I envied. As he had fought for me, I might, I thought, watch an hour for him; so I took his weapon with the purpose of remaining here till some one should come to relieve him.” “I will relieve the schelm, with a vengeance!” said Wilkin Flammock, and saluted the slumbering and prostrate warder with two kicks, which made his corslet clatter. The man started to his feet in no small alarm, which he would have communicated to the next sentinels and to the whole garrison, by crying out that the Welch were upon the walls, had not the monk covered his broad mouth with his hand just as the roar was issuing forth.—“Peace, and get thee down to the under bayley,” said he;—“thou deservest death, by all the policies of war— but, look ye, and see who has saved your worthless neck, by watching while you were dreaming of swine’s flesh and beer-pots.” The Fleming, although as yet but half awake, was sufficiently conscious of his situation, to sneak off without reply, after two or three awkward congees, as well to Eveline as to those by whom his repose had been so unceremoniously interrupted. “He deserves to be tied neck and heel, the houndsfoot,” said Wilkin. “But what would you have, lady?—my countrymen cannot live without rest or sleep.” So saying, he gave a yawn so wide as if he had proposed to swallow one of the turrets that garnished an angle of the platform on which he stood. “True, good Wilkin,” said Eveline; “and do you therefore take some rest, and trust to my watchfulness, at least till the guards are relieved. I cannot sleep if I would, and I would not if I could.” “Thanks, lady,” said Flammock; “and in truth, as this is a centrical place, and the rounds must pass in an hour at farthest, I will e’en close my eyes for such a space, for the lids feel as heavy as flood-gates.” “O, father, father!” exclaimed Rose, alive to her sire’s unceremonious neglect of decorum—“think where you are, and in whose presence!” “Ay, ay, good Flammock,” said the monk, “remember the presence of a noble Norman maiden is no place for folding of cloaks and donning of nightcaps.” “Let him alone, good father,” said Eveline, who in another moment might have smiled at the readiness with which Wilkin Flammock folded himself in his huge cloak, extended his substantial form on the stone bench, and gave the most decided tokens of profound repose, long ere the monk had done speaking.—“Forms and fashions of

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respect,” she continued, “are for times of ease and nicety;—when in danger, the soldier’s bed-chamber is wherever he can find leisure for an hour’s sleep—his eating-hall, wherever he can obtain food. Sit thou down by Rose and me, good father, and tell us of some holy lesson which may pass away these hours of weariness and calamity.” The father obeyed; but, however willing to afford consolation, his ingenuity and theological skill suggested nothing better than a recitation of the penitentiary psalms, in which task he continued until fatigue became too powerful for him also, when he committed the same breach of decorum for which he had upbraided Wilkin Flammock, and fell fast asleep in the midst of his devotions.

Chapter Nine “O night of woe,” she said, and wept, “O night foreboding sorrow! O night of woe,” she said, and wept, But more I dread the morrow.” S G E

T  fatigue which had exhausted Flammock and the monk, was unfelt by the two anxious maidens, who remained with their eyes bent now upon the dim landscape, now on the stars by which it was lighted, as if they could have read there the events which the morrow was to bring forth. It was a placid and melancholy scene. Tree and field, and hill and plain, lay before them in doubtful light, while, at greater distance, their eye could with difficulty trace one or two places where the river, hidden in general by banks and trees, spread its more expanded bosom to the stars, and the pale crescent. All was still, excepting the solemn rush of the waters, and now and then the shrill tinkle of a harp, which, heard from more than a mile’s distance through the midnight silence, announced that some of the Welchmen still protracted their most beloved amusement. The wild note, partially heard, seemed like the voice of some passing spirit; and, connected as it was with ideas of fierce and unrelenting hostility, thrilled on Eveline’s ear, as if prophetic of war and woe, captivity and death. The only other sound which disturbed the extreme stillness of the night, was the occasional step of a sentinel upon his post, or the hooting of the owls, which seemed to wail the approaching downfall of the moonlight turrets, in which they had established their ancient habitations. The calmness of all around seemed to press like a weight on the bosom of the unhappy Eveline, and brought to her mind a deeper sense of present grief, and keener fear of future horrors, than had reigned there during the bustle, blood, and confusion of the preceding

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day. She rose up—she sat down—she moved to and fro on the platform—she remained fixed like a statue to a single spot, as if she were trying by variety of posture to divert her internal sense of fear and sorrow. At length, looking at the monk and the Fleming as they slept soundly under the shade of the battlement, she could no longer forbear breaking silence. “Men are happy,” she said, “my beloved Rose—their anxious thoughts are either diverted by toilsome exertion, or drowned in the insensibility which follows it. They may encounter wounds and death, but it is we who feel in the spirit a more keen anguish than the body knows, and in the gnawing sense of present ill and fear of future misery, a living death, more cruel than that which ends our woes at once.” “Do not be thus downcast, my noble lady,” said Rose; “be rather what you were yesterday, caring for the wounded, for the aged, for every one but yourself—exposing even your dear life among the showers of the Welch arrows, when doing so could give courage to others; while I—shame on me—could but tremble, sob, and weep, and needed all the little wit I have to prevent my shouting with the wild cries of the Welch, or screaming and groaning with those of our friends who fell around me.” “Alas! Rose,” answered her mistress, “you may at pleasure indulge your fears to the verge of distraction itself—you have a father to fight and watch for you. Mine—my kind, noble, and honoured parent, lies dead on yonder field, and all which remains for me is to act as may best become his memory—But this moment is at least mine, to think upon and to mourn for him.” So saying, and overpowered by the long-repressed burst of filial sorrow, she sunk down on the banquette which ran along the inside of the embattled parapet of the platform, and murmuring to herself, “He is gone for ever!” abandoned herself to the extremity of grief. One hand grasped unconsciously the weapon which she held, and served, at the same time, to prop her forehead, while the tears, by which she was now for the first time relieved, flowed in torrents from her eyes, and her sobs seemed so convulsive, that Rose almost feared her heart was bursting. Her affection and sympathy dictated at once the kindest course which Eveline’s condition permitted. Without attempting to control the torrent of grief in its full current, she gently sat her down beside the mourner, and possessing herself of the hand which had sunk motionless by her side, she alternately pressed it to her lips, her bosom, and her brow—now covered it with kisses, now bedewed it with tears, and amid these tokens of the most devoted and humble sympathy, waited a more composed moment to offer her little stock of

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consolation in such deep silence and stillness, that as the pale light fell upon the two beautiful young women, it seemed rather to shew a group of statuary, the work of some eminent sculptor, than beings whose eyes still wept, and whose hearts still throbbed. At a little distance, the gleaming corslet of the Fleming, and the dark garments of Father Aldrovand, as they lay prostrate on the stone steps, might represent the bodies of those for whom the principal figures were mourning. After a deep agony of many minutes, it seemed that the sorrows of Eveline were assuming a more composed character; her convulsive sobs were changed for long, low, profound sighs, and the course of her tears, though they still flowed, was milder and less violent. Her kind attendant, availing herself of these gentler symptoms, tried softly to win the spear from her lady’s grasp. “Let me be sentinel for a while,” she said, “my sweet lady—I will at least scream louder than you, if any danger should approach.” She ventured to kiss her cheek and throw her arms around Eveline’s neck while she spoke; but a mute caress, which expressed her sense of the faithful girl’s kind intentions to minister if possible to her repose, was the only answer returned. They remained for many minutes silent and in the same posture,—Eveline, like an upright and slender poplar, Rose, who encircled her lady in her arms, like the woodbine which twines around it. At length Rose suddenly felt her young mistress shiver in her embrace, and that Eveline’s hand grasped her own arm rigidly as she whispered, “Do you hear nothing?” “No—nothing but the hooting of the owl,” answered Rose timorously. “I heard a distant sound,” said Eveline,—“I thought I heard it— hark, it comes again—Look from the battlements, Rose, while I awaken the priest and thy father.” “Dearest lady,” said Rose, “I dare not—what can this sound be that is heard by one only?—you are deceived by the rush of the river.” “I would not alarm the castle unnecessarily,” said Eveline, pausing, “or even break your father’s needful slumbers, by a fancy of mine —but hark—hark—I hear it again—distinct amidst the intermitting sound of the rushing water—a low tremulous sound, mingled with a tinkling like smiths or armourers at work upon their anvils.” Rose had by this time sprung up on the banquette, and flinging back her rich tresses of fair hair, had applied her hand behind her ear to collect the distant sound. “I hear it,” she cried, “and it increases— awake them, for Heaven’s sake, and without a moment’s delay!” Eveline accordingly stirred the sleepers with the reversed end of the lance, and as they started to their feet in haste, she whispered, in a

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hasty but cautious voice, “To arms—the Welch are upon us!” “What—where?” said Wilkin Flammock,—“where be they?” “Listen, and you will hear them arming,” she replied. “The noise is but in thine own fancy, lady,” said the Fleming, whose organs were of the same heavy character with his form and his disposition. “I would I had not gone to sleep at all, since I was to be awakened so soon.” “Nay, but listen, good Flammock—the sound of armour comes from the north-east.” “The Welch lie not in that quarter, lady,” said Wilkin, “and, besides, they wear no armour.” “I hear it—I hear it!” said Father Aldrovand, who had been listening for some time. “All praise to Saint Benedict!—Our Lady of the Garde Douloureuse has been gracious to her servants as ever—it is the tramp of horse—it is the clash of armour—the chivalry of the Marches are coming to our relief—Kyrie Eleison!” “I hear something too,” said Flammock,—“something like the hollow sound of the great sea, when it burst into my neighbour Klinkerman’s warehouse, and rolled his pots and pans against each other. But it were an evil mistake, father, to take foes for friends—We were best rouse the people.” “Tush!” said the priest, “talk to me of pots and kettles?—was I squire of the body to Count Stephen Mauleverer for twenty years, and do I not know the tramp of a war-horse, or the clash of a mail-coat?— But call the men to the walls at any rate, and have me the best drawn up in the base-court—We may help them by a sally.” “That will not be rashly undertaken with my consent,” murmured the Fleming; “but to the wall if you will, and in good time. But keep your Normans and English silent, Sir Priest, else their unruly and noisy joy will awaken the Welch camp, and prepare them for their unwelcome visitors.” The monk laid his finger on his lip in sign of intelligence, and they parted in opposite directions, each to rouse the defenders of the castle, who were soon heard drawing from all quarters to their posts upon the walls, with hearts in a different mood than when they had descended from them. The utmost caution being used to prevent noise, the manning of the walls was accomplished in silence, and the garrison awaited in breathless expectation the success of the forces who were now rapidly advancing to their relief. The character of the sounds, which now loudly awakened the silence of this eventful night, could no longer be mistaken. They were distinguishable from the rushing of a mighty river, or from the muttering sound of distant thunder, by the sharp and angry notes which the

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clashing of the riders’ arms mingled with the deep bass of the horses’ rapid tread. From the long continuance of the sounds, their loudness, and the extent of horizon from which they seemed to come, all in the castle were satisfied that the approaching relief consisted of several very strong bodies of horse. At once this mighty sound ceased, as if the earth on which they trod had either devoured the armed squadrons, or had become incapable of resounding to their tramp. The defenders of the Garde Douloureuse concluded that their friends had made a sudden halt, to give their horses breath, examine the leaguer of the enemy, and settle the order of the attack upon them. The pause, however, was but momentary. The British, so alert at surprising their enemies, were themselves, on many occasions, liable to surprise. Their men were undisciplined, and sometimes negligent of the patient duties of a sentinel; and, besides, their foragers and flying parties, who scoured the country during the preceding day, had brought back to the main body tidings which had lulled them into fatal security. Their camp had been therefore negligently guarded, and they had altogether neglected the important military duty of establishing patroles and outposts at a proper distance from their main body. Thus the cavalry of the Lords Marchers, notwithstanding the noise which accompanied their advance, had approached very near the British camp, without exciting the least alarm. But while they were arranging their forces into separate columns, in order to commence the assault, a loud and increasing noise among the Welch announced that they were at length aware of their danger. The shrill and discordant cries by which they endeavoured to assemble their men, each under the banner of his chief, resounded from their leaguer. But these rallying shouts were soon converted into screams and clamours of horror and dismay, when the thundering charge of the barbed horses and heavily armed cavalry of the Anglo-Normans surprised their undefended camp. Yet not even under circumstances so adverse did the descendants of the ancient Britons renounce their defence, or forfeit their old hereditary privilege, to be called the bravest of mankind. Their cries of defiance and resistance were heard resounding above the groans of the wounded, the shouts of the triumphant assailants, and the universal tumult of the night-battle. It was not until the morning light began to peep forth, that the slaughter or dispersion of Guenwyn’s forces was complete, and that the “earthquake voice of victory” arose in uncontrolled and unmingled energy of exultation. Then the besieged, if they could be still so termed, looking from their towers over the expanded country beneath, witnessed nothing but one wide-spread scene of desultory flight and unrelaxed pursuit.

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That the Welch had been permitted to encamp in fancied security upon the hither side of the river, now rendered their discomfiture more dreadfully fatal. The single pass by which they could cross to the other side was soon completely choked by fugitives, on whose rear raged the swords of the victorious Normans. Many threw themselves into the river, upon the precarious chance of gaining the farther side, and, excepting a few who were uncommonly strong, skilful, and active, perished among the rocks and in the currents. Others more fortunate escaped by obscure and secret fords. Many dispersed, or, in small bands, fled in reckless despair towards the castle, as if the fortress, which had beat them off when victorious, could be a place of refuge to them in their present forlorn condition; while others roamed wildly over the plain, seeking only escape from immediate and instant danger, without knowing whither they ran. The Normans, meanwhile, divided into small parties, followed and slaughtered them at pleasure; while, as a rallying point for the victors, the banner of Hugo de Lacy streamed from a small mount, on which Guenwyn had lately pitched his own, and surrounded by a competent force, both of infantry and horsemen, which the experienced Baron permitted on no account to wander far from it. The rest, as we have already said, followed the chase with shouts of exultation and of vengeance, ringing around the battlements, which resounded with the cries, “Ha, Saint Edward!—ha, Saint Dennis!—strike—slay—no quarter to the Welch wolves—think on Raymond Berenger!” The soldiers on the walls joined in these vengeful and victorious clamours, and discharged several sheaves of arrows upon such fugitives, as, in their extremity, approached too near the castle. They would fain have sallied to give more active assistance in the work of destruction, but the communication being now open with the Constable of Chester’s forces, Wilkin Flammock considered himself and the garrison to be under the orders of this renowned chief, and refused to listen to the eager admonitions of Father Aldrovand, who would, notwithstanding his sacerdotal character, have willingly himself taken charge of the sally which he proposed. At length the scene of slaughter seemed concluded—the retreat was blown on many a bugle, and knights halted on the plain to collect their personal followers, muster them under their proper pennon, and then lead them slowly back to the great standard of their leader, around which the main body were again to be assembled, like the clouds which gather around the evening sun—a fanciful simile, which might yet be driven farther, in respect of the level rays of strong lurid light which shot from these dark battalions, as

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the beams were flung back from their polished armour. The plain was in this manner soon cleared of the horsemen, and remained only occupied by the dead bodies of the slaughtered Welchmen. The bands who had followed the pursuit to a greater distance were also now seen returning, driving before them, or dragging after them, dejected and unhappy captives, to whom they had given quarter when their thirst of blood was satiated. It was then that, desirous to attract the attention of his liberators, Wilkin Flammock commanded all the banners of the castle to be displayed, under a general shout of acclamation from those who had fought under them. It was answered by an universal cry of joy from De Lacy’s army, which rung so wide, as might even yet have startled any of the Welch fugitives, who far distant from this disastrous field of fight, might have ventured to halt for a moment’s repose. Presently after this greeting had been exchanged, a single horseman advanced from the Constable’s army towards the castle, shewing, even at a distance, an unusual dexterity of horsemanship and grace of deportment. He arrived at the drawbridge, which was instantly lowered to receive him, whilst Flammock and the monk, (for the latter, as far as he could, associated himself with the former in all acts of authority,) hastened to receive the envoy of their liberator. They found him just alighted from the raven-coloured horse, which was slightly flecked with blood as well as foam, and still panted with the exertions of the evening; though, answering to the caressing hand of his youthful rider, he arched his neck, shook his steel caparison, and snorted to announce his unabated mettle and unwearied love of combat. The young man’s eagle look bore the same token of unabated vigour, mingled with the signs of recent exertion. His helmet hanging at his saddle-bow, shewed a gallant countenance, coloured highly, but not inflamed, which looked out from a rich profusion of short chesnut curls; and although his armour was of a massive and simple form, he moved under it with such elasticity and ease, that it seemed a graceful attire, not a burthen or incumbrance. A furred mantle had not sat on him with more easy grace than the heavy hauberk which complied with every gesture of his noble form. Yet his countenance was so juvenile, that only the down on the upper lip announced decisively the approach to manhood. The females, who thronged into the court to see the first envoy of their deliverers, could not forbear mixing praises of his beauty with blessings on his valour; and one comely middleaged dame, in particular, distinguished by the tightness with which her scarlet hose sat on a well-shaped leg and ancle, and by the cleanness of her coif, pressed close up to the young squire, and, more forward than the rest, doubled the crimson hue of his cheek, by saying

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aloud, that Our Lady of the Garde Douloureuse had sent them news of their redemption by an angel from the sanctuary;—a speech which, although Father Aldrovand shook his head, was received by her companions with such general acclamation, as greatly embarrassed the young man’s modesty. “Peace, all of ye,” said Wilkin Flammock—“know you no respects, you women, or have you never seen a young gentleman before, that you hang on him like flies on a honey-comb? Stand aback, I say, and let us hear in peace what are the commands of the noble Lord of Lacy.” “These,” said the young man, “I can only deliver in the presence of the right noble demoiselle, Eveline Berenger, if I may be thought worthy of such honour.” “That thou art, noble sir,” said the same forward dame who had before expressed her admiration so energetically; “I will uphold thee worthy of her presence, and whatever other grace a lady can do thee.” “Now hold thy tongue, with a wanion,” said the monk; while in the same breath the Fleming exclaimed, “Beware the cucking-stool, Dame Scant o’ Grace,” while he conducted the noble youth across the court. “Let my good horse be cared for,” said the gentleman, as he put the bridle into the hand of an old huntsman; and in doing so got rid of some part of his female retinue, who began to pat and praise the horse as much as they had done the rider; and some, in the enthusiasm of their joy, hardly abstained from kissing the stirrups and horse furniture. But Dame Gillian was not so easily diverted from her own point as were some of her companions. She continued to repeat the word, cucking-stool, till the Fleming was out of hearing, and then became more specific in her objurgation.—“And why cucking-stool, I pray, Sir Wilkin Butterfirken?—you are the man would stop an English mouth with a Flemish damask napkin, I trow! Marry quep, my cousin the weaver!—and why the cucking-stool, I pray?—because my young lady is comely, and the young squire is a man of mettle, reverence to his beard that is to come yet? Have we not eyes to see, and have we not a mouth and a tongue?” “In troth, Dame Gillian, men do you wrong who doubt it,” said Eveline’s nurse, who stood by; “but, I prithee, keep it shut now, were it but for womanhood.” “How now, mannerly Mrs Margery?” replied the incorrigible Gillian; “is your heart so high because you dandled our young lady on your knee fifteen years since?—let me tell you the cat will find its way to the cream, though it was brought up on an abbess’s lap.”

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“Home, housewife, home,” exclaimed her husband, the old huntsman, who was weary of this public exhibition of his domestic termagant—“home, or I will give you a taste of my dog-leash—Here are both the confessor and Wilkin Flammock wondering at your impudence.” “Indeed!” replied Gillian; “and are not two fools enough for wonderment, that you must come with your grave pate to make up the number three?” There was a general laugh at the huntsman’s expense, under cover of which he prudently withdrew his spouse, without attempting to continue the war of tongues, in which she had shewn such a decided superiority. This controversy, so light is the change in human spirits, especially among the lower class, awakened bursts of idle mirth among beings who had so lately been in the jaws of danger, if not of absolute despair.

Chapter Ten They bore him bare-faced on his bier, Six proper youths and tall, And many a tear bedew’d his grave Within yon kirk-yard wall. The Friar of Orders Gray

W  these matters took place in the castle-yard, the young squire, Damian Lacy, obtained the audience which he had requested of Eveline Berenger, who received him in the great hall of the castle, seated beneath the dais, or canopy, and waited upon by Rose, and other female attendants, of whom the first alone was permitted to use a tabouret, or small stool, in her presence, so strict were the Norman maidens of quality in maintaining their claims to high rank and observance. The youth was introduced by the confessor and Flammock, as the spiritual character of the one, and the trust reposed by her late father in the other, authorised them to be present upon the occasion. Eveline naturally blushed, as for the first time she advanced two steps to receive the handsome youthful envoy; and her bashfulness seemed infectious, for it was with some confusion that Damian went through the ceremony of saluting the hand which she extended towards him in token of welcome. Eveline was under the necessity of speaking first. “We advance as far as limits will permit us,” she said, “to greet with our thanks the messenger who brings us tidings of safety. We speak— unless we err—to the noble Damian of Lacy.” “To the humblest of your servants,” answered Damian, falling with some difficulty into the tone of courtesy which his errand and

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character required, “who approaches you on behalf of his noble uncle, Hugo de Lacy, Constable of Chester.” “Will not our noble deliverer in person honour with his presence the poor dwelling which he has saved?” “My noble kinsman,” answered Damian, “is now God’s soldier, and bound by a vow not to come beneath a roof until he embarks for the Holy Land. But by my voice he congratulates you on the defeat of your savage enemies, and sends you these tokens that the comrade and friend of your noble father hath not left his lamentable death many hours unavenged.” So saying, he drew forth and laid before Eveline the gold bracelets, and the Eudorchawg, or chain of linked gold, which had distinguished the rank of the Welch Prince. “Guenwyn hath then fallen,” said Eveline, a natural shudder combating with the feelings of gratified vengeance, as she beheld that the trophies were specked with blood, “the slayer of my father is no more.” “My kinsman’s lance transfixed the Briton as he endeavoured to rally his flying people—he died grimly on the weapon which had passed more than a fathom through his body, and exerted his last strength in a furious but ineffectual blow with his mace.” “Heaven is just,” said Eveline; “may his sins be forgiven to the man of blood, since he hath fallen by a death so bloody!—One question I would ask you, noble sir—my father’s remains?——” She paused, unable to proceed. “An hour will place them at your disposal, most honoured lady,” replied the squire, in the tone of sympathy which the sorrows of so young and so fair an orphan called irresistibly forth. “Such preparations as time admitted were making even when I left the host, to transport what was mortal of the noble Berenger from the field on which we found him, amid a monument of slain which his own sword had raised. My kinsman’s vow will not allow him to pass your portcullis; but, with your permission, I will represent him, if such be your pleasure, at these honoured obsequies, having charge to that effect.” “My brave and noble father,” said Eveline, making an effort to restrain her tears, “will be best mourned by the noble and the brave——” She would have continued, but her voice failed her, and she was obliged to withdraw abruptly, in order to give vent to her sorrow, and prepare for the funeral rites with such ceremony as circumstances should permit. Damian bowed to the departing mourner as reverently as he would have done to a divinity, and taking his horse, returned to his uncle’s host, which had encamped hastily on the recent field of battle. The sun was now high, and the whole plain presented the appear-

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ance of a bustle, equally different from the solitude of the early morning, and from the roar and fury of the subsequent engagement. The news of Hugo de Lacy’s victory, everywhere spread abroad with all the alacrity of triumph, had induced many of the inhabitants of the country, who had fled before the fury of the Wolf of Plinlimmon, to return to their desolate habitations. Numbers also of the loose and profligate characters which abound in a country subject to the frequent changes of war, had flocked thither in quest of spoil, or to gratify a spirit of restless curiosity. The Jew and the Lombard, despising danger where there was a chance of gain, might be already seen bartering liquors and wares with the victorious men-at-arms, for the blood-stained ornaments of gold lately worn by the defeated British. Others acted as brokers betwixt the Welch captives and their captors, and where they could trust the means and good faith of the former, sometimes became bound for, or even advanced in ready money, the sums necessary for their ransom, whilst a more numerous class became themselves the purchasers of those prisoners who had no immediate means of settling with their conquerors. That the money thus acquired might not long encumber the soldier, or blunt his ardour for farther enterprize, the usual means of dissipating military spoils were already at hand. Courtezans, mimes, jugglers, minstrels, and tale-tellers of every description, had accompanied the night march, and, secure in the military reputation of the celebrated De Lacy, had rested fearlessly at some little distance until the battle was fought and won. These now approached, in many a joyous group, to congratulate the victors. Close to the parties which they formed for the dance, the song, or the tale, upon the yet bloody field, the countrymen, summoned in for the purpose, were opening large trenches for depositing the dead—leeches were seen tending the wounded— priests and monks confessing those in extremity—soldiers transporting from the field the bodies of the more honoured among the slain— peasants mourning over their trampled crops and plundered habitations—and widows and orphans searching for the bodies of husbands and parents, amid the promiscuous carnage of two combats. Thus woe mingled her wildest notes with those of jubilee and bacchanal triumph, and the plain of the Garde Douloureuse formed a singular parallel to the varied maze of human life, where joy and grief are so strangely mingled, and where the confines of mirth and pleasure often border on those of sorrow and of death. About noon these various noises were at once silenced, and the attention alike of those who rejoiced or who mourned was arrested by the loud and mournful sound of six trumpets, which, uplifting and uniting their thrilling tones in a wild and melancholy death-note,

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apprized all, that the mournful obsequies of the valiant Raymond Berenger were about to commence. From a tent, which had been hastily pitched for the immediate reception of the body, twelve black monks, the inhabitants of a neighbouring convent, began to file out in pairs, headed by their abbot, who bore a large cross, and thundered forth the sublime notes of the Catholic Miserere me, Domine. Then came a chosen body of men-at-arms, trailing their lances, with their points reversed and pointed to the earth; and after them the body of the valiant Berenger, wrapped in his own knightly banner, which, regained from the hands of the Welch, now served its noble owner instead of a funereal pall. The most valiant knights of the Constable’s household (for, like other great nobles of that period, he had formed it upon a scale which approached to that of royalty) walked as supporters of the corpse, which was borne upon lances; and the Constable of Chester himself, alone and fully armed, excepting the head, followed as chief mourner. A chosen body of squires, men-at-arms, and pages of noble descent, brought up the rear of the procession; while their nakers and trumpets echoed back, from time to time, the melancholy song of the monks, by replying in a note as lugubrious as their own. The course of pleasure was arrested, and even that of sorrow was for a moment turned from her own griefs, to witness the last honours bestowed on him, who had been in life the father and guardian of his people. The mournful procession traversed slowly the plain which had been within a few hours the scene of such various events; and, pausing before the outer gate of the barricades of the castle, invited, by a prolonged and solemn flourish, the fortress to receive the remains of its late gallant defender. The melancholy summons was answered by the warder’s horn—the draw-bridge sunk—the portcullis rose— Father Aldrovand appeared in the middle of the gateway, arrayed in his sacerdotal habit, whilst a little way behind him stood the orphaned damsel, in such weeds of mourning as time admitted, supported by her attendant Rose, and followed by the females of her household. The Constable of Chester paused upon the threshold of the outer gate, and, pointing to the cross signed in white cloth upon his left shoulder, with a lowly reverence resigned to his nephew, Damian, the task of attending the remains of Raymond Berenger to the chapel within the castle. The soldiers of Hugo de Lacy, most of whom were bound by the same vow with himself, also halted without the castle gate, and remained under arms, while the death-peal of the chapel bell announced from within the progress of the procession. It winded on through those narrow entrances, which were skilfully contrived to interrupt the progress of an enemy, even should he

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succeed in forcing the outer gate, and arrived at length in the great court-yard, where most of the inhabitants of the fortress, and those who, under recent circumstances, had taken refuge there, were drawn up, in order to look for the last time on their departed lord. Among these were mingled a few of the motley crowd from without, whom curiosity, or the expectation of a dole, had brought to the castle gate, and who, by one argument or other, had obtained from the warders permission to enter the interior. The body was here set down before the door of the chapel, the ancient Gothic front of which formed one side of the court-yard, until certain prayers were recited by the priests, in which the crowd around were supposed to join with becoming reverence. It was during this interval, that a man, whose peaked beard, embroidered girdle, and high-crowned hat of grey felt, gave him the air of a Lombard merchant, addressed Margery, the nurse of Eveline, in a whispering tone, and with a foreign accent.—“I am a travelling merchant, good sister, and am come hither in quest of gain. Can you tell me whether I can have any custom in this castle?” “You are come at an evil time, Sir Stranger. You may yourself see that this is a place for mourning, and not for merchandize.” “Yet mourning times have their own commerce,” said the stranger, approaching still closer to the side of Margery, and lowering his voice to a tone yet more confidential. “I have sable scarfs of Persian silk— black bugles, in which a princess might mourn for a deceased monarch—cyprus, such as the East hath seldom sent forth—black cloth for mourning hangings—all that may express sorrow and reverence in fashion and attire; and I know how to be grateful to those who help me to custom. Come, bethink you, good dame—such things must be had—I will sell as good ware and as cheap as another, and a kirtle to yourself, or, at your pleasure, a purse with five florins, shall be the meed of your kindness.” “I prithee peace, friend,” said Margery, “and choose a better time for vaunting your wares—you neglect both place and season; and if you be farther importunate, I must speak to those who will shew you the outward side of the castle gate. I marvel the warders would admit pedlars upon a day such as this—they would drive a gainful bargain by the bed-side of their mother, were she dying, I trow.” So saying, she turned scornfully from him. While thus angrily rejected on the one side, the merchant felt his cloak receive an intelligent twitch upon the other, and looking around upon the signal, he saw a dame, whose black kerchief was affectedly disposed, so as to give an appearance of solemnity to a set of light laughing features, which must have been captivating when young,

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since they retained so many good points when at least forty years must have passed over them. She winked to the merchant, touching at the same time her under lip with her forefinger, to announce the propriety of silence and secrecy—then gliding from the crowd, retreated to a small recess formed by a projecting buttress of the chapel, as if to avoid the pressure likely to take place at the moment when the bier should be lifted. The merchant failed not to follow her example, and was soon by her side, when she did not give him the trouble of opening his affairs, but commenced the conversation herself. “I heard what you said to our Dame Margery—Mannerly Margery, as I call her— heard as much at least as led me to guess the rest, for I have got an eye in my head, I promise you.” “A pair of them, my pretty dame—and as bright as drops of dew in a May morning.” “Oh, you say so, because I have been weeping,” said the scarlethosed Gillian, for it was even herself who spoke; “and to be sure, I have good cause, for our lord was always my very good lord, and would sometimes chuck me under the chin, and call me buxom Gillian of Croydon—not that the good gentleman was ever uncivil, for he would thrust a silver twopennies into my hand at the same time.—Oh! the friend that I have lost—and I have had anger on his account too—I have seen old Raoul as sour as vinegar, and fit for no place but the kennel for a whole day about it; but, as I said to him, it was not for the like of me to be affronting our master, and a great baron, about a chuck under the chin, or a kiss, or such like.” “No wonder you are sorry for so kind a master, dame,” said the merchant. “No wonder indeed,” replied the dame with a sigh; “and then what is to become of us?—it is like my young mistress will go to her aunt— or she will marry one of these Lacys that they talk so much of—or, at any rate, she will leave the castle; and it’s like old Raoul and I will be turned to grass with the lord’s old chargers—the Lord knows, they may as well hang him up with the old hounds, for he is both footless and fangless, and fit for nothing on earth that I know of.” “Your young mistress is that lady in the mourning mantle,” said the merchant, “who so nearly sunk down upon the body just now?” “In good troth is she, sir—and much cause she has to sink down. I am sure she will be to seek for such another father.” “I see you are a most discerning woman, gossip Gillian,” answered the merchant; “and yonder youth that supported her is her bridegroom?” “Much need she has for some one to support her,” said Gillian; “and so have I for that matter, for what can poor old rusty Raoul do?”

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“But as to your young lady’s marriage?” said the merchant. “No one knows more, than that such a thing was in treaty between our late lord and the great Constable of Chester, that came to-day but just in time to prevent the Welch from cutting all our throats, and doing the Lord knoweth what mischief beside. But there is a marriage talked of, that is certain—and most folks think it must be for this smooth-cheeked boy Damian, as they call him; for though the Constable has gotten a beard, it is something too grizzled for a bridegroom’s chin—Besides, he goes to the Holy Wars—fittest place for all elderly warriors—I wish he would take Raoul with him.—But what is all this to what you were saying about your mourning wares even now? —It is a sad truth, that my poor lord is gone—but what then?—well-aday, you know the good old saw,— Cloth must we wear, Eat beef and drink beer, Though the dead go to bier.

And for your merchandizing, I am as like to help you with my good word as Mannerly Margery, providing you bid fair for it; since, if the lady loves me not so much, I can turn the steward round my finger.” “Take this in part of your bargain, pretty Mrs Gillian,” said the merchant; “and when my wains come up, I will consider you amply, if I get good sale by your favourable report.—But how shall I get into the castle again? for I would wish to consult you, being a sensible woman, before I come in with my luggage.” “Why,” answered the complaisant dame, “if any of our English be on guard, you have only to ask for Gillian, and they will open the wicket to any single man at once; for we English stick all together, were it but to spite the Normans—but if a Norman be on duty, you must ask for old Raoul, and say you come to speak of dogs and hawks for sale, and I warrant you come to speech of me that way. If the sentinel be a Fleming, you have but to say you are a merchant, and he will let you in for the love of trade.” The merchant repeated his thankful acknowledgment, glided from her side, and mixed among the spectators, leaving her to congratulate herself on having gained a brace of florins by the indulgence of her natural talkative humour; for which, on other occasions, she had sometimes paid dearly. The ceasing of the heavy toll of the castle bell now gave intimation that the noble Raymond Berenger had been laid in the vault with his fathers. That part of the funeral attendants who had come from the host of De Lacy, now proceeded to the castle hall, where they partook, but with temperance, of some refreshments, which were offered as a death-meal; and presently after left the castle, headed by young

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Damian, in the same slow and melancholy form in which they had entered. The monks remained within the castle to sing repeated services for the soul of the deceased, and of his faithful men-at-arms who had fallen around him, and who had been so much mangled during, and after, the contest with the Welch, that it was scarce possible to know one individual from another; otherwise the body of Dennis Morolt would have obtained, as his faith well deserved, the honours of a separate funeral.

Chapter Eleven ——The funeral baked meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage table. Hamlet

T  religious rites which followed the funeral of Raymond Berenger endured without interruption for the period of six days; during which, alms were distributed to the poor, and relief administered, at the expense of the Lady Eveline, to all those who had suffered by the late inroad. Death-meals, as they were termed, were also spread in honour of the deceased. But the lady herself, and most of her attendants, observed a stern course of vigil, discipline, and fasts, which appeared to the Normans a more decorous manner of testifying their respect for the dead, than the Saxon and Flemish custom of banquetting and drinking inordinately upon such occasions. Meanwhile, the Constable de Lacy retained a large body of his men encamped under the walls of the Garde Douloureuse, for protection against some new irruption of the Welch, while with the rest he took advantage of his victory, and struck terror into the British by many well-conducted forays, marked with ravages scarcely less hurtful than their own. Among the enemy, the evils of discord were added to those of defeat and invasion; for two distant relations of Guenwyn contended for the throne he had lately occupied, and on this, as on many other occasions, the Britons suffered as much from internal dissension as from the sword of the Normans. A worse politician, and a less celebrated soldier, than the sagacious and successful De Lacy, could not have failed, under such circumstances, to negotiate an advantageous peace, which, while it deprived Powis of a part of its frontier, and the command of some important passes, in which it was the Constable’s purpose to build castles, rendered the Garde Douloureuse more secure than formerly, from any sudden attack on the part of their fiery and restless neighbours. De Lacy’s care also went to re-establishing those settlers who had fled from their possessions, and putting the

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whole lordship, which now descended upon an unprotected female, into a state of defence as perfect as its situation on a hostile frontier could possibly permit. Whilst thus anxiously provident in the affairs of the orphan of the Garde Douloureuse, De Lacy, during the space we have mentioned, sought not to disturb her filial grief by any personal intercourse. His nephew, indeed, was dispatched by times every morning to lay before her his uncle’s devoirs, in the high-flown language of the day, and acquaint her with the steps which he had taken in her affairs. As a meed due to his uncle’s high services, Damian was always admitted to see Eveline on such occasions, and returned charged with her grateful thanks, and her implicit acquiescence in whatever the Constable proposed for her consideration. But when the days of rigid mourning were elapsed, the young De Lacy stated, on the part of his kinsman, that his treaty with the Welch being concluded, and all things in the district arranged as well as circumstances would permit, the Constable of Chester now proposed to return into his own territory, in order to resume his instant preparations for the Holy Land, which the duty of chastising her enemies had for some days interrupted. “And will not the noble Constable, before he departs from this place,” said Eveline, with a burst of gratitude which the occasion well merited, “receive the personal thanks of her, that was ready to perish when he so valiantly came to her aid?” “It was even on that point that I was commissioned to speak,” replied Damian; “but my noble kinsman feels diffident to propose to you that which he most earnestly desires—the privilege of speaking to your own ear certain matters of high import, and with which he judges it fit to intrust no third party.” “Surely,” said the maiden, blushing, “there can be nought beyond the bounds of maidenhood in my seeing the noble Constable whenever such is his pleasure.” “But his vow,” replied Damian, “binds my kinsman not to come beneath a roof until he sets sail for Palestine; and in order to meet him, you must grace him so far as to visit his pavilion;—a condescension which, as a knight and Norman noble, he can scarcely ask of a damsel of high degree.” “And is that all?” said Eveline, who, educated in this remote situation, was a stranger to some of the nice points of etiquette which the damsels of the time observed in keeping their state towards the other sex. “Shall I not,” she said, “go to render my thanks to my deliverer, since he cannot come hither to receive them? Tell the noble Hugo de Lacy, that, next to my gratitude to Heaven, it is due to him, and to his

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brave companions at arms. I will come to his tent as to a holy shrine; and, could such homage please him, I would come barefooted, were the road strewed with flints and with thorns.” “My uncle will be equally honoured and delighted with your resolve,” said Damian; “but it will be his study to save you all unnecessary trouble, and with that view a pavilion shall be instantly planted before your castle-gate, which, if it please you to grace it with your presence, may be the place for the desired interview.” Eveline readily acquiesced in what was proposed, as the expedient agreeable to the Constable, and recommended by Damian; but, in the simplicity of her heart, she saw no good reason why, under the guardianship of the latter, she should not instantly, and without farther form, have traversed the little familiar plain on which, when a child, she used to chase butterflies and gather king’s cups, and where of late she was wont to exercise her palfrey, being the only space, and that of small extent, which separated her from the camp of the Constable. The youthful emissary, with whose presence she had now become familiar, retired to acquaint his kinsman and lord with the success of his commission, and Eveline experienced the first sensation of anxiety upon her own account which had agitated her bosom, since the defeat and death of Guenwyn gave her permission to dedicate her thoughts exclusively to grief, for the loss which she had sustained in the person of her noble father. But now, when that grief, though not satiated, was blunted by solitary indulgence—now that she was to appear before the person of whose fame she had heard so much, of whose powerful protection she had received such recent proofs, her mind insensibly turned upon the nature and consequences of that important interview. She had seen Hugo de Lacy, indeed, at the great tournament at Chester, where his valour and skill were the theme of every tongue, and she had received the homage which he rendered her beauty when he assigned to her the prize, with all the gay flutterings of youthful vanity. But of his person and figure she had no distinct idea, excepting that he was a middle-sized man, dressed in peculiarly rich armour, and that the countenance which looked out from under the shade of his raised visor, seemed to her juvenile estimate very nearly as old as that of her father. This person, of whom she had such slight recollection, had been the chosen instrument employed by her tutelar protectress in rescuing her from captivity, and in avenging the loss of her father, and she was bound by her vow to consider him as the arbiter of her fate—if indeed he should deem it worth his while to become so. She wearied her memory with vain efforts to recollect so much of his features as might give her some means of guessing at his disposition, and her

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judgment toiled in conjecturing what line of conduct he was likely to pursue towards her. The great Baron himself seemed to attach to their meeting a degree of consequence, which was intimated by the formal preparations which he made for it. Eveline had imagined that he might have ridden to the gate of the castle in five minutes, and that, if a pavilion was actually necessary to the decorum of their interview, a tent could have been transferred from his leaguer to the castle-gate, and pitched there in ten minutes more. But it was plain that the Constable considered much more form and ceremony as essential to their interview, for in about half an hour after Damian de Lacy had left the castle, not fewer than twenty soldiers and artificers, under the direction of a pursuivant, whose tabard was decorated with the armorial bearings of the House of Lacy, were employed in erecting before the gate of the Garde Douloureuse one of those splendid pavilions, which were employed at tournaments and other occasions of public state. It was of purple silk, valanced with gold embroidery, having the cords of the same rich materials. The door-way was formed by six lances, the staves of which were plated with silver, and the blades composed of the same precious metal. These were pitched into the ground by couples, and crossed at the top, so as to form a sort of succession of arches, which were covered by drapery of sea-green silk, forming a pleasing contrast with the purple and gold. The interior of the tent was declared by Dame Gillian and others, whose curiosity induced them to visit it, to be of a splendour agreeing with the outside. There were oriental carpets, and there were tapestries of Ghent and Bruges mingled in gay profusion, while the top of the pavilion, covered with sky-blue silk, was arranged so as to resemble the firmament, and richly studded with a sun, moon, and stars, composed of solid silver. This gorgeous pavilion had been made for the use of the celebrated William of Ypres, who acquired such great wealth as general of the mercenaries of King Stephen, and was by him created Earl of Albemarle. But the chance of war had assigned it to De Lacy, after one of the dreadful engagements, so many of which occurred during the civil wars betwixt Stephen and the Empress Maude, or Matilda. The Constable had never before been known to use it, for although wealthy and powerful, Hugo de Lacy was, on most occasions, plain and unostentatious; which, to those that knew him, made his present conduct seem the more remarkable. At the hour of noon he arrived, nobly mounted, at the gate of the castle, and, drawing up a small body of servants, pages, and equerries who attended him, in their richest liveries, placed himself at their head, and directed his nephew to intimate to the Lady of the Garde Douloureuse, that the

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humblest of her servants awaited the honour of her presence at the castle-gate. Among the spectators who witnessed his arrival, there were many who thought that some part of the state and splendour, attached to his pavilion and his retinue, had been better applied to set forth the person of the Constable himself, as his attire was simple even to meanness, and his person by no means of such distinguished bearing as might altogether dispense with the advantages of dress and ornament. The opinion became yet more prevalent, when he descended from horseback, until which time his masterly management of the noble animal he bestrode, gave a dignity to his person and figure, which he lost upon dismounting from his steel saddle. In height, the celebrated Constable scarce attained the middle size, and his limbs, though strongly built and well knit, were deficient in grace and ease of movement. His legs were slightly curved outwards, which gave him advantage as a horseman, but shewed unfavourably when he was upon foot. He halted, though very slightly, in consequence of one of his legs having been broken by the fall of a charger, and inartificially set by an unexperienced surgeon. This, also, was a blemish in his deportment; and though his broad shoulders, sinewy arms, and expanded chest, betokened the strength which he often displayed, it was strength of a clumsy and ungraceful character. His language and gestures were those of one seldom used to converse with equals, more seldom still with superiors; short, abrupt, and decisive, almost to the verge of sternness. In the judgment of those who were habitually acquainted with the Constable, there was both dignity and kindness in his keen eye and expanded brow; but such as saw him for the first time judged less favourably, and pretended to discover a harsh and passionate expression, although they allowed his countenance to have, on the whole, a bold and martial character. His age was in reality not more than five and forty, but the fatigues of war and of climate had added in appearance ten years to that period of time. By far the plainest dressed man of his train, he wore only a short Norman mantle, over the close dress of shamoy-leather, which, almost always covered by his armour, was in some places slightly soiled by its pressure. A brown hat, in which he wore a sprig of rosemary in memory of his vow, served for his head-gear—his good sword and dagger hung at a belt made of sealskin. Thus accoutred, and at the head of a glittering and gilded band of retainers, who watched his lightest glance, the Constable of Chester awaited the arrival of the Lady Eveline Berenger, at the gate of her castle of Garde Douloureuse. The trumpets from within announced her presence—the bridge

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fell, and led by Damian de Lacy in his gayest habit, and followed by her train of females, and menial or vassal attendants, she came forth in her loveliness from under the massive and antique portal of her paternal fortress. She was dressed without ornament of any kind, and in deep mourning weeds, as best befitted her recent loss; forming, in this respect, a strong contrast with the rich attire of her conductor, whose costly dress gleamed with jewels and embroidery, while their age and personal beauty made them in every other respect the fair counterpart of each other; a circumstance which probably gave rise to the delighted murmur and buzz which passed through the bystanders on their appearance, and which only respect for the deep mourning of Eveline prevented from breaking out into shouts of applause. The instant that the fair foot of Eveline had made a step beyond the palisades which formed the outward barrier of the castle, the Constable de Lacy stepped forward to meet her, and bending his right knee to the earth, craved pardon for the discourtesy which his vow had imposed on him, while he expressed his sense of the honour with which she now graced him, as one for which his life, devoted to her service, would be an inadequate acknowledgment. The action and speech, though both in consistence with the romantic gallantry of the times, embarrassed Eveline; and the rather that this homage was so publicly rendered. She entreated the Constable to stand up, and not to add to the confusion of one who was already sufficiently at a loss how to acquit herself of the heavy debt of gratitude which she owed him. The Constable arose accordingly, after saluting the hand which she extended to him, and prayed her, since she was so far condescending, to deign to enter the poor hut he had prepared for her shelter, and to grant him the honour of the audience he had solicited. Eveline, without further answer than a bow, yielded him her hand, and desiring the rest of her train to remain where they were, commanded the attendance of Rose Flammock. “Lady,” said the Constable, “the matters of which I am compelled thus hastily to speak, are of a nature the most private.” “This maiden,” replied Eveline, “is my bower-woman, and acquainted with my most inward thoughts—I beseech you to permit her presence at our conference.” “It were better otherwise,” said Hugo de Lacy, with some embarrassment; “but your pleasure shall be obeyed.” He led the Lady Eveline into the tent, and entreated her to be seated on a large pile of cushions, covered with rich Venetian silk. Rose placed herself behind her mistress, half kneeling upon the same cushions, and watched the motions of the all-accomplished soldier and statesman, whom the voice of fame lauded so loudly; enjoying his

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embarrassment as a triumph of her sex, and scarcely of opinion that his shamoy doublet and square form accorded with the splendour of the scene, or the almost angelical beauty of Eveline, the other actor thereon. “Lady,” said the Constable, after some hesitation, “I would willingly say what it is my lot to tell you, in such terms as ladies love to listen to, and which surely your excellent beauty more especially deserves. But I have been too long trained in camps and councils to express my meaning otherwise than simply and plainly.” “I shall the more easily understand you, my lord,” said Eveline, trembling, though she scarce knew why. “My story, then, must be a blunt one. Something there passed between your honourable father and myself, touching an union of our houses.” He paused, as if he wished or expected Eveline to say something, but as she was silent, he proceeded. “I would to God, that as he was at the beginning of this treaty, it had pleased Heaven he should have conducted and concluded it with his usual wisdom; but what remedy?—he has gone the path which we must all tread.” “Your lordship,” said Eveline, “has nobly avenged the death of your noble friend.” “I have but done my devoir, lady, as a good knight, in defence of an endangered maiden—a Lord Marcher in protection of the frontier— and a friend in avenging his friend. But to the point.—Our long and noble line draws near to a close. Of my remote kinsman, Randal Lacy, I will not speak, for in him I see nothing that is good or hopeful, nor have we been at one for many years. My nephew, Damian, gives hopeful promise to be a worthy branch of our ancient tree—but he is scarce twenty years old, and hath a long career of adventure and peril to encounter, ere he can honourably propose to himself the duties of domestic privacy or matrimonial engagements. His mother also is English, some abatement perhaps in the escutcheon of his arms—Yet, had ten years more passed over him with the honours of chivalry, I should have proposed Damian de Lacy for the happiness to which I at present myself aspire.” “You—you, my lord!—it is impossible!” said Eveline, endeavouring at the same time to suppress all that could be offensive in the surprise which she could not help exhibiting. “I do not wonder,” replied the Constable, calmly,—for, the ice being now broken, he resumed the natural steadiness of his manner and character,—“that you express surprise at this daring proposal. I have not perhaps the form that pleases a lady’s eye, and I have forgotten,—that is, if I ever knew them,—the terms and phrases which please a lady’s ear—but, noble Eveline, the lady of Hugh Lacy will be

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one of the foremost among the matronage of England.” “It will the better become the individual to whom so high a dignity is offered,” said Eveline, “to consider how far she is capable of discharging its duties.” “Of that I fear nothing,” said De Lacy. “She who hath been so excellent a daughter, cannot be less estimable in every other relation in life.” “I do not find that confidence in myself,” replied the embarrassed maiden, “my lord, with which you are so willing to load me—and I— forgive me—must crave time for other inquiries, as well as those which respect myself.” “Your father, noble lady, had this union warmly at heart—this scroll, signed with his own hand, will shew it.” He bent his knee as he gave the paper. “The wife of De Lacy will have, as the daughter of Raymond Berenger merits, the rank of a princess—his widow, the dowry of a queen.” “Mock me not with your knee, my lord, while you plead to me the paternal commands, which, joined to other circumstances——” She paused, and sighed deeply—“leave me, perhaps, but little room for free will!” Emboldened by this answer, De Lacy, who had hitherto remained on his knee, rose gently, and assuming a seat beside the Lady Eveline, continued to press his suit,—not indeed in the language of passion, but of a plain-spoken man, eagerly urging a proposal on which his happiness depended. The vision of the miraculous image was, it may be supposed, uppermost in the mind of Eveline, who, tied down by the solemn vow she had made on that occasion, felt herself constrained to return evasive answers, where she might perhaps have given a direct negative, had her own wishes alone been to decide her reply. “You cannot,” she said, “expect from me, my lord, in this my so recent orphan state, that I should come to a speedy determination upon an affair of such deep importance. Give me leisure of your nobleness for consideration with myself—for consultation with my friends.” “Alas! fair Eveline,” said the Baron, “do not be offended at my urgency. I cannot long delay setting forward on a distant and perilous expedition and the short time left me for soliciting your favour must be an apology for my importunity.” “And is it in these circumstances, noble De Lacy, that you would encumber yourself with family ties?” “I am God’s soldier,” said the Constable, “and He in whose cause I fight in Palestine will defend my wife in England.” “Hear then my present answer, my lord,” said Eveline Berenger,

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rising from her seat. “To-morrow I proceed to the Benedictine nunnery at Gloucester, where resides my honoured father’s sister, who is Abbess of that reverend house. To her guidance I will commit myself in this matter.” “A fair and maidenly resolution,” answered De Lacy, who seemed, on his part, rather glad that the conference was abridged, “and, as I trust, not altogether unfavourable to the suit of your humble suppliant, since the good Lady Abbess hath been long my honoured friend.” He then turned to Rose, who was about to attend her lady. “Pretty maiden,” he said, offering a chain of gold, “let this carcanet encircle thy neck, and buy thy good will.” “My good will cannot be purchased, my lord,” said Rose, putting back the gift which he proffered. “Your fair word, then,” said the Constable, again pressing it upon her. “Fair words are easily bought,” said Rose, still rejecting the chain, “but they are seldom worth the purchase-money.” “Do you scorn my proffer, damsel?” said De Lacy; “it has graced the neck of a Norman count.” “Give it to a Norman countess then, my lord,” said the damsel; “I am plain Rose Flammock, the weaver’s daughter. I keep my good word to go with my good will, and a latten chain will become me as well as beaten gold.” “Peace, Rose,” said her lady; “you are over malapert to talk thus to the Lord Constable.—And you, my lord,” she continued, “permit me now to depart, since you are possessed of my answer to your present proposal. I regret it had not been of some less delicate nature, that by granting it at once, and without delay, I might have shewn my sense of your services.” The lady was handed forth by the Constable of Chester, with the same ceremony which had been observed at their entrance, and she returned to her own castle, sad and anxious in mind for the event of this important conference. She gathered closely around her the great mourning veil, that the alteration of her countenance might not be observed; and, without pausing to speak even to Father Aldrovand, she instantly withdrew to the privacy of her own bower.

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Chapter Twelve Now all ye ladies of fair Scotland, And ladies of England that happy would prove, Marry never for houses, nor marry for land, Nor marry for nothing but only love. Family Quarrels

W    the Lady Eveline had retired into her own private chamber, Rose Flammock followed her unbidden, and proffered her assistance in removing the large veil which she had worn while she was abroad; but the lady refused her permission, saying, “You are forward with service, maiden, when it is not required of you.” “You are displeased with me, lady!” said Rose. “And if I am, I have cause,” replied Eveline. “You know my difficulties—you know what my duty demands—yet, instead of aiding me to make the sacrifice, you render it more difficult.” “Would I had influence to guide your path,” said Rose, “you should find it a smooth one—ay, an honest and straight one, to boot.” “How mean you, maiden?” said Eveline. “I would have you,” answered Rose, “recal the encouragement— the consent, I may almost call it, you have yielded to this proud Baron. He is too great to be loved himself—too haughty to love you as you deserve. If you wed him, you wed gilded misery, and, it may be, dishonour as well as discontent.” “Remember, damsel, his services towards us.” “His services?” answered Rose. “He ventured his life for us, indeed, but so did every soldier in his host. And am I bound to wed any ruffling blade among them, because he fought when the trumpet sounded? I wonder what is the meaning of their devoir, as they call it, when it shames them not to claim the highest reward woman can bestow, merely for discharging the duty of a gentleman by a distressed creature. A gentleman, said I?—The coarsest boor in Flanders would hardly expect thanks for doing the duty of a man by women in such a case.” “But my father’s wishes?” “They had reference, without doubt, to the inclination of your father’s daughter. I will not do my late noble lord (may God assoilzie him) the injustice to suppose he would have urged aught in this matter which squared not with your free choice.” “Then my vow—my fatal vow—as I had well nigh called it,” said Eveline. “May Heaven forgive me my ingratitude to my patroness!” “Even this shakes me not,” said Rose; “I will never believe our

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Lady of Mercy would exact such a penalty for her protection, as to desire me to wed the man I could not love. She smiled, you say, upon your prayer—go—lay at her feet these difficulties which oppress you, and see if she will not smile again. Or seek a dispensation from your vow—seek it at the expense of the half of your estate—seek it at the expense of your whole property. Go a pilgrimage barefooted to Rome —do anything but give your hand where you cannot give your heart.” “You speak warmly, Rose,” said Eveline, still sighing as she spoke. “Alas! my sweet lady, I have cause. Have I not seen a household where love was not—where, although there was worth and good will, and enough of the means of life, all was embittered by regrets, which were not only vain, but criminal?” “Yet methinks, Rose, a sense of what is due to ourselves and to others may, if listened to, guide and comfort us under such feelings even as thou hast described.” “It will save us from sin, lady, but not from sorrow,” answered Rose; “and wherefore should we, with our eyes open, rush into circumstances where duty must war with inclination? Why row against wind and tide, when you may as easily take advantage of the breeze?” “Because the voyage of my life lies where winds and currents oppose me,” answered Eveline. “It is my fate, Rose.” “Not unless you make it such by choice,” answered Rose. “O! could you but have seen the pale cheek, sunken eye, and dejected bearing of my poor mother!—I have said too much.” “It was then your mother,” said her young lady, “of whose unhappy wedlock you have spoken?” “It was—it was,” said Rose, bursting into tears. “I have exposed my own shame to save you from sorrow—unhappy she was, though most guiltless—so unhappy, that the breach of the dyke, and the inundation in which she perished, were, but for my sake, to her welcome as night to the weary labourer. She had a heart like yours, formed to love and be loved; and it would be doing honour to yonder proud Baron, to say he had such worth as my father’s.—Yet was she most unhappy—O! my sweet lady, be warned, and break off this ill-omened match!” Eveline returned the pressure with which the affectionate girl, as she clung to her hand, enforced her well-meant advice, and then murmured, with a profound sigh,—“Rose, it is too late.” “Never—never,” said Rose, looking eagerly round the room. “Where are those writing materials?—let me fetch Father Aldrovand, and instruct him of your pleasure—or, stay—the good father hath himself an eye on the splendours of the world which he thinks he has abandoned—he will be no safe secretary.—I will go myself to the Lord Constable—me his rank cannot dazzle, or his wealth bribe, or his

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power overawe. I will tell him he doth no knightly part towards you, to press his contract with your father in such an hour of helpless sorrow —no pious part in delaying the execution of his vows for the purpose of marrying or giving in marriage—no honest part to press himself on a maiden whose heart has not decided in his favour—no wise part to marry one whom he must presently abandon, either to solitude, or to the dangers of a profligate court.” “You have not courage for such an embassy, Rose,” said her mistress, sadly smiling through her tears at the little maiden’s zeal. “Not courage for it?—and wherefore not?—Try me,” answered the Flemish maiden, in return. “I am neither Saracen nor Welchman —his lance and sword scare me not—I follow not his banner—his voice of command concerns me not—I could, with your leave, boldly tell him he is a selfish man, veiling with fair and honourable pretexts his pursuit of objects which concern his own pride and gratification, and founding high claims on having rendered the services which common humanity demanded. And all for what?—forsooth the great De Lacy must have an heir to his noble house, and his fair nephew is not good enough to be his representative, because his mother was of Anglo-Saxon strain, and the real heir must be pure and unmixed Norman, and for this Eveline Berenger, in the first bloom of youth, must be wedded to a man who might be her father, and who, after leaving her unprotected for years, will return in such guise as might beseem her grandfather!” “Since he is thus scrupulous concerning purity of lineage,” said Eveline, “perhaps he may call to mind what so good a herald as he is cannot fail to know—that I am of Saxon strain by my father’s mother.” “Oh!” replied Rose, “he will forgive that blot in the heiress of the Garde Douloureuse.” “Fie, Rose,” answered her mistress, “thou doest him wrong in taxing him with avarice.” “Perhaps so,” answered Rose; “but he is undeniably ambitious; and Avarice, I have heard, is Ambition’s bastard brother, though Ambition be ashamed of the relationship.” “You speak too boldly, damsel,” said Eveline; “and, while I acknowledge your affection, it becomes me to check your mode of expression.” “Nay, take that tone, and I have done,” said Rose.—“To Eveline, whom I love, and who loves me, I can speak freely—but to the Lady of the Garde Douloureuse, the proud Norman damsel, (which when you choose to be you can be,) I can curtsy as low as my station demands, and speak as little truth as she cares to hear.” “Thou art a wild but a kind girl,” said Eveline; “no one who did not

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know thee would think that soft and childish exterior covered such a soul of fire—thy mother must indeed have been the being of feeling and passion you paint her, for thy father—nay—nay—never arm in his defence until he be attacked—I only meant to say, that his solid sense and sound judgment are his most distinguished qualities.” “And I would you would avail yourself of them, lady,” said Rose. “In fitting things I will—but he were rather an unmeet counsellor in that which we now treat of,” said Eveline. “You mistake him,” answered Rose Flammock, “and underrate his value—sound judgment is like to the graduated measuring-wand, which, though usually applied only to coarser cloths, will give with equal truth the dimensions of Indian silk, or of cloth of gold.” “Well—well—this affair presses not instantly at least. Leave me now, Rose, and send Gillian the tire-woman hither—I have directions to give about the packing and removal of my wardrobe.” “That Gillian woman hath been a mighty favourite of late,” said Rose; “time was when it was otherwise.” “I like her manners as little as thou doest,” said Eveline; “but she is old Raoul’s wife—she was a sort of half favourite with my dear father —who, like other men, was perhaps taken by that very freedom which we think unseemly in persons of our sex,—and then, there is no other woman in the castle that hath such skill in empacketing clothes without the risk of their being injured.” “That last reason alone,” said Rose, smiling, “is, I admit, an irresistible pretension to favour, and Dame Gillian shall presently attend you. —But take my advice, lady—keep her to her bales, and her mails, and let her not prate to you on what concerns her not.” So saying, Rose left the apartment, and her young lady looked after her in silence—then murmured to herself—“Rose loves me truly— but she would willingly be more of the mistress than the maiden—and then she is somewhat jealous of every other person that approaches me.—It is strange, that I have not seen Damian de Lacy since my interview with the Constable. He anticipates, I suppose, the chance of his getting in me a severe aunt!” But the domestics, who crowded for orders with reference to her removal early on the morrow, began now to divert the current of their lady’s thoughts from consideration of her own particular situation, which, as the prospect presented nothing pleasant, with the elastic spirit of her youth, she willingly postponed till farther leisure.

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Chapter Thirteen Too much rest is rust, There’s ever cheer in changing; We tyne by too much trust, So we’ll be up and ranging. Old Song

E  on the subsequent morning, a gallant company, saddened indeed by the deep mourning which their principals wore, left the well-defended Castle of the Garde Douloureuse, which had been so lately the scene of such remarkable events. The sun was just beginning to exhale the heavy dews which had fallen during the night, and to disperse the thin grey mist which eddied around tower and battlement, when Wilkin Flammock, with six cross-bow men on horseback, and as many spearmen on foot, sallied forth from under the Gothic gate-way, and crossed the sounding draw-bridge. After this advanced guard, came four household servants well mounted, and, after them, as many inferior female attendants all in mourning. Then rode forth the young Lady Eveline herself, occupying the centre of the little procession, and her long black robes formed a striking contrast to the colour of her milk-white palfrey. Beside her, on a Spanish jennet, the gift of her affectionate father,—who had procured it at a high rate, and who would have given half his substance to gratify his daughter,—sat the girlish form of Rose Flammock, who had so much of juvenile shyness in her manner, so much of feeling and of judgment in her thoughts and actions. Dame Margery followed next in the party escorted by Father Aldrovand, whose company she chiefly frequented; for Margery affected a little the character of the devotee, and her influence in the family, as having been Eveline’s nurse, was so great as to render her no improper companion for the chaplain, when her lady did not require her attendance on her own person. Then came old Raoul the huntsman, his wife, and two or three other officers of Raymond Berenger’s household, the steward, with his golden chain, velvet cassock, and white wand, bringing up the rear, which was closed by a small band of archers, and four men-at-arms. The guards, and indeed the greater part of the attendants, were only designed to give the necessary degree of honour to the young lady’s movements, by accompanying her a short space from the castle, where they were met by the Constable of Chester, who, with a retinue of thirty lances, proposed himself to escort Eveline as far as Gloucester, the present place of her destination. Under his protection no danger was to be apprehended, even if

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the severe defeat so lately sustained by the Welch had not of itself been like to prevent any attempt, on the part of these hostile mountaineers, to disturb the safety of the marches for some time to come. In pursuance of this arrangement, which permitted the armed part of Eveline’s retinue to return for the protection of her castle, and the restoration of order in the district around, the Constable awaited her at the fatal bridge, at the head of the gallant band of selected horsemen whom he had ordered to attend upon him. The parties halted, as if to salute each other; but the Constable, observing that Eveline drew her veil more closely around her, and recollecting the loss she had so lately sustained on that luckless spot, had the judgment to confine his greeting to a mute reverence, so low that the lofty plume which he wore, (for he was now in complete armour,) mingled with the flowing mane of his gallant horse. Wilkin Flammock next halted, to ask his lady if she had any farther commands. “None, good Wilkin, but to be, as ever, true and watchful.” “The properties of a good mastiff,” said Flammock. “Some rude sagacity, and a stout hand instead of a sharp case of teeth, are all that I can claim to be added to them—I will do my best.—Fare thee well, Roschen—thou art going among strangers—forget not the qualities which make thee loved at home—the saints bless thee—farewell!” The steward next approached to take his leave, but in doing so, had nearly met with a fatal accident. It had been the pleasure of Raoul, who was in his own disposition cross-grained, and in person rheumatic, to accommodate himself with an old Arab horse, which had been kept for breed, as lean, and almost as lame as himself, and with a temper as vicious as that of a fiend. Betwixt the rider and the horse was a constant misunderstanding, testified on Raoul’s part by oaths, rough checks with the curb, and severe digging with the spurs, which Mahound, (so was the horse christened,) answered by plunging, bounding, and endeavouring by all expedients to unseat his rider, as well as striking and lashing out furiously at whatever else approached him. It was thought by many of the household, that Raoul preferred this vicious, cross-tempered animal upon all occasions when he travelled in company with his wife, in order to take advantage by the chance, that amongst the various kicks, plunges, gambades, lashings out, and other eccentricities of Mahound, his heels might come in contact with Dame Gillian’s ribs. And now, when the important steward spurred up his palfrey to kiss his young lady’s hand, and to take his leave, it seemed to the bystanders as if Raoul so managed his bridle and spur, that Mahound yerked out his hoofs at the same moment, one of which coming in contact with the steward’s thigh, would have splintered it like a rotten reed, had the parties been a couple of inches

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nearer to each other. As it was, the steward sustained considerable damage; and they that observed the grin upon Raoul’s vinegar countenance entertained little doubt, that Mahound’s heels then and there avenged certain nods, winks, and wreathed smiles, which had passed betwixt the gold-chained functionary and the coquettish tire-woman since the party left the castle. This incident abridged the painful solemnity of parting betwixt the Lady Eveline and her dependents, and lessened at the same time the formality of her meeting with the Constable, and, as it were, resigning herself to his protection. Hugo de Lacy, having commanded six of his men-at-arms to proceed as an advanced-guard, remained himself to see the steward properly deposited on a litter, and then, with the rest of his followers, marched in military fashion about one hundred yards in the rear of the Lady Eveline and her retinue, judiciously forbearing to present himself to her society while she was engaged in the orisons which the place where they met naturally suggested, and waiting patiently until the elasticity of youthful temper should require some diversion of the gloomy thoughts which the scene inspired. Guided by this policy, the Constable did not approach the ladies until the advance of the morning rendered it politeness to remind them, that a pleasant spot for breaking their fast occurred in the neighbourhood, where he had ventured to make some preparations for rest and refreshment. Immediately after the Lady Eveline had intimated her acceptance of this courtesy, they came in sight of the spot he alluded to, marked by an ancient oak, which, spreading its broad branches far and wide, reminded the traveller of that of Mamre, under which celestial beings accepted the hospitality of the patriarch. Across two of these huge projecting arms was flung a piece of rosecoloured samite, as a canopy to keep off the morning beams which were already rising high. Cushions of silk, interchanged with others covered with the furs of animals of the chase, were arranged around a repast, which a Norman cook had done his utmost to distinguish, by the superior delicacy of his art, from the gross meals of the Saxons, and the penurious simplicity of the Welch tables. A fountain, which bubbled from under a large mossy stone at some distance, refreshed the ear with its sound, and the taste with its liquid crystal; while, at the same time, it formed a cistern for cooling two or three flasks of Gascon wine and hippocras, which were in that hour the necessary accompaniments of the morning meal. When Eveline, with Rose, the Confessor, and at some farther distance her faithful nurse, was seated at this sylvan banquet, the leaves rustling to a gentle breeze, the water bubbling at a distance, the birds

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twittering around, while the half-heard sounds of conversation and laughter announced that their guard was in their vicinity, she could not avoid making the Constable some natural compliment on his happy selection of a place of repose. “You do me more than justice,” replied the Baron; “the spot was selected by my nephew, who hath a fancy like a minstrel. Myself am but slow in imagining such devices.” Rose looked full at her mistress, as if she endeavoured to look into her very inmost soul; but Eveline answered with the utmost simplicity, —“And wherefore hath not the noble Damian waited to join us at the entertainment which he hath directed?” “He prefers riding onward,” said the Baron, “with some lighthorsemen; for, notwithstanding there are now no Welch knaves stirring, yet the marches are never free from robbers and outlaws; and though there is nothing to fear for a band like ours, yet you should not be alarmed even by the approach of danger.” “I have indeed seen but too much of it lately,” said Eveline; and relapsed into the melancholy mood from which the novelty of the scene had for a moment awakened her. Meanwhile, the Constable, removing, with the assistance of his squire, his mailed hood and its steel crest, as well as his gauntlets, remained in his flexible coat-of-mail, composed entirely of rings of steel curiously interwoven, his hands bare, and his brows covered with a velvet bonnet of a peculiar fashion, appropriated to the use of knights, and called a mortier, which permitted him both to converse and to eat more easily than when he wore the full defensive armour. His discourse was plain, sensible, and manly; and, turning upon the state of the country, and the precautions to be observed for governing and defending so disorderly a frontier, it became gradually interesting to Eveline, one of whose warmest wishes was to be the protectress of her father’s vassals. De Lacy, on his part, seemed much pleased, for young as Eveline was, her questions shewed intelligence, and her mode of answering, both apprehension and docility. In short, familiarity was so far established betwixt them, that in the next stage of their journey the Constable seemed to think his appropriate place was at the Lady Eveline’s bridle-rein; and although she certainly did not encourage his attendance, yet neither did she seem willing to discourage it. Himself no ardent lover, although captivated both with the beauty and the amiable qualities of the fair orphan, De Lacy was satisfied with being endured as a companion, and made no efforts to improve the opportunity which this familiarity afforded him, by recurring to any of the topics of the preceding day. A halt was made at noon in a small village, where the same purveyor

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had made preparations for their accommodation, and particularly for that of the Lady Eveline; but, something to her surprise, he himself still remained invisible. The conversation of the Constable of Chester was doubtless in the highest degree instructive, but at Eveline’s years, a maiden may be excused for wishing some addition to the society in the person of a younger and less serious attendant; and when she recollected the regularity with which Damian Lacy had hitherto made his respects to her, she rather wondered at his continued absence. But her reflection went no deeper than the passing thought of one not quite so much delighted with her present society as not to believe it might be capable of an agreeable addition. She was lending a patient ear to the account which the Constable gave her of the descent and pedigree of a gallant knight of the distinguished family of Herbert, at whose castle he proposed to repose during the night, when one of the retinue announced a messenger from the Lady of Baldringham. “My honoured father’s aunt,” said Eveline, arising to testify that respect for age and relationship which the manners of the time required. “I knew not,” said the Constable, “that my gallant friend had such a relative.” “She was my grandmother’s sister,” answered Eveline, “a noble Saxon lady; but she disliked the match formed with a Norman house, and never saw her sister after the period of her marriage.” She broke off, as the messenger, who had the appearance of the steward of a person of consequence, entered their presence, and bending his knee reverently, delivered a letter, which, being examined by Father Aldrovand, was found to contain the following invitation, expressed not in French, then the general language of communication amongst the gentry, but in the old Saxon language, modified as it now was by some intermixture of French. “If the grand-daughter of Aelfreid of Baldringham hath so much of the old Saxon strain as to desire to see an ancient relation, who still dwells in the house of her forefathers, and lives after their manner, she is thus invited to repose for the night in the dwelling of Ermengarde of Baldringham.” “Your pleasure will be, doubtless, to decline the present hospitality,” said the Constable de Lacy; “the noble Herbert expects us, and has made great preparation.” “Your presence, my lord,” said Eveline, “will more than console him for my absence. It is fitting and proper that I should meet my aunt’s advances to reconciliation, since she has condescended to make them.” De Lacy’s brow was slightly clouded, for seldom had he met with

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anything approaching to contradiction of his pleasure. “I pray you to reflect, Lady Eveline,” he said, “that your aunt’s house is probably defenceless, or at least very imperfectly guarded—Would it not be your pleasure that I should continue my dutiful attendance?” “Of that, my lord, mine aunt can, in her own house, be the sole judge; and methinks, as she has not deemed it necessary to request the honour of your lordship’s company, it were unbecoming in me to permit you to take the trouble of attendance—you have already had but too much on my account.” “But for the sake of your own safety, madam,” said De Lacy, unwilling to leave his charge. “My safety, my lord, cannot be endangered in the house of so near a relative: whatever precautions she may take for her own security, will doubtless be amply sufficient for mine.” “I hope it will be found so,” said De Lacy; “and I will at least add to them the security of a patrole around the castle during your abode in it.” He stopped, and then proceeded with some hesitation to express his hopes, that Eveline, now about to visit a kinswoman whose prejudices against the Norman race were generally known, would be on her guard against what she might hear upon that subject. Eveline answered with dignity, that the daughter of Raymond Berenger was unlikely to listen to any opinions which would affect the dignity of that good knight’s nation and descent; and with this assurance, the Constable, finding it impossible to obtain any which had more special reference to himself and his suit, was compelled to remain satisfied. He recollected also that the Castle of Herbert was within two miles of the habitation of the Lady of Baldringham, and that his separation from Eveline was but for one night. Yet a sense of the difference betwixt their years, and perhaps of his own deficiency in those lighter qualifications by which the female heart is supposed to be most frequently won, rendered even this temporary absence matter of anxious thought and apprehension; so that, during their afternoon journey, he rode in silence by Eveline’s side, rather meditating what was to chance to-morrow, than endeavouring to avail himself of present opportunity. In this unsocial manner they travelled on until the point was reached where they were to separate for the evening. This was an elevated spot, from which they could see, on the right hand, the castle of Sir William Herbert, rising high upon an eminence, with all its Gothic pinnacles and turrets; and on the left, low-embowered amongst oaken woods, the rude and lonely dwelling in which the Lady of Baldringham still maintained the customs of the AngloSaxons, and looked with contempt and hatred on all innovations that had been introduced since the battle of Hastings.

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Here the Constable de Lacy, having charged a part of his men to attend the Lady Eveline to the house of her relation, and to keep watch around it with the utmost vigilance, but at such a distance as might not give offence or inconvenience to the family, kissed her hand, and took a reluctant leave. Eveline proceeded onwards by a path so little trodden, as to shew the solitary condition of the mansion to which it led. Large kine, of an uncommon and valuable breed, were feeding in the rich pastures around, and now and then fallow deer, which appeared to have lost the shyness of their nature, tripped across the glades of the woodland, or stood and lay in small groups under some great oak. The transient pleasure which such a sight was calculated to afford, changed to more serious feelings, when a sudden turn brought her at once in front of the mansion-house, of which she had seen nothing since she first beheld it from the point where she parted with the Constable, and which she had more than one reason for regarding with some apprehension. The house, for it could not be termed a castle, was only two stories high, low and massively built, with doors and windows forming the heavy round arch which is usually called Saxon;—the walls were mantled with various creeping plants, which had crept along them undisturbed—grass grew up to the very threshold, at which hung a buffalo’s horn, suspended by a brass chain. A massive door of black oak closed a gate, which much resembled the ancient entrance of a ruined sepulchre, and not a soul appeared to acknowledge or greet their arrival. “Were I you, my Lady Eveline,” said the officious dame Gillian, “I would turn bridle yet; for this old dungeon seems little likely to afford food or shelter to Christian folks.” Eveline imposed silence on her indiscreet attendant, though exchanging herself a look with Rose which confessed something like timidity, as she commanded Raoul to blow the horn at the gate. “I have heard,” she said, “that my aunt loves the ancient customs so well, that she is loath to admit into her halls anything younger than the time of Edward the Confessor.” Raoul, in the meantime, cursing the rude instrument which baffled his skill in sounding a regular call, and gave voice only to a tremendous and discordant roar, which seemed to shake the old walls thick as they were, repeated his summons three times before they obtained admittance. On the third sounding, the gate opened, and a numerous retinue of servants of both sexes appeared in the dark and narrow hall, at the upper end of which a great fire of wood was sending its furnaceblast up an antique chimney, whose front, as extensive as that of a modern kitchen, was carved over with ornaments of massive stone,

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and garnished on the top with a long range of niches, from each of which frowned the image of some Saxon saint, whose barbarous name was scarce to be found in the Romish calendar. The same officer who had brought the invitation from his lady to Eveline, now stepped forward, as she supposed, to assist her from her palfrey; but it was in reality to lead it by the bridle-rein into the paved hall itself, and up to a raised platform or dais at the upper end, at which she was at length permitted to dismount. Two matrons of advanced years, and four young women of gentle birth, educated by the bounty of Ermengarde, attended with reverence the arrival of her kinswoman. Eveline would have inquired of them for her grand-aunt, but the matrons with much respect laid their fingers on their mouths, as if to enjoin her silence, a gesture which, united to the singularity of her reception in other respects, still further excited her curiosity to see her venerable relative. It was soon gratified, for, through a pair of folding-doors which opened not far from the platform on which she stood, she was ushered into a large low apartment hung with arras; at the upper end of which, under a species of canopy, was seated the ancient Lady of Baldringham. Fourscore years had not quenched the brightness of her eye, or bent an inch of her stately height; her grey hair was still so profuse as to form a tier, combined as it was with a chaplet of ivy leaves. Her long dark-coloured gown fell in ample folds, and the broidered girdle, which gathered it around her, was fastened by a buckle of gold, studded with precious stones, which were worth an Earl’s ransom. Her features, which had once been beautiful, or rather majestic, bore still, though faded and wrinkled, an air of melancholy and stern grandeur, that assorted well with her garb and deportment. She had a staff of ebony in her hand; at her feet rested a large aged wolf-dog, who pricked his ears and bristled up his neck, as the step of a stranger, a sound so seldom heard in these halls, approached the chair in which his aged mistress sat motionless. “Peace, Thryme,” said the venerable dame; “and thou, daughter of the House of Baldringham, approach, and fear not its ancient servant.” The hound sunk down to his couchant posture when she spoke, and, excepting the red glare of his eye, might have seemed a hieroglyphical emblem, lying at the foot of some ancient priestess of Woden, or Freya, so strongly did the appearance of Ermengarde, with her rod and her chaplet, correspond with the ideas of the days of paganism. Yet he who had thus deemed of her would have done therein much injustice to a venerable Christian matron, who had given many a hide of land to holy church, in honour of God and Saint Dunstan.

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Ermengarde’s reception of Eveline was of the same antiquated and formal cast with her mansion and her exterior. She did not at first arise from her seat when the noble maiden approached her, nor did she even admit her to the salute which she advanced to offer; but, laying her hand on Eveline’s arm, stopped her as she advanced, and perused her countenance with an earnest and unsparing eye of minute observation. “Berwine,” she said to the most favoured of the two attendants, “our niece hath the skin and eyes of the Saxon hue; but the hue of her eyebrows and hair is from the foreigner and alien.—Thou art, nevertheless, welcome to my house, maiden,” she added, addressing Eveline, “especially if thou canst bear to hear that thou art not absolutely a perfect creature, as doubtless these flatterers around thee have taught thee to believe.” So saying, she at length arose, and saluted her niece with a kiss on the forehead. She released her not, however, from her grasp, but proceeded to give the attention to her garments which she had hitherto bestowed upon her features. “Saint Dunstan keep us from vanity!” she said; “and so this is the new guise—and modest maidens wear such tunics as these, shewing the shape of their persons as plain as if (Saint Mary defend us!) they were altogether without garments! And see, Berwine, these gauds on the neck, and that neck itself uncovered as low as the shoulder—these be the guises which strangers have brought into merry England. And this pouch, like a player’s placket, hath but little to do with housewifery, I wot—and that dagger, too, like a glee-man’s wife, that rides a-mumming in masculine apparel—Doest thou ever go to the wars, maiden, that thou wearest steel at thy girdle?” Eveline, equally surprised and disobliged by the depreciating catalogue of her apparel, replied to the last question with some spirit,— “The mode may have altered, madam; but I only wear such garments as are now worn by those of my age and condition—For the poniard, madam, it is not many days since I regarded it as the last resource betwixt me and dishonour.” “The maiden speaks well and boldly, Berwine,” said Dame Ermengarde; “and, in truth, pass we but over some of these vain fripperies, is attired in a comely fashion. Thy father, I hear, fell knight-like in the field of battle.” “He did so,” answered Eveline, her eyes filling with tears at the recollection of her recent loss. “I never saw him,” continued Dame Ermengarde; “he carried the old Norman scorn towards the Saxon stock, whom they wed but for what they can make by them, as the bramble clings to the elm;—nay,

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never seek to vindicate him,” she continued, observing that Eveline was about to speak, “I have known the Norman spirit for many a year ere thou wert born.” At this moment the steward appeared in the chamber, and, after a low genuflection, asked his lady’s pleasure concerning the guard of Norman soldiers who remained without the mansion. “Norman soldiers in the house of Baldringham!” said the old lady, fiercely; “who brings them hither, and for what purpose?” “They come, as I think,” said the sewer, “to wait on and guard this gracious young lady.” “What, my daughter,” said Ermengarde, in a tone of melancholy reproach, “darest thou not trust thyself unguarded for one night in the castle of thy forefathers?” “God forbid else!” said Eveline. “But these men are not mine, nor under my authority—they are part of the train of the Constable de Lacy, who left them to watch around the castle, thinking there might be danger from robbers.” “Robbers,” said Ermengarde, “have never harmed the house of Baldringham, since a Norman robber stole from it its best treasure in the person of thy grandmother.—And so, poor bird, thou art already captive—unhappy flutterer—but it is thy lot, and wherefore should I wonder or repine? When was there fair maiden with a wealthy dower, but she was ere maturity destined to be the slave of some of these petty kings, who allow us to call nothing ours that their passions can covet? Well—I cannot aid thee—I am but a poor and neglected woman, feeble both from sex and age. And to which of these De Lacys art thou the destined household drudge?” A question so asked, and by one whose prejudices were of such a determined character, was not likely to draw from Eveline any confession of the real circumstances in which she was placed, since it was but too plain her Saxon relation could have afforded her neither sound counsel nor useful assistance. She replied therefore briefly, that as the Lacys, and the Normans in general, were unwelcome to her kinswoman, she would entreat of the commander of the patrole to withdraw it from the neighbourhood of Baldringham. “Not so, my niece,” said the old lady; “as we cannot escape the Norman neighbourhood, or get beyond the sound of their curfew, it signifies not whether they be nearer our walls or more far off, so that they enter them not. And, Berwine, bid Hundwolf drench the Normans with liquor, and gorge them with food—food of the best, and liquor of the strongest—let them not say the old Saxon hag is churlish of her hospitality. Broach a piece of wine, for I warrant their gentle stomachs brook no ale.”

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Berwine, her huge bunch of keys jangling at her girdle, withdrew to give the necessary directions, and presently returned. Meanwhile Ermengarde proceeded to question her niece more closely. “Is it that thou wilt not, or canst not, tell me to which of the De Lacys thou art to be bondswoman?—to the overweening Constable, who, sheathed in impenetrable armour, and mounted on a swift and strong horse, as invulnerable as himself, takes pride that he rides down and stabs at his ease, and with perfect safety, the bare and dismounted Welchmen?— or is it to his nephew, the beardless Damian?—or must thy possessions go to mend a breach in the fortunes of that other cousin, the decayed reveller, who can no longer ruffle it among the debauched crusaders for want of means?” “My honoured aunt,” replied Eveline, naturally displeased with this discourse, “to none of the Lacys, and I trust to none other, Saxon or Norman, will your kinswoman become a household drudge. There was, before the death of my honoured father, some treaty betwixt him and the Constable, on which account I cannot at present decline his attendance. But what may be the issue of it, fate must determine.” “But I can shew thee, niece, how the balance of fate inclines,” said Ermengarde, in a low and mysterious voice. “Those united with us by blood have, in some sort, the privilege of looking forward beyond the point of present time, and seeing in their very bud the thorns or flowers which are one day to encircle their head.” “For my own sake, noble kinswoman,” answered Eveline, “I would decline such foreknowledge, even were it possible to acquire it without transgressing the rules of the Church. Could I have foreseen what has befallen me within these last unhappy days, I had lost the enjoyment of every happy moment before that time.” “Nevertheless, daughter,” said the Lady of Baldringham, “thou, like others of thy race, must within this house conform to the rule, of passing one night within the chamber of the Red Finger.—Berwine, see that it be prepared for my niece’s reception.” “I—I—have heard speak of that chamber, gracious aunt,” said Eveline, timidly, “and if it may consist with your good pleasure, I would not now choose to pass the night there. My health has suffered by my late perils and fatigues, and with your good will I will delay to another time the usage, which I have heard is peculiar to the daughters of the house of Baldringham.” “And which, notwithstanding, you would willingly avoid,” said the old Saxon lady, bending her brows angrily. “Has not such disobedience cost your House enough already?” “Indeed, honoured and gracious lady,” said Berwine, unable to forbear interference, though well knowing the obstinacy of her patron-

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ess, “that chamber can scarce be made fit for the Lady Eveline—and the noble damsel looks so pale, and hath lately suffered so much, that, might I have the permission to advise, this were better delayed.” “Thou art a fool, Berwine,” said the old lady, sternly; “thinkst thou I will bring anger and misfortune on my house, by suffering this girl to leave it without rendering the usual homage to the Red Finger? Go to —let the room be made ready—small preparation may serve, if she cherish not the Norman nicety about bed and lodging—do not reply; but do as I command thee.—And you, Eveline—are you so far degenerated from the brave spirit of your ancestry, that you dare not pass a few hours in an ancient apartment?” “You are my hostess, gracious madam,” said Eveline, “and must assign my apartment where you judge proper—my courage is such as innocence and some pride of blood and birth have given me—it has been, of late, severely tried—but, since such is your pleasure, and the customs of your house, my heart is yet strong enough to encounter what you propose to subject me to.” She paused here in displeasure; for she could not but resent, in some measure, her aunt’s conduct, as unkind and inhospitable. And yet when she reflected upon the foundation of the legend of the chamber to which she was consigned, she could not but consider the Lady of Baldringham as having reason for her conduct, according to the traditions of her family, and the belief of the times.

Chapter Fourteen Sometimes, methinks, I hear the groans of ghosts, Then hollow sounds and lamentable screams; Then, like a dying echo from afar, My mother’s voice, that cries, “Wed not, Almeyda— Forewarned, Almeyda, marriage is thy crime.” Don Sebastian

T  evening at Baldringham would have seemed of portentous and unendurable length, had it not been that apprehended danger makes time pass quickly betwixt us and the dreaded hour, and that if Eveline felt little interested or amused by the conversation of her aunt and Berwine, which turned upon the long deduction of their ancestors from the warlike Horsa, and the feats of Saxon champions, and the miracles of Saxon monks, she was still better pleased to listen to these legends, than to anticipate her retreat to the destined and dreaded apartment where she was to pass the night. There lacked not, however, such amusements as the house of Baldringham could afford, to pass away the evening. Blessed by a grim old Saxon monk, the chaplain of

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the house, a sumptuous entertainment, which might have sufficed twenty hungry men, was served up before Ermengarde and her niece, whose sole assistants, besides the reverend man, were Berwine and Rose Flammock. Eveline was the less inclined to do justice to this excess of hospitality, that the dishes were all of the gross and substantial nature which the Saxons admired, but which contrasted disadvantageously with the refined and delicate cookery of the Normans, as did the moderate cup of light and high-flavoured Gascon wine, tempered with more than half its quantity of the purest water, with the mighty ale, the high-spiced pigment and hippocras, and the other potent liquors, which, one after another, were in vain proffered for her acceptance by the steward Hundwolf, in honour of the hospitality of Baldringham. Neither were the stated amusements of the evening more congenial to Eveline’s taste, than the profusion of her aunt’s solid refection. When the boards and tressells, on which the viands had been served, were withdrawn from the apartment, the menials, under directions of the steward, proceeded to light several long waxen torches, one of which was graduated for the purpose of marking the passing time, and divided into portions. These were announced by means of brazen balls, suspended by threads from the torch, the spaces betwixt them being calculated to occupy a certain time in burning; so that, when the flame reached the thread, and the balls fell, each in succession, into a brazen basin placed for its reception, the office of a modern clock was in some degree discharged. By this light the party was arranged for the evening. The ancient Ermengarde’s lofty and ample chair was removed, according to ancient custom, from the middle of the apartment to the warmest side of a large grate, filled with charcoal, and her guest was placed on her right, as the seat of honour. Berwine then arranged in due order the females of the household, and, having seen that each was engaged with her own proper task, sat herself down to ply the spindle and distaff. The men, in a more remote circle, betook themselves to the repairing of their implements of husbandry, or new furbishing weapons of the chase, under direction of the steward Hundwolf. For the amusement of the family thus assembled, an old glee-man Gerdic sung to a harp, which had but four strings, a long and apparently interminable legend, upon some religious subject, which was rendered almost unintelligible to Eveline, by the extreme and complicated affectation of the poet, who, in order to indulge in the alliteration which was accounted one great ornament of Saxon poetry, had sacrificed sense to sound, and so used words in the most forced and remote sense, provided they could be compelled into his service.

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There was also all the obscurity arising from elision, and from the most extravagant and hyperbolical epithets. Eveline, though well acquainted with the Saxon language, soon left off listening to the singer, to reflect, for a moment, on the gay fabliaux and imaginative lais of the Norman minstrels, and then to anticipate, with anxious apprehension, what nature of visitation she might be exposed to in the mysterious chamber in which she was doomed to pass the night. The hour of parting at length approached. At half an hour before midnight, a period ascertained by the consumption of the huge waxen torch, the ball which was secured to it fell clanging into the brazen basin placed beneath, and announced to all the hour of rest. The old glee-man paused in his song, instantaneously, and in the middle of a stanza, and the household were all upon foot at the signal, some retiring to their own apartments, others lighting torches or bearing lamps to conduct the visitors to their places of repose. Among these last was a bevy of bower-women, to whom the duty was assigned of conveying the Lady Eveline to her chamber for the night. Her aunt took a solemn leave of her, crossed her forehead, kissed it, and whispered in her ear, “Be courageous, and be fortunate.” “May not my bower-maiden, Rose Flammock, or my tire-woman, Dame Gillian, Raoul’s wife, remain in the apartment with me for this night?” said Eveline. “Flammock—Raoul!” repeated Ermengarde, angrily; “is thy household thus made up? The Flemings are the cold palsy to Britain, the Normans the burning fever.” “And the poor Welch will add,” said Rose, whose resentment began to surpass her awe for the ancient Saxon dame, “that the AngloSaxons were the original disease, and resemble a wasting pestilence.” “Thou art too bold, sweetheart,” said the Lady Ermengarde, looking at the Flemish maiden from under her dark brows; “and yet there is wit in thy words. Saxon, Dane, and Norman, have rolled like successive billows over the land, each having strength to subdue what they lacked wisdom to keep. When shall it be otherwise!” “When Saxon, and Briton, and Norman, and Fleming,” answered Rose boldly, “shall learn to call themselves by one name, and think themselves alike children of the land they are born in.” “Ha!” exclaimed the Lady of Baldringham, in the tone of one halfsurprised, half-pleased. Then turning to her relation, she said, “Thou hast words and wit in that maiden; see that she use, but do not abuse them.” “She is as kind and faithful, as she is prompt and ready-witted,”

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said Eveline. “I pray you, dearest aunt, let me use her company for this night.” “It may not be—it were dangerous to both. Alone you must learn your destiny, as have all the females of our race, excepting your grandmother—and what have been the consequences of her neglecting the rules of our house?—lo! her descendant stands before me an orphan, in the very bloom of youth.” “I will go then,” said Eveline, with a sigh of resignation; “it shall never be said I caused future woe, to shun present terror.” “Your attendants,” said the Lady Ermengarde, “may occupy the anti-room, and be almost within your call. Berwine will shew you the apartment—I cannot; for we, thou knowst, who have once entered it, return not thither again—farewell, my child, and may Heaven bless thee!” With more of human emotion and sympathy than she had yet shewn, the lady again saluted Eveline, and signed to her to follow Berwine, who, attended by two damsels bearing torches, waited to conduct her to the dreaded apartment. Their torches flared along the rudely built walls and dark arched roofs of one or two long winding passages; then by their light enabled them to descend the steps of a winding stair, whose inequality and ruggedness shewed its antiquity; and finally led into a tolerably large chamber on the lower story of the edifice, to which some old hangings, a lively fire on the hearth, the moon-beams stealing through a latticed window, and the boughs of a myrtle plant which grew around the casement, gave no uncomfortable appearance. “This,” said Berwine, “is the resting place of your attendants,” and she pointed to the couches which had been prepared for Rose and Dame Gillian; “we,” she added, “proceed farther.” She then took a torch from the attendant maidens, both of whom seemed to shrink back with fear, which was readily caught by Dame Gillian, although she was not probably aware of the cause. But Rose Flammock, unbidden, followed her mistress without hesitation, as Berwine conducted her through a small wicket at the upper end of the apartment, clenched with many an iron nail, into a second but smaller anti-room or wardrope, at the end of which was a similar door. This wardrope had also its casement mantled with evergreens, and, like the former, it was faintly enlightened by the moon-beam. Berwine paused here, and pointing to Rose, demanded of Eveline, “Why does she follow?” “To share my mistress’s danger, be it what it may,” answered Rose, with her characteristic readiness of speech and resolution. “Speak,” she said, “my dearest lady,” grasping Eveline’s hand, while she

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addressed her; “you will not drive your Rose from you—if I am less high-minded than one of your boasted race, I am bold and quickwitted in all honest service. You tremble like the aspen—do not go into this apartment—do not be gulled by all this pomp and mystery of terrible preparation—bid defiance to this antiquated, and, I think, half-pagan superstition.” “The Lady Eveline must go, minion,” replied Berwine sternly; “and she must go without any malapert adviser or companion.” “Must go—must go,” repeated Rose; “Is this language to a free and noble maiden?—Sweet lady, give me once but the least hint that you wish it, and their ‘must go’ shall be put to the trial. I will call from the casement on the Norman cavaliers, and tell them we have fallen into a den of witches, instead of a house of hospitality.” “Silence, madwoman,” said Berwine, her voice quivering with anger and fear; “you know not who dwells in the next chamber!” “I will call those who will soon see to that,” said Rose, flying to the casement, when Eveline, seizing her arm in her turn, compelled her to stop. “I thank thy kindness, Rose,” she said, “but it cannot help me in this matter. She who enters yonder door, must do so alone.” “Then I will enter it in your stead, my dearest lady,” said Rose. “You are pale—you are cold—you will die of terror if you go on— there may be as much of trick as of supernatural agency in this matter —me they shall not deceive—or if some stern spirit craves a victim— better Rose than her lady.” “Forbear, forbear,” said Eveline, rousing up her own spirits, “you make me ashamed of myself. This is an ancient ordeal, which regards the females descended from the house of Baldringham as far as in the third degree, and them only. I did not indeed expect, in my present circumstances, to have been called upon to undergo it; but, since the hour summons me, I will meet it as freely as any of my ancestors.” So saying, she took the torch from the hand of Berwine, and wishing good night to her and Rose, gently disengaged herself from the hold of the latter, and advanced into the mysterious chamber. Rose pressed after her so far as to see that it was an apartment of moderate dimensions, resembling that through which they had last passed, and lighted by the moonbeams, which came through a window lying on the same range with those of the anti-rooms. More she could not see, for Eveline turned on the threshold, and kissing her at the same time, thrust her gently back into the smaller apartment which she had just left, shut the door of communication, and barred and bolted it, as if in security against her well-meant intrusion. Berwine now exhorted Rose, as she valued her life, to retire into the

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first anti-room, where the beds were prepared, and betake herself, if not to rest, at least to silence and devotion. But the faithful Flemish girl stoutly refused her entreaties, and resisted her commands. “Talk not to me of danger,” she said; “here I remain, that I may be at least within hearing of my mistress’s danger, and woe betide those who shall offer her injury!—Take notice, that twenty Norman spears surround this inhospitable dwelling, prompt to avenge whatsoever injury shall be offered to the daughter of Raymond Berenger.” “Reserve your threats for those who are mortal,” said Berwine, in a low, but piercing whisper; “the owner of yonder chamber fears them not. Farewell—thy danger be on thine own head.” She departed, leaving Rose strangely agitated by what had passed, and somewhat appalled at her last words. “These Saxons,” said the maiden within herself, “are but half converted after all, and hold many of their old hellish rites in the worship of elementary spirits. Their very saints are unlike to the saints of any Christian country, and have, as it were, a look of something savage and fiendish. It is fearful being alone here—and all is silent as death in the apartment into which my lady has been thus strangely compelled. Shall I call up Gillian?—but no—she has neither sense, nor courage, nor principle, to aid me on such an occasion—better alone than have a false friend for company. I will see if the Normans are on their post, since it is to them I must trust, if a moment of need should arrive.” Thus reflecting, Rose Flammock went to the window of the little apartment, in order to satisfy herself of the vigilance of the sentinels, and to ascertain the exact situation of the corps de garde. The moon was at the full, and enabled her to see with accuracy the nature of the ground without. In the first place, she was rather disappointed to find, that instead of being so near the earth as she supposed, the range of windows, which gave light as well to the two anti-rooms as to the mysterious chamber itself, looked down upon an ancient moat, by which they were divided from the level ground on the farther side. The defence which this fosse afforded seemed to have been long neglected, and the bottom, entirely dry, was choked in many places with bushes and low trees, which rose up against the wall of the castle, and by means of which it seemed to Rose the windows might be easily scaled, and the mansion entered. The space adjoining to the castle was in a considerable degree clear, and the moonbeams slumbered on its close and beautiful turf, mixed with long shadows of the towers and trees. Beyond this esplanade lay the forest ground, with a few gigantic oaks scattered individually along the skirt of its dark and ample domain, like champions, which take their ground of defiance in front of a line of arrayed battle.

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The calm beauty and repose of a scene so lovely, the stillness of all around, and the more matured reflections which the whole suggested, quieted, in some measure, the apprehensions which the events of the evening had inspired. “After all,” she reflected, “why should I be so anxious on account of the Lady Eveline? There is among the proud Normans and the dogged Saxons scarce a family of note, but must needs be held distinguished from others by some superstitious observance peculiar to their race, as if they thought it scorn to go to heaven like a poor simple Fleming, such as I am.—Could I but see a Norman sentinel, I would hold myself satisfied of my mistress’s security.—And yonder, one stalks along the gloom, wrapped in his long white mantle, and the moon tipping the point of his lance with silver.—What, ho, Sir Cavalier!” The Norman turned his steps, and approached the ditch as she spoke. “What is your pleasure, damsel?” he demanded. “The window next to mine is that of the Lady Eveline Berenger, whom you are appointed to guard. Please to give heedful watch upon this side of the castle.” “Doubt it not, lady,” answered the cavalier; and, enveloping himself in his long chappe, or military watch-cloak, he withdrew to a large oaktree at some distance, and stood there with crossed arms, and leaning on his lance, more like a trophy of armour than a living warrior. Emboldened by the consciousness that in case of need succour was close at hand, Rose drew back into her little chamber, and having ascertained, by listening, that there was no noise or stirring in that of Eveline, she began to make some preparations for her own repose. For this purpose she went into the outward anti-room, where Dame Gillian, whose fears had given way to the soporiferous effects of a copious draught of lithe-alos, (mild ale, of the first strength and quality,) slept as sound a sleep as that generous Saxon beverage could procure. Muttering an indignant censure on her sloth and indifference, Rose caught, from the empty couch which had been destined for her own use, the upper covering, and dragging it with her into the inner anti-room, disposed it, with the assistance of the rushes which strewed the apartment, so as to form a sort of couch, upon which, half-seated, half-reclined, she resolved to pass the night in as close attendance upon her mistress as circumstances permitted. Thus seated, her eye on the pale planet which sailed in full glory through the blue sky of midnight, she proposed to herself that sleep should not visit her eyelids till the dawn of morning should assure her of Eveline’s safety. Her thoughts, meanwhile, rested on the boundless and shadowy world beyond the grave, and on the great and perhaps yet undecided

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question, whether the separation of its inhabitants from those of this temporal sphere is absolute and decided, or whether, influenced by motives which we cannot appreciate, they continue to hold shadowy communication with those yet existing in earthly reality of flesh and blood. To have denied this, would, in the age of crusades and of miracles, have incurred the guilt of heresy; but Rose’s firm good sense led her to doubt at least the frequency of supernatural interference, and she comforted herself with an opinion, contradicted, however, by her own involuntary starts and shudderings at every leaf which moved, that, in submitting to performance of the rite imposed on her, Eveline incurred no real danger, and only sacrificed to an obsolete family superstition. As this conviction strengthened on Rose’s mind, her purpose of vigilance began to decline—her thoughts wandered to objects towards which they were not directed, like sheep which stray beyond the charge of their shepherd—her eyes no longer brought back to her a distinct apprehension of the broad, round, silvery orb on which they continued to gaze. At length they closed, and, seated on the folded mantle, her back resting against the wall of the apartment, and her white arms folded on her bosom, Rose Flammock fell fast asleep. Her repose was fearfully broken by a shrill and piercing shriek from the apartment where her lady reposed. To start up and fly to the door was the work of a moment with the generous girl, who never permitted fear to struggle with love or duty. The door was locked fast, both bar and bolt; and another fainter scream, or rather groan, seemed to say, aid must be instant, or in vain. Rose next rushed to the window, and screamed rather than called to the Norman soldier, who, distinguished by the white folds of his watch-cloak, still retained his position under the old oak-tree. At the cry of “Help, help!—the Lady Eveline is murdered!” the seeming statue, starting at once into active exertion, sped with the swiftness of a race-horse to the brink of the moat, and was about to cross it, opposite to the spot where Rose stood at the open casement, urging him to speed by voice and gesture. “Not here—not here!” she exclaimed with breathless precipitation, as she saw him make towards her—“the window to the right—scale it, for God’s sake, and undo the door of communication!” The soldier seemed to comprehend her—he dashed into the moat without hesitation, securing himself by catching at the boughs of trees as he descended. In one moment he vanished among the underwood; and in another, availing himself of the branches of a dwarf oak, Rose saw him upon her right, and close to the window of the fatal apartment. One fear remained—the casement might be secured

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against entrance from without—but no! at the thrust of the Norman it yielded, and its clasps or fastenings being worn with time, fell inward with a clash which even Dame Gillian’s slumbers were unable to resist. Echoing scream upon scream, in the usual fashion of fools and cowards, she entered the cabinet from the anti-room, just as the door of Eveline’s chamber opened, and the soldier appeared, bearing in his arms the half-undressed and lifeless form of the Norman maiden herself. Without speaking a word, he placed her in Rose’s arms, and with the same precipitation with which he had entered, threw himself out of the opened window from which Rose had summoned him. Gillian, half distracted with fear and wonder, heaped exclamations on questions, and mingled questions with cries for help, till Rose sternly rebuked her, in a tone which seemed to recal her scattered senses. She became then composed enough to fetch a lamp which remained lighted in the room she had left, and to render herself at least partly useful in suggesting and applying the usual modes for recalling the suspended senses. In this they at length succeeded, for Eveline fetched a fuller sigh, and opened her eyes; but presently shut them again, and letting her head drop on Rose’s bosom, fell into a strong shuddering fit; while her faithful damsel, chafing her hands and her temples alternately with affectionate assiduity, and mingling caresses with these efforts, exclaimed aloud, “She lives!—She is recovering!—Praised be God!” “Praised be God!” was echoed in a solemn tone from the window of the apartment; and turning towards it in terror, Rose beheld the armed and plumed head of the soldier who had come so opportunely to their assistance, and who, supported by his arms, had raised himself so high as to be able to look into the interior of the cabinet. Rose immediately ran towards him. “Go—go—good friend,” she said; “your reward shall await you another time—go—begone—yet stay—keep on your post, and I will call you if there is farther need— begone—be faithful, and be secret.” The soldier obeyed without answering a word, and she presently saw him descend into the moat. Rose then returned back to her mistress, whom she found supported by Gillian, moaning feebly, and muttering hurried and unintelligible ejaculations, all intimating that she laboured under a violent shock sustained from some alarming cause. Dame Gillian had no sooner recovered some degree of self-possession, than her curiosity became active in proportion. “What means all this?” she said to Rose; “what has been doing among you?” “I do not know,” replied Rose.

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“If you do not,” said Gillian, “who should?—Shall I call the other women, and raise the house?” “Not for your life,” said Rose, “till my lady is able to give her own orders; and for this apartment, so help me Heaven, as I will do my best to discover the secrets it contains!—Support my mistress the whilst.” So saying, she took the lamp in her hand, and crossing her brow, stepped boldly across the mysterious threshold, and holding up the light, surveyed the apartment. It was merely an old vaulted chamber, of very moderate dimensions. In one corner was an image of the Virgin, rudely cut, and placed above a Saxon font of curious workmanship. There were two seats, and a couch, covered with coarse tapestry, on which it seemed that Eveline had been reposing. The fragments of the shattered casement lay on the floor; but that opening had been only made when the soldier forced it in, and she saw no other access by which a stranger could have entered an apartment, the ordinary entrance of which was barred and bolted. Rose felt the influence of those terrors which she had hitherto surmounted; she cast her mantle hastily around her head, as if to shroud her sight from some blighting vision, and tripping back to the cabinet, with more speed and a less firm step than when she left it, she directed Gillian to lend her assistance in conveying Eveline to the next room; and having done so, carefully secured the door of communication, as if to put a barrier betwixt them and the suspected danger. The Lady Eveline was now so far recovered that she could sit up, and was trying to speak, though but faintly. “Rose,” she said at length, “I have seen her—my doom is sealed.” Rose immediately recollected the imprudence of suffering Gillian to hear what her mistress might say at such an awful moment, and hastily adopting the proposal she had before declined, desired her to go call other two maidens of their mistress’s household. “And where am I to find them in this house,” said Dame Gillian, “where strange men run about one chamber at midnight, and devils, for aught I know, frequent the rest of the house?” “Find them where you can,” said Rose, sharply; “but begone presently.” Gillian withdrew lingeringly, and muttering at the same time something which could not distinctly be understood. No sooner was she gone, than Rose, giving way to the enthusiastic affection which she felt for her mistress, implored her, in the most tender terms, to open her eyes, (for she had again closed them,) and speak to Rose, her own Rose, who was ready, if necessary, to die by her mistress’s side.

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“To-morrow—to-morrow, Rose,” murmured Eveline—“I cannot speak at present.” “Only disburthen your mind with one word—tell what has thus alarmed you—what danger you apprehend.” “I have seen her,” answered Eveline—“I have seen the tenant of yonder chamber—the vision fatal to my race!—urge me no more— To-morrow you shall know all.” As Gillian entered with two of the maidens of her mistress’s household, they removed the Lady Eveline, by Rose’s directions, into a chamber at some distance, which the latter had occupied, and placed her in one of their beds, where Rose, dismissing the others (Gillian excepted) to seek repose where they could find it, continued to watch her mistress. For some time she continued very much disturbed, but, gradually, fatigue, and the influence of some narcotic which Gillian had sense enough to recommend and prepare, seemed to compose her spirits. She fell into a deep slumber, from which she did not awaken until the sun was high over the distant hills.

Chapter Fifteen I see a hand you cannot see, Which beckons me away; I hear a voice you cannot hear, Which says I must not stay. M 

W    Eveline first opened her eyes, it seemed to be without any recollection of what had passed on the night preceding. She looked round the apartment, which was coarsely and scantily furnished, as one destined for the use of domestics and menials, and said to Rose, with a smile, “Our good kinswoman maintains the ancient Saxon hospitality at a homely rate, so far as lodging is concerned. I could have willingly parted with last night’s profuse supper, to have obtained a bed of a softer texture. Methinks my limbs feel as if I had been under all the flails of a franklin’s barn-yard.” “I am glad to see you so pleasant, madam,” answered Rose, discreetly avoiding any reference to the events of the night before. Dame Gillian was not so scrupulous. “Your ladyship last night lay down in a better bed than this,” she said, “unless I am much mistaken; and Rose Flammock and yourself know best why you left it.” If a look could have killed, Dame Gillian would have been in deadly peril from that which Rose shot at her, by way of rebuke for this ill-advised communication. It had instantly the effect which was to be apprehended, for Lady Eveline seemed at first surprised

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and confused; then, as recollections of the past arranged themselves in her memory, she folded her hands, looked on the ground, and wept bitterly, with much agitation. Rose entreated her to be comforted, and offered to fetch the old Saxon chaplain of the house to administer spiritual consolation, if her grief rejected temporal comfort. “No—call him not,” said Eveline, raising her head and drying her eyes—“I have had enough of Saxon kindness. What a fool I was to expect, in that hard and unfeeling woman, any commiseration for my youth—my late sufferings—my orphan condition! I will not permit her a poor triumph over the Norman blood of Berenger, by letting her see how much I have suffered under her inhuman infliction. But first, Rose, answer me truly, was any inmate of Baldringham witness to my distress last night?” Rose assured her that she had been tended exclusively by her own retinue, herself and Gillian, Blanche and Ternotte. She seemed to receive satisfaction from this assurance. “Hear me, both of you,” she said, “and observe my words, as you love and as you fear me. Let no syllable be breathed from your lips of what has happened this night. Carry the same charge to my maidens. Lend me thine instant aid, Gillian, and thine, my dearest Rose, to change these disordered garments, and arrange this dishevelled hair. It was a poor vengeance she sought, and all because of my country. I am resolved she shall not see the slightest trace of the sufferings she has inflicted.” As she spoke thus, her eyes flashed with indignation, which seemed to dry up the tears that had before filled them. Rose saw the change of her manner with a mixture of pleasure and concern, being aware that her mistress’s predominant failing was incident to her, as a spoiled child, who, accustomed to be treated with kindness, deference, and indulgence, by all around her, was apt to resent warmly whatever resembled neglect or contradiction. “God knows,” said the faithful bower-maiden, “I would hold my hand out to catch drops of molten lead, rather than endure your tears; and yet, my sweet mistress, I would rather at present see you grieved than angry. This ancient lady hath, it would seem, but acted according to some old superstitious rite of her family, which is in part yours. Her name is respectable, both from her conduct and possessions; and, hard-pressed as you are by the Normans, with whom your kinswoman, the Prioress, is sure to take part, I was in hope you might have had some shelter and countenance from the Lady of Baldringham.” “Never, Rose, never,” answered Eveline; “you know not—you cannot guess what she has made me suffer—exposing me to witchcraft and fiends. Thyself said it, and said it truly—the Saxons are still half

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pagans, void of Christianity, as of nurture and kindliness.” “Ay, but,” replied Rose, “I spoke then to dissuade you from a danger;—now that the danger is passed and over, I may judge of it otherwise.” “Speak not for them, Rose,” replied Eveline, angrily; “no innocent victim was ever offered up at the altar of a fiend with more indifference than my father’s kinswoman delivered up me—me an orphan, bereaved of my natural and powerful support. I hate her cruelty—I hate her house—I hate the thought of all that has happened here—of all, Rose, except thy matchless faith and fearless attachment. Go, bid our train saddle directly—I will be gone instantly—I will not attire myself,” she added, rejecting the assistance she had at first required— “I will have no ceremony—tarry for no leave-taking.” In the hurried and agitated manner of her mistress, Rose recognized with anxiety another mood of the same irritable and excited temperament, which had before discharged itself in tears and fits. But perceiving, at the same time, that remonstrance was in vain, she gave the necessary orders for collecting their company, saddling, and preparing for departure; hoping, that as her mistress removed to a farther distance from the scene where her mind had received so severe a shock, her equanimity might, by degrees, be restored. Dame Gillian, accordingly, was busied with arranging the packages of her lady, and all the rest of Lady Eveline’s retinue in preparing for instant departure, when, preceded by her steward, who acted also as a sort of gentleman usher, leaning upon her confidential Berwine, and followed by two or three more of the most distinguished of her household, with looks of displeasure on her ancient yet lofty brow, the Lady Ermengarde entered the apartment. Eveline, with a trembling and hurried hand, a burning cheek, and other signs of agitation, was herself busied about the arrangement of some baggage, when her relation made her appearance. At once, to Rose’s great surprise, she exerted a strong command over herself, and suppressing every external appearance of disorder, she advanced to meet her relation, with a calm and haughty stateliness equal to her own. “I come to give you good morning, our niece,” said Ermengarde, haughtily indeed, yet with more deference than she seemed at first to have intended, so much did the bearing of Eveline impose respect upon her;—“I find that you have been pleased to shift that apartment which was assigned you, in conformity with the ancient custom of this household, and betake yourself to the chamber of a menial.” “Are you surprised at that, lady?” demanded Eveline in her turn; “or are you disappointed that you find me not a corpse, within the

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limits of the chamber which your hospitality and affection allotted to me?” “Your sleep, then, has been broken?” said the Lady Ermengarde, looking fixedly at Eveline, as she spoke. “If I complain not, madam, the evil must be deemed of little consequence. What has happened, is over and past, and it is not my intention to trouble you with the recital.” “She of the ruddy finger,” replied Ermengarde, triumphantly, “loves not the blood of the stranger.” “She had less reason, while she walked the earth, to love that of the Saxon,” said Eveline, “unless her legend speaks false in that matter; and unless, as I well suspect, your house is haunted, not by the soul of the dead who suffered within its walls, but by evil spirits, such as the descendants of Hengist and Horsa are said still in secret to worship.” “You are pleasant, maiden,” replied the old lady scornfully, “or, if your words are meant in earnest, the shaft of your censure has glanced aside. A house, blessed by the holy Saint Dunstan, and by the royal and holy Confessor, is no abode for evil spirits.” “The house of Baldringham,” replied Eveline, “is no abode for those who fear such spirits; and as I, with all humility, avow myself of the number, I will presently leave it to the custody of Saint Dunstan.” “Not till you have broken your fast, I trust,” said the Lady of Baldringham; “you will not, I hope, do my years and our relationship such foul disgrace.” “Pardon me, madam,” replied the Lady Eveline, “those who have experienced your hospitality at night, have little occasion for breakfast in the morning.—Rose, are not those loitering knaves assembled in the courtyard, or are they yet on their couches, making up for the slumber they have lost by midnight disturbances?” Rose announced that her train was in the court, and mounted; when, with a low reverence, Eveline endeavoured to pass her relation, and leave the apartment without farther ceremony. Ermengarde at first confronted her with a grim and furious glance, which seemed to shew a soul fraught with more rage than the thin blood and rigid features of extreme age had the power of expressing, and raised her ebony staff as if about even to proceed to some act of personal violence. But she changed her purpose, and suddenly made way for Eveline, who passed without further parley; and as she descended the staircase, which conducted from the apartment to the gateway, she heard the voice of her aunt behind her, like that of an aged and an offended sibyl, denouncing wrath and woe upon her insolence and presumption. “Pride,” she exclaimed, “goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall. She who scorneth the house of her fathers, a stone

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from its battlements shall crush her—She who mocks the grey hairs of a parent, never shall one of her own locks be silvered with age—She who weds with a man of war and of blood, her end shall neither be peaceful nor bloodless!” Hurrying to escape from these and other ominous denunciations, Eveline rushed from the house, mounted her palfrey with the precipitation of a fugitive, and, surrounded by her attendants, who had caught a part of her alarm, though without conjecturing the cause, rode hastily into the forest, old Raoul, who was well acquainted with the country, acting as their guide. Agitated more than she was willing to confess to herself, by thus leaving the habitation of so near a relation, loaded with maledictions, instead of the blessings which are usually bestowed on a departing kinswoman, Eveline hastened forward, until the huge oak trees with intervening arms had hidden from her view the fatal mansion. The trampling and galloping of horse was soon after heard, announcing the approach of the patrol left by the Constable for the protection of the mansion, and who now, collecting from their different stations, came prepared to attend Lady Eveline on her farther road to Gloucester, great part of which lay through the extensive forest of Deane, then a sylvan region of large extent, though now much denuded of trees for the service of the iron mines. The cavaliers came up to join the retinue of Lady Eveline, with armour glittering in the morning rays, trumpets sounding, horses prancing, neighing, and thrown, each by his chivalrous rider, into the attitude best qualified to exhibit the beauty of the steed and dexterity of the horseman, while their lances, streaming with long penoncelles, were brandished in every manner which could display elation of heart and readiness of hand. The sense of the military character of her countrymen of Normandy gave to Eveline a feeling at once of security and of triumph, which operated towards the dispelling of her gloomy thoughts, and of the feverish disorder which affected her nerves. The rising sun also— the song of the birds among the bowers—the lowing of the cattle as they were driven to pasture— the sight of the hind, who, with her fawn trotting by her side, often crossed some forest glade within view of the travellers,—all contributed to dispel the terror of Eveline’s nocturnal visions, and soothe to rest the more angry passions which had agitated her bosom at her departure from Baldringham. She suffered her palfrey to slacken his pace, and, with female attention to propriety, began to adjust her riding robes, and compose her head-dress, disordered in her hasty departure. Rose saw her cheek assume a paler but more settled hue, instead of the angry hectic which had coloured it—saw her eye become more steady as she looked with a sort of

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triumph upon her military attendants, and pardoned (what on other occasions she would probably have made some reply to) her enthusiastic exclamations in praise of her countrymen. “We journey safe,” said Eveline, “under the care of the princely and victorious Normans. Theirs is the noble wrath of the lion, which destroys or is appeased at once—there is no guile in their romantic affection, no sullenness mixed with their generous indignation—they know the duties of the hall as well as those of the battle; and were they to be surpassed in the arts of war, (which will only be when Plinlimmon is removed from its base,) they would still remain superior to every other people in generosity and courtesy.” “If I do not feel all their merits so strongly as if I shared their blood,” said Rose, “I am at least glad to see them around us, in woods which are said to abound with dangers of various kinds. And I confess, my heart is the lighter, that I can now no longer observe the least vestige of that ancient mansion, in which we passed so unpleasant a night, and the recollection of which will always be odious to me.” Eveline looked sharply at her. “Confess the truth, Rose; thou wouldst give thy best kirtle to know all of my horrible adventure.” “It is but confessing that I am a woman,” answered Rose; “and did I say a man, I dare say the difference of sex would imply but a small abatement of curiosity.” “Thou makest no parade of other feelings, which prompt thee to inquire into my fortunes,” said Eveline; “but, sweet Rose, I give thee not the less credit for them. Believe me, thou shalt know all—but, I think, not now.” “At your pleasure,” said Rose; “and yet, methinks, the bearing in your solitary bosom such a fearful secret will only render the weight more intolerable. On my silence you may rely as on that of the Holy Image, which hears us confess what it never reveals. Besides, such things become familiar to the imagination when they have been spoken of, and that which is familiar gradually becomes stripped of its terrors.” “Thou speakst with reason, my prudent Rose; and surely in this gallant troop, borne like a flower on a bush by my good palfrey Yseulte —fresh gales blowing round us, flowers opening and birds singing, and having thee by my bridle-rein, must form the fittest time to communicate what thou hast so good a title to know. And—yes!— thou shalt know all!—Thou art not, I presume, ignorant of the qualities of what the Saxons of this land call a Bahr-geist?” “Pardon me, lady,” answered Rose, “my father discouraged my listening to such discourses. I might see evil spirits enough, he said, without my imagination being taught to form such as were fantastical.

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The word Bahr-geist, I have heard used by Gillian and other Saxons; but to me it only conveys some idea of indefinite terror, of which I have never asked nor received an explanation.” “Know then,” said Eveline, “it is a spectre, usually the image of a departed person, who, either for wrong sustained in a certain place during life, or through treasure hidden there, or from such other cause, haunts the spot from time to time, becomes familiar to those who dwell there, takes an interest in their fate, occasionally for good, in other instances or times for evil. The Bahr-geist is, therefore, sometimes regarded as the good genius, sometimes as the avenging fiend, attached to particular families and classes of men. It is the lot of the family of Baldringham, (of no mean note in other respects,) to be subjected to the visits of such a being.” “May I ask the cause (if it be known) of such visitation?” said Rose, desirous to avail herself to the uttermost of the communicative mood of her young lady, which might not perhaps last very long. “I know the legend but imperfectly,” replied Eveline, proceeding with a degree of calmness, the result of strong exertion over her mental anxiety, “but in general it runs thus:—Baldrick, the Saxon hero who first possessed yonder dwelling, became enamoured of a fair Briton, said to have been descended from those Druids of whom the Welch speak so much, and deemed not unacquainted with the arts of sorcery which they practised, when they offered up human sacrifices amid those circles of unhewn and living rock, of which thou hast seen so many. After more than two years wedlock, Baldrick became weary of his wife to such a point, that he formed the cruel resolution of doing her to death. Some say he doubted her fidelity—some that the matter was pressed on him by the church, as she was suspected of heresy— some that he removed her to make way for a more wealthy marriage— but all agree in the result. He sent two of his Cnichts to the house of Baldringham, to put to death the unfortunate Vanda, and commanded them to bring him the ring which had circled her finger on the day of wedlock, in token that his orders were accomplished. The men were ruthless in their office, they strangled Vanda in yonder apartment, and as the hand was so swollen that no effort could bring off the ring, they obtained possession of it by severing the finger. But long before the return of those cruel perpetrators of her death, the shadow of Vanda had appeared before her appalled husband, and holding up to him her bloody hand, made him fearfully sensible how well his savage commands had been obeyed. After haunting him in peace and war, in desert, court, and camp, until he died despairingly on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, the Bahr-geist, or ghost of the murdered Vanda, became so terrible in the House of Baldringham, that the succour of

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Saint Dunstan was itself scarcely sufficient to put bounds to her visitation. Yet the blessed saint, in requital of Baldrick’s crime, imposed a strong and enduring penalty upon every female descendant of the house in the third degree; namely, that once in their lives, and before their twenty-first year, they should each spend a solitary night in the chamber of the murdered Vanda, saying therein certain prayers, as well for her repose, as for the suffering soul of her murtherers. During that awful space, it is generally believed that the spirit of the murdered person appears to the female who observes the vigil, and shews some sign of her future good or bad fortune. If favourable, she appears with a smiling aspect, and crosses them with her unbloodied hand; but she announces evil fortune by shewing the hand from which the finger was severed, with a stern countenance, as if resenting upon the descendant of her husband his inhuman cruelty. Sometimes she is said to speak. These particulars I learned long since from an old Saxon dame, the mother of our Margery, who had been an attendant on my grandmother, and left the house of Baldringham when she made her escape from it with my father’s father.” “Did your grandmother ever render this homage,” said Rose, “which seems to me—under favour of Saint Dunstan—to bring humanity into too close intercourse with a being of a doubtful nature?” “My grandfather thought so, and never permitted my grandmother to revisit the house of Baldringham after her marriage; hence disunion betwixt him and his son, and the members of that family, who laid sundry misfortunes, and particularly the loss of male heirs which at that time befell them, to my mother’s not having done the hereditary homage to the bloody-fingered Bahr-geist.” “And how could you, my dearest lady,” said Rose, “knowing that they held among them an usage so hideous, think of accepting the invitation of Lady Ermengarde?” “I can hardly answer you the question. Partly I feared my father’s recent calamity, to be slain (as I have heard him say his aunt once prophesied of him) by the enemy he most despised, might be the result of this rite having been neglected—and partly I hoped, that if my mind should be appalled at the danger, when it presented itself closer to my eye, it could not be urged on me in courtesy and humanity. You saw how soon my affectionate relative pounced upon the opportunity, and how impossible it became for me, bearing the name, and, I trust, the spirit of Berenger, to escape from the net in which I had involved myself.” “No regard for name or rank should have engaged me,” replied Rose, “to place myself where apprehension alone, even without the

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terrors of a real visitation, might have punished my presumption with insanity. But what, in the name of Heaven, did you see at this horrible rendezvous?” “Ay, there is the question,” said Eveline, raising her hand to her brow—“how I could witness that which I distinctly saw, yet be able to retain command of thought and intellect!—I had recited the prescribed devotions for the murtherer and his victim, and sitting down on the couch which was assigned me, had laid aside such of my clothes as might impede my rest—I had surmounted, in short, the first shock which I experienced in committing myself to this mysterious chamber, and I hoped to pass the night in slumber as sound as my thoughts were innocent. But I was fearfully disappointed. I cannot judge how long I had slept, when my bosom was oppressed by an unusual weight, which seemed at once to stifle my voice, stop the beating of my heart, and prevent me from drawing my breath; and when I looked up to discover the cause of this horrible suffocation, the form of the murdered British maiden stood over my couch, taller than life, shadowy, and with a countenance where traits of dignity and beauty were mingled with a fierce expression of vengeful exultation. She held over me the hand which bore the bloody marks of her husband’s cruelty, and seemed as if she signed the cross, devoting me to destruction; while with an unearthly tone she uttered these words:— Widow’d wife and married maid, Betroth’d, betrayer, and betray’d!

The phantom stooped over me as she spoke, and lowered her gory fingers, as if to touch my face, when terror giving me the power of which at first it had deprived me, I screamed aloud—the casement of the apartment was thrown open with a loud noise and—But what signifies my telling all this to thee, Rose, who shew so plainly, by the movement of eye and lip, that you consider me as a silly and childish dreamer!” “Be not angry, my dear lady,” said Rose; “I do indeed believe that the witch we call Mara* has been dealing with you; but she, you know, is by leeches considered as no real phantom, but solely the creation of our own imagination, disordered by causes which arise from bodily indisposition.” “Thou art learned, maiden,” said Eveline, rather peevishly; “but when I assure thee that my better angel came to my assistance in a human form—that at his appearance the fiend vanished—and that he transported me in his arms out of the chamber of terror, I think thou wilt, as a good Christian, put more faith in that which I tell you.” “Indeed, indeed, my sweetest mistress, I cannot,” replied Rose. “It * Ephialtes, or Nightmare.

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is even that circumstance of the guardian angel which makes me consider the whole as a dream. A Norman sentinel, whom I myself called from his post on purpose, did indeed come to your assistance, and, breaking into your apartment, transported you into that where I myself received you from his arms in a lifeless condition.” “A Norman soldier, ha!” said Eveline, colouring extremely; “and to whom, maiden, did you dare give commission to break into my sleeping-chamber?” “Your eyes flash anger, madam, but is it reasonable they should? —Did I not hear your screams of agony, and was I to stand fettered by ceremony at such a moment?—no more than if the castle had been on fire.” “I ask you again, Rose,” said her mistress, still with discomposure, though less angrily than at first, “whom you directed to break into my apartment?” “Indeed I know not, lady,” said Rose; “for, besides that he was muffled in his mantle, little chance was there of my knowing his features, had I seen them fully. But I can soon discover the cavalier; and I will set about it, that I may give him the reward I promised, and warn him to be silent and discreet in this matter.” “Do so,” said Eveline; “and if you find him among those soldiers who attend us, I will indeed lean to thy opinion, and think that phantasy has had the chief share in the evils I have endured the last night.” Rose struck her palfrey with the rod, and, accompanied by her mistress, rode up to Philip Guarine, the Constable’s squire, who for the present commanded their little escort. “Good Guarine,” she said, “I had talk with one of these sentinels last night from my window, and he did me some service, for which I promised him recompence—Will you inquire for the man, that I may pay him his guerdon?” “Truly, I will owe him a guerdon also, pretty maiden,” answered the squire; “for if a lance of them approached near enough the house to hold speech from the windows, he transgressed the precise orders of his watch.” “Tush! you must forgive that for my sake,” said Rose. “I warrant, had I called on yourself, stout Guarine, I would have had influence to bring you under my chamber window.” Guarine laughed, and shrugged his shoulders. “True it is,” he said, “when women are in place, discipline is in danger.” He then went to make the necessary inquiries among his band, and returned with the assurance, that his soldiers, generally and severally, denied having approached the mansion of the Lady Ermengarde on the preceding night.

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“Thou seest, Rose,” said Eveline, with a significant look, to her attendant. “The poor rogues are afraid of Guarine’s severity,” said Rose, “and dare not tell the truth—I shall have some one in private claiming the reward of me.” “I would I had the privilege myself, damsel,” said Guarine; “but for these fellows, they are not so timorous as you suppose them, being even too ready to avouch their roguery when it hath less excuse— besides, I promised them impunity.—Have you anything farther to order?” “Nothing, good Guarine,” said Eveline; “only this small donative to procure wine for thy soldiers, that they may spend this next night more merrily than the last.—And now he is gone, Maiden, thou must, I think, be now well aware, that what thou sawest was no earthly being?” “I must believe mine own ears and eyes, madam,” replied Rose. “Do—but allow me the same privilege,” answered Eveline. “Believe me that my deliverer (for so I must call him,) bore the features of one who neither was, nor could be, in the neighbourhood of Baldringham.—Tell me but one thing—What doest thou think of this extraordinary prediction— Widow’d wife and wedded maid, Betroth’d, betrayer, and betray’d.

Thou wilt say it is an idle invention of my brain—but think it for a moment the speech of a true diviner, and what wouldst thou say of it?” “That you may be betrayed, my dearest lady, but never be a betrayer,” answered Rose with animation. Eveline reached her hand out to her friend, and, as she pressed affectionately that which Rose gave in return, she whispered to her with energy, “I thank thee for the judgment, which my own heart confirms.” A cloud of dust now announced the approach of the Constable of Chester and his retinue, augmented by the attendance of his host Sir William Herbert, and some of his neighbours and kinsmen, who came to pay their respects to the orphan of the Garde Douloureuse, by which appellation Eveline was known upon her passage through their territory. Eveline remarked, that, at their greeting, De Lacy looked with displeased surprise at the disarrangement of her dress and equipage, which her hasty departure from Baldringham had necessarily occasioned; and she was, on her part, struck with an expression of countenance which seemed to say, “I am not to be treated as an ordinary person, who may be received with negligence, and treated slightly with impunity.” For the first time, she thought that the

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Constable’s countenance, though deficient in grace and beauty, was formed to express the more angry passions with force and vivacity, and that she who shared his rank and name must lay her account with the implicit surrender of her will and wishes to those of an arbitrary lord and master. But the cloud soon passed from the Constable’s brow; and in the conversation which he afterwards maintained with Herbert and the other knights and gentlemen, who from time to time came to greet and accompany them for a little way on their journey, Eveline had occasion to admire his superiority, both of sense and expression, and to remark the attention and deference with which his words were listened to by men too high in rank, and too proud, readily to admit any pre-eminence that was not founded in acknowledged merit. The regard of women is generally much influenced by the estimation which an individual maintains in the opinion of men; and Eveline, when she concluded her journey in the Benedictine nunnery in Gloucester, could not think without respect upon the renowned warrior, and celebrated politician, whose acknowledged abilities appeared to place him above every one whom she had seen approach him. His wife, Eveline thought, (and she was not without ambition,) if relinquishing some of those qualities in a husband which are in youth most captivating to the female imagination, must be still generally honoured and respected, and have contentment, if not romantic felicity, within her own reach.

Chapter Sixteen T  Lady Eveline remained nearly four months with her aunt, the Abbess of the Benedictine nunnery, under whose auspices the Constable of Chester saw his suit advance and prosper, as it would probably have done under that of the deceased Raymond Berenger her brother. It is probable, that, but for the supposed vision of the Virgin, and the vow of gratitude which that vision had called forth, the natural aversion of so young a person to a match so unequal in years, might have effectually opposed his success. Indeed Eveline, while honouring the Constable’s virtues, doing justice to his high character, and admiring his talents, could never altogether divest herself of a secret fear of him, which, while it prevented her from expressing any direct disapprobation of his addresses, caused her sometimes to shudder, she scarce knew why, at the idea of their becoming successful. The ominous words, “betraying and betrayed,” would then occur to her memory; and when her aunt (the period of the deepest mourning being elapsed) had fixed a period for her betrothal, she looked forward

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to it with a feeling of terror, for which she was unable to account to herself, and which, as well as the particulars of her dream, she concealed even from Father Aldrovand in the hours of confession. It was not aversion to the Constable—it was far less preference to any other suitor—it was one of those instinctive movements and emotions by which Nature seems to warn us of approaching danger, though furnishing no information respecting its nature, and suggesting no means of escaping from it. So strong were these intervals of apprehension, that if they had been seconded by the remonstrances of Rose Flammock, as formerly, they might perhaps have led to Eveline’s even yet forming some resolution unfavourable to the suit of the Constable. But, still more zealous for her lady’s honour than even for her happiness, Rose had strictly forborne every effort which could affect Eveline’s purpose, when she had once expressed her approbation of De Lacy’s addresses; and whatever she thought or anticipated concerning the proposed marriage, she seemed from that moment to consider it as an event which must necessarily take place. De Lacy himself, as he learned more intimately to know the merit of the prize which he was desirous of possessing, looked forward with different feelings towards the union, than those with which he had first proposed the measure to Raymond Berenger. It was then a mere match of interest and convenience, which had occurred to the mind of a proud and politic feudal lord, as the best mode of consolidating the power and perpetuating the line of his family. Nor did even the splendour of Eveline’s beauty make that impression upon De Lacy, which it was calculated to do on the fiery and impassioned chivalry of the age. He was past that period of life when the wise are captivated by outward form, and might have said with truth, as well as with discretion, that he could have wished his beautiful bride several years older, and possessed of a more moderate portion of personal charms, in order to have rendered the match more fitted for his own age and disposition. This stoicism, however, vanished, when, on repeated interviews with his destined bride, he found that she was indeed inexperienced in life, but desirous to be guided by superior wisdom; and that, although gifted with high spirit, and a disposition which began to recover its natural elastic gaiety, she was gentle, docile, and, above all, endowed with a firmness of principle, which seemed to give assurance that she would tread uprightly, and without spot, the slippery paths in which youth and beauty, are doomed to move. As feelings of a warmer and more impassioned kind towards Eveline began to glow in De Lacy’s bosom, his engagements as a crusader became more and more burdensome to him. The Benedictine Abbess,

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the natural guardian of Eveline’s happiness, added to these feelings by her reasoning and remonstrances. Although a nun and a devotee, she held in reverence the holy state of matrimony, and comprehended so much of it as to be aware, that its important purposes could not be accomplished while the whole continent of Europe was interposed betwixt the married pair; for as to a hint from the Constable, that his young spouse might accompany him into the dangerous and dissolute precincts of the Crusaders’ camp, the good lady crossed herself with horror at a proposal which she never permitted to be a second time mentioned in her presence. It was not, however, uncommon for kings, princes, and other persons of high consequence, who had taken upon them the vow to rescue Jerusalem, to obtain delays, and even a total remission of their engagement, by proper application at the Church of Rome. The Constable was sure to possess the full advantage of his sovereign’s interest and countenance, in seeking permission to remain in England, for he was the noble to whose valour and policy Henry had chiefly intrusted the defence of the disorderly Welch marches; and it was by no means with his good will that so useful a subject had ever assumed the cross. It was settled, therefore, in private betwixt the Abbess and the Constable, that the latter should solicit at Rome, and with the Pope’s Legate in England, a remission of his vow for at least two years; a favour which it was thought could scarce be refused to one of his wealth and influence, backed as it was with the most liberal offers of assistance towards the redemption of the Holy Land. His offers were indeed munificent; for he proposed, if his own personal attendance were dispensed with, to send an hundred lances at his own cost, each lance accompanied by two squires, three archers, and a varlet or horse-boy; being double the retinue by which his own person was to have been accompanied. He offered besides to deposit the sum of two thousand bezants to the general expenses of the expedition and to surrender to the use of the Christian armament those equipped vessels which he had provided, and which even now awaited the embarkation of himself and his followers. Yet, while making these magnificent proffers, the Constable could not help feeling they would be inadequate to the expectations of the rigid prelate Baldwin, who, as he had himself preached the crusade, and brought the Constable and many others into that holy engagement, must needs see with displeasure the work of his eloquence endangered, by the retreat of so important an associate from his favourite enterprize. To soften, therefore, his disappointment as much as possible, the Constable offered to the Archbishop, that, in the event of his obtaining license to remain in Britain, his forces

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should be led by his nephew, Damian Lacy, already renowned for his early feats of chivalry, the present hope of his house, and, failing heirs of his own body, its future head and support. The Constable took the most prudent method of communicating this proposal to the Archbishop Baldwin, through a mutual friend, on whose good offices he could depend, and whose interest with the Prelate was regarded as great. But notwithstanding the splendour of the proposal, the Prelate heard it with sullen and obstinate silence, and referred for answer to a personal conference with the Constable at an appointed day, when concerns of the Church would call the Archbishop to the city of Gloucester. The report of the mediator was such as induced the Constable to expect a severe struggle with the proud and powerful churchman; but, himself proud and powerful, and backed by the favour of his sovereign, he did not expect to be foiled in the contest. The necessity that this point should be previously adjusted, as well as the recent loss of Eveline’s father, gave an air of privacy to De Lacy’s courtship, and prevented its being signalized by tournaments and feats of military skill, with which he would have been otherwise desirous to display his own address in the eyes of his mistress. The rules of the convent prevented his giving entertainments of dancing, music, or other more pacific revels; and although the Constable displayed his affection by the most splendid gifts to his future bride and her attendants, the whole affair, in the opinion of the experienced Dame Gillian, proceeded more with the solemnity of a funeral, than the light pace of an approaching bridal. The bride herself felt something of this, and thought occasionally it might have been lightened by the visits of young Damian, in whose age, so nearly corresponding to her own, she might have expected some relief from the formal courtship of his graver uncle. But he came not; and from what the Constable said concerning him, she was led to imagine that the relations had, for a time at least, exchanged occupations and character. The elder De Lacy continued, indeed, in nominal observance of his vow, to dwell in a pavilion by the gates of Gloucester; but he seldom donned his armour, substituted costly damask and silk for his war-worn shamoy doublet, and affected at his advanced time of life more gaiety of attire than his contemporaries remembered as distinguishing his early youth. The nephew, on the contrary, resided almost constantly on the marches of Wales, occupied in settling by prudence, or subduing by main force, the various disturbances by which these provinces were agitated; and Eveline learned with surprise, that it was with difficulty his uncle had prevailed on him to be present at the ceremony of their being betrothed to each other, or, as

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the Normans entitled it, their fiançailles. This engagement, which preceded the actual marriage, for a space more or less according to circumstances, was usually celebrated with a solemnity corresponding to the rank of the contracting parties. The Constable added, with expressions of regret, that Damian gave himself too little rest, considering his early youth, slept too little, and indulged in too restless a disposition—that his health was suffering under it—and that a learned Jewish leech, whose opinion had been taken, had given his advice that the warmth of a more genial climate was necessary to restore his constitution to its general and natural vigour. Eveline heard this with much regret, for she remembered Damian as the angel of good tidings, who first brought her news of deliverance from the forces of the Welch; and the occasions on which they had met, though mournful, brought a sort of pleasure in recollection, so gentle had been the youth’s deportment, and so consoling his expressions of sympathy. She wished she could see him, that she might herself judge of the nature of his illness; for, like other damsels of that age, she was not entirely ignorant of the art of healing, and had been taught by Father Aldrovand, himself no mean physician, how to extract healing essences from plants and herbs gathered under planetary hours. She thought it possible that her talents in this art, slight as they were, might perhaps be of service to one already her friend and liberator, and soon about to become her very near relation. It was therefore with a sensation of pleasure, mingled with some confusion, (at the idea, doubtless, of assuming the part of medical adviser to so young a patient,) that one evening, while the convent was assembled about some business of their chapter, she heard Gillian announce that the kinsman of the Lord Constable desired to speak with her. She snatched up the veil, which she wore in compliance with the customs of the house, and hastily descended to the parlour, commanding the attendance of Gillian, who, nevertheless, did not think proper to obey the signal. When she entered the apartment, a man whom she had never seen before advanced, kneeled on one knee, and, taking up the hem of her veil, saluted it with an air of the most profound respect. She stepped back, surprised and alarmed, although there was nothing in the appearance of the stranger to justify her apprehension. He seemed to be about thirty years of age, tall of stature, and bearing a noble though wasted form, and a countenance on which disease, or perhaps the indulgence of early passions, had anticipated the traces of age. His demeanour seemed courteous and respectful, even in a degree which approached to excess. He observed Eveline’s surprise, and said, in a

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tone of pride, mingled with emotion, “I fear that I have been mistaken, and that my visit is regarded as an unwelcome intrusion.” “Arise, sir,” answered Eveline, “and let me know your name and business. I was summoned to a kinsman of the Constable of Chester.” “And you expected the stripling Damian,” answered the stranger. “But the match with which England rings will connect you with others of the House—and amongst these, with the luckless Randal de Lacy. Perhaps,” continued he, “the fair Eveline Berenger may not even have heard his name breathed by his more fortunate kinsman—more fortunate in every respect, but most fortunate in his present prospects.” This compliment was accompanied by a deep reverence, and Eveline stood much embarrassed how to reply to his civilities; for although she now well remembered to have heard this Randal slightly mentioned by the Constable when speaking of his family, it was in terms which implied that there was no good understanding betwixt them. She therefore only returned his courtesy by general thanks for the honour of this visit, trusting he would then retire. But such was not his purpose. “I comprehend,” he said, “from the coldness with which the Lady Eveline Berenger receives me, that what she has heard of me from my kinsman, (if indeed he thought me worthy of being mentioned to her at all,) has been, to say the least, unfavourable. And yet my name once stood as high in fields and courts, as that of the Constable; nor is it aught more disgraceful than what is indeed often esteemed the worst of disgraces—poverty, which prevents my still aspiring to places of honour and fame. If my youthful follies have been numerous, I have paid for them by the loss of my fortune, and the degradation of my condition—and therein my happy kinsman might, if he pleased, do me some aid—I mean not with his purse or estate; for, poor as I am, I would not live on alms extorted from the reluctant hand of an estranged friend; but his countenance would put him to no cost, and, in so far, I might expect some favour.” “In that my Lord Constable,” said Eveline, “must judge for himself. I have—as yet, at least—no right to interfere in his family affairs; and if I should ever have such right, it will well become me to be cautious how I use it.” “It is prudently answered,” replied Randal; “but what I ask of you is merely, that you, in your gentleness, would please to convey to my cousin a suit, which I find it hard to bring my ruder tongue to utter with sufficient submission. The usurers, whose claims have eaten like a canker into my means, now menace me with a dungeon; a threat which they dared not mutter, far less attempt to execute, were it not that they see me an outcast, unprotected by the natural head of my

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family, and regard me rather as they would some unfriended vagrant, than as a descendant of the powerful House of Lacy.” “It is a sad necessity,” replied Eveline; “but I see not how I can help you in such extremity.” “Easily,” replied Randal Lacy. “The day of your betrothal is fixed, as I hear reported; and it is your right to select what witnesses you please to the solemnity, which may the saints bless! To every one but myself, presence or absence on that occasion is a matter of mere ceremony—to me it is almost life or death. So am I situated, that the marked instance of slight or contempt, implied by my exclusion from this meeting of our family, will be held for the signal of my final expulsion from the family of the De Lacys, and for a thousand bloodhounds to assail me without mercy or forbearance, whom, cowards as they are, even the slightest shew of countenance from my powerful kinsman would compel to stand at bay. But why should I occupy your time in talking thus?—Farewell, madam—be happy—and do not think of me the more harshly, that for a few minutes I have broken the tenor of your happy thoughts, by forcing my misfortunes on your notice.” “Stay, sir,” said Eveline, affected by the tone and manner of the noble suppliant; “you shall not have it to say that you have told your distress to Eveline Berenger, without receiving such aid as is in her power to give. I will mention your request to the Constable of Chester.” “You must do more, if you really mean to assist me,” said Randal Lacy, “you must make that request your own. You do not know,” said he, continuing to bend on her a fixed and expressive look, “how hard it is to change the fixed purpose of a De Lacy—a twelvemonth hence you will probably be better acquainted with the firm texture of our resolutions. But, at present, what can withstand your wish should you deign to express it?” “Your suit, sir, shall not be lost for want of my advancing it with my good word and good wishes,” replied Eveline; “but you must be well aware that its success or failure must rest with the Constable himself.” Randal de Lacy took his leave with the same air of deep reverence which had marked his entrance; only that, as he then saluted the skirt of Eveline’s robe, he now rendered the same homage by touching her hand with his lip. She saw him depart with a mixture of emotions, in which compassion was predominant; although in his complaints of the Constable’s unkindness to him there was something offensive, and his avowal of follies and excess seemed uttered rather in the spirit of wounded pride, than in that of contrition. When Eveline next saw the Constable, she told him of the visit of

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Randal, and of his request, and strictly observing his countenance while she spoke, she saw, that at the first mention of his kinsman’s name, a gleam of anger shot along his countenance. He soon subdued it, however, and, fixing his eyes on the ground, listened to Eveline’s detailed account of the visit, and her request “that Randal might be one of the invited witnesses to their fiançailles.” The Constable paused for a moment, as if he were considering how to elude the solicitation. At length he replied, “You do not know for whom you ask this, or you would perhaps have forborne your request; neither are you apprized of its full import, though my crafty cousin well knows, that when I do him this grace which he asks, I bind myself, as it were, in the eye of the world once more—and it will be for the third time—to interfere in his affairs, and place them on such a footing as may afford him the means of re-establishing his fallen consequence, and repairing his numerous errors.” “And wherefore not, my lord?” said the generous Eveline. “If he has been only ruined through follies, he is now of an age when these are no longer tempting snares; and if his heart and hand be good, he may yet be an honour to the House of De Lacy.” The Constable shook his head. “He hath indeed,” he said, “a heart and hand fit for service, God knoweth, whether in good or evil. But never shall it be said that you, my fair Eveline, made request of Hugh de Lacy, which he was not to his uttermost willing to comply with. Randal shall attend at our fiançailles;—there is indeed the more cause for his attendance, as I somewhat fear we may lack that of our valued nephew Damian, whose malady rather increases than declines, and, as I hear, with strange symptoms of unwonted disturbance of mind and starts of temper, to which no youth hath hitherto been less subject.”    

TALES OF THE CRUSADERS

tale 1 THE BETROTHED

Chapter One Ring out the merry bells, the bride approaches. The blush upon her cheek has shamed the morning, For that is dawning palely. Grant, good saints, These clouds betoken nought of evil omen. Old Play

T  day of the fiançailles, or espousals, was now approaching; and it seems that neither the profession of the Abbess, nor her practice at least, were so rigid as to prevent her selecting the great parlour of the convent for that holy rite, although necessarily introducing many male guests within those vestal precincts, and notwithstanding that the rite itself was the preliminary to a state which the inmates of the cloister had renounced for ever. The Abbess’s Norman pride of birth, and the real interest which she took in her niece’s advancement, overcame all scruples; and the venerable mother might be seen in unwonted bustle, now giving orders to the gardener for decking the apartment with flowers, now to her cellaress, her precentrix, and the lay-sisters of the kitchen, for preparing a splendid banquet, mingling her commands on these worldly subjects with an occasional ejaculation on their vanity and worthlessness, and every now and then converting the busy and anxious looks which she threw upon her preparations into a solemn turning upward of eyes and folding of hands, as one who sighed over the mere earthly pomp which she took such trouble in superintending. At another time the good lady might have been seen in close consultation with Father Aldrovand upon the ceremonial, civil and religious, which was to accompany a solemnity of such consequence to her family. Meanwhile the reins of discipline, although relaxed for a season, 141

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were not entirely thrown loose. The outer court of the convent was indeed for the time opened for the reception of the male sex; but the younger sisters and novices of the house being carefully secluded in the more inner apartments of the extensive building, under the immediate eye of a grim old nun, or, as the conventual rule designed her, an ancient, sad, and virtuous person, termed Mistress of the Novices, were not permitted to pollute their eyes by looking on waving plumes and rustling mantles. A few sisters, indeed, of the Abbess’s own standing, were left at liberty, being such goods as it was thought could not, in shopman’s phrase, take harm from the air, and which are therefore left lying loose upon the counter. These antiquated dames went mumping about with much affected indifference, and a great deal of real curiosity, endeavouring indirectly to get information concerning names, and dresses, and decorations, without daring to shew such interest in these vanities as actual questions on the subject might have implied. A stout band of the Constable’s spearmen guarded the gate of the nunnery, admitting within the hallowed precinct the few only who were to be present at the solemnity, with their principal attendants; and while the former were ushered with all form into the apartments dressed out for the occasion, the attendants, although detained in the outer court, were liberally supplied with refreshments of the most substantial kind, and had the amusement, so dear to the menial classes, of examining and criticizing their masters and their mistresses, as they passed into the interior apartments prepared for their reception. Amongst the domestics who were thus employed were old Raoul the huntsman and his jolly dame;—he gay and glorious, in a new cassock of green velvet, she gracious and comely, in a kirtle of yellow silk, fringed with minivair, and that at no mean cost, were eagerly busied in beholding the gay spectacle. The most inveterate wars have their occasional terms of truce; the most bitter and boisterous weather its hours of warmth and of calmness; and so was it with the matrimonial horizon of this amiable pair, which, usually cloudy, had now for brief space cleared up. The splendour of their new apparel, the mirth of the spectacle around them, with the aid, perhaps, of a bowl of muscadine quaffed by Raoul, and a cup of hippocras sipped by his wife, had rendered them rather more agreeable in each other’s eyes than was their wont; good cheer being in such cases as oil is to a rusty lock, the means of making those valves move smoothly and glibly, which otherwise work not together at all, or by shrieks and groans express their reluctance to move in unison. The pair had stuck themselves into a kind of niche, three or four steps from the ground, which

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contained a small stone bench, whence their curious eyes could scrutinize with advantage every guest who entered the court. Thus placed, and in their present state of temporary concord, Raoul with his frosty visage formed no unapt representative of January, the bitter father of the year, and though Gillian was past the delicate bloom of youthful May, yet the melting fire of a full dark eye, and the genial glow of a ripe and crimson cheek, made her a lively type of the fruitful and jovial August. Dame Gillian used to make it her boast, that she could please everybody with her gossip, when she chose it, from Raymond Berenger down to Robin the horseboy; and like a good housewife, who, to keep her hand in use, will sometimes even condescend to dress a dish for her husband’s sole eating, she now thought proper to practise her powers of pleasing on old Raoul, fairly conquering, in her successful sallies of mirth and satire, not only his cynical temperament towards all human kind, but his peculiar and special disposition to be testy with his spouse. Her jokes, such as they were, and the coquetry with which they were enforced, had such an effect on this Timon of the woods, that he curled up his cynical nose, displayed his few straggling teeth like a cur about to bite, broke out into a barking laugh, which was more like the cry of one of his own hounds— stopped short in the explosion, as if he had suddenly recollected that it was out of character; yet, ere he resumed his acrimonious gravity, shot such a glance at Gillian as made his nut-cracker jaws, pinched eyes, and convolved nose, bear no slight resemblance to one of those fantastic faces which decorate the upper end of old bass-viols. “Is not this better than laying your dog-leash on your loving wife, as if she were a brach of the kennel?” said August to January. “In troth is it,” answered January, in a frost-bitten tone;—“and so it is also better than doing the brach-tricks which bring the leash into exercise.” “Humph!” said Gillian, in the tone of one who thought her husband’s proposition might bear being disputed; but instantly changing the note to that of tender complaint, “Ah! Raoul,” she said, “do you not remember how you once beat me because our late lord,—Our Lady assoil him!—took my crimson breast-knot for a peony rose?” “Ay, ay,” said the huntsman; “I remember our old master would make such mistakes—Our Lady assoilzie him! as you say—The best hound will hunt counter.” “And how could you think, dearest Raoul, to let the wife of thy bosom go so long without a new kirtle?” said his helpmate. “Why, thou has got one from our young lady that might serve a countess,” said Raoul, his concord jarred by her touching this chord —“how many kirtles wouldst thou have?”

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“Only two, kind Raoul; just that folks may not count their children’s age by the date of Dame Gillian’s last new gown.” “Well, well—it is hard that a man cannot be in good humour once and away without being made to pay for it. But thou shalt have a new kirtle at Michaelmas, when I sell the bucks-hides for the season. The very antlers should bring a good penny this year.” “Ay, ay,” said Gillian; “I ever told thee, husband, thy horns would be worth thy hide in a fair market.” Raoul turned briskly round as if a wasp had stung him, and there is no guessing what his reply might have been to this seemingly innocent observation, had not a gallant horseman at that instant entered the court, and, dismounting like the others, gave his horse to the charge of a squire, or equerry, whose attire blazed with embroidery. “By Saint Hubert, a proper horseman, and a destrier for an earl,” said Raoul; “and my Lord Constable’s liveries withal. Yet, I know not the gallant.” “But I do,” said Gillian; “it is Randal de Lacy, the Constable’s kinsman, and as good a man as ever came of the name!” “Oh! by Saint Hubert, I have heard of him—men say he is a reveller, and a jangler, and a waster of his goods.” “Men lie now and then,” said Gillian drily. “And women also,” replied Raoul;—“why, methinks he winked on thee just now.” “That right eye of thine saw never true since our good lord—Saint Mary rest him!—flung a cup of wine in thy face, for pressing over boldly into his withdrawing-room.” “I marvel,” said Raoul, as if he heard her not, “that yonder ruffler comes hither. I have heard that he is suspected to have attempted the Constable’s life, and that they have not spoken together for five years.” “He comes on my young lady’s invitation, and that I know full well,” said Dame Gillian; “and he is less like to do the Constable wrong than to have wrong at his hand, poor gentleman, as indeed he has had enough of that already.” “And who told thee so?” said Raoul bitterly. “No matter, it was one who knew all about it very well,” said the dame, who began to fear that, in displaying her triumph of superior information, she had been rather over communicative. “It must have been the devil, or Randal himself,” said Raoul, “for no other mouth is large enough for such a lie.—But hark ye, Dame Gillian, who is he that presses forward next, like a man that scarce sees how he goes?”

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“Even your angel of grace, my young Squire Damian,” said Dame Gillian. “It is impossible!” answered Raoul—“Call me blind if thou wilt; but I have never seen man so changed in a few weeks—and his attire is flung on him so wildly as if he wore a horse-cloth round him instead of a mantle—What can ail the youth?—he has made a dead pause at the door, as if he saw something on the threshold that debarred his entrance.—Saint Hubert, but he looks as if he were elfstricken!” “You ever thought him such a treasure!” said Gillian; “and now look at him as he stands by the side of a real gentleman, how he stares and trembles as if he were distraught.” “I will speak to him,” said Raoul, forgetting his lameness, and springing from his elevated station—“I will speak to him, and, if he be unwell, I have my lancets and fleams to bleed man as well as brute.” “And a fit physician for such a patient,” muttered Gillian,—“ a dog-leech for a dreamy madman, that neither knows his own disease nor the way to cure it.” Meanwhile the old huntsman made his way towards the entrance, before which Damian remained standing, in apparent uncertainty whether he should enter or not, regardless of the crowd around, and at the same time attracting their attention by the singularity of his deportment. Raoul had a private favour for Damian, for which, perhaps, it was a chief reason, that of late his wife had been in the habit of speaking of him in a tone more disrespectful than she usually applied to handsome young men. Besides, he understood the youth was a second Sir Tristrem in sylvan sports by wood and river, and there needed no more to fetter Raoul’s soul to him with bands of steel. He saw with great concern his conduct attract general notice, mixed with some ridicule. “He stands,” said the town-jester, who had crowded into the gay throng, “before the gate, like Balaam’s ass in the Mystery, when the animal sees so much more than can be seen by any one else.” A cut from Raoul’s ready leash rewarded the felicity of this application, and sent the fool howling off to seek a more favourable audience for his pleasantry. At the same time Raoul pressed up to Damian, and with an earnestness very different from his usual dry causticity of manner, begged him for God’s sake not to make himself the general spectacle, by standing there as if the devil sat on the door-way, but either to enter, or, what might be as becoming, to retire, and make himself more fit in apparel for attending on a solemnity so nearly concerning his house. “And what ails my apparel, old man?” said Damian, turning sternly

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on the huntsman, as one who has been hastily and uncivilly roused from a reverie. “Only, with respect to your valour,” answered the huntsman, “men do not usually put old mantles over new doublets; and methinks, with submission, that of yours neither accords with your dress, nor is fitted for this noble presence.” “Thou art a fool!” answered Damian, “and as green in wit as grey in years. Know you not that in these days the young and old consort together—contract together—wed together? and should we take more care to make our apparel consistent than our actions?” “For God’s sake, my lord,” said Raoul, “forbear these wild and dangerous words—they may be heard by other ears than mine, and construed by worse interpreters—there may be here those who will pretend to track mischief from light words, as I would find a buck by his frayings. Your cheek is pale, my lord, your eye is blood-shot—for Heaven’s sake retire!” “I will not retire,” said Damian, with yet more distemperature of manner, “till I have seen the Lady Eveline.” “For the sake of all the saints,” ejaculated Raoul, “not now!—You will do my lady incredible injury by forcing yourself into her presence in this condition.” “Do you think so?” said Damian, the remark seeming to operate as a sedative which enabled him to collect his scattered thoughts—“Do you really think so?—I thought that to have looked upon her once more—but no—you are in the right, old man.” He turned from the door as if to withdraw, but ere he could accomplish his purpose, he turned yet more pale than before, staggered, and fell on the pavement ere Raoul could afford him his support, useless as that might have proved. Those who raised him were surprised to observe that his garments were soiled with blood, and that the stains upon his cloak, which had been criticised by Raoul, were of the same complection. A grave-looking personage, wrapped in a sad-coloured mantle, came forth from the crowd. “I knew how it would be,” he said; “I made venesection this morning, and commanded repose and sleep according to the aphorisms of Hippocrates; but if young gentlemen will neglect the ordinance of their physician, Medicine will avenge herself. It is impossible that my bandish or ligature, knit by these fingers, should have started, but to avenge the neglect of the precepts of art.” “What means this unnecessary prate?” said the voice of the Constable, before which all others were silent. He had been summoned forth just as the rite of espousal or betrothing was concluded, on the confusion occasioned by Damian’s situation, and now sternly com-

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manded the physician to replace the bandages which had slipped from his nephew’s arm, himself assisting in the task of supporting the patient, with the anxious and deeply agitated feelings of one who saw a near and justly valued relative—as yet, the heir of his fame and family —stretched before him in a condition so dangerous. But the griefs of the powerful and the fortunate are often mingled with the impatience of interrupted prosperity. “What means this?” he demanded sternly of the leech. “I sent you this morning to attend my nephew on the first tidings of his illness, and commanded that he should make no attempt to be present on this day’s solemnity, yet I find him in this state, and in this place.” “So please your lordship,” replied the leech, with a conscious selfimportance, which even the presence of the Constable could not subdue—“Curatio est canonica non coacta, which signifieth, my lord, that the physician acteth his cure by rules of art and science—by advice and prescription, but not by force or violence upon the patient, who cannot be at all benefited unless he be voluntarily amenable to the orders of his medicum.” “Tell me not of your jargon,” said De Lacy; “if my nephew was light-headed enough to attempt to come hither in the heat of a delirious distemper, you should have had sense to prevent him, had it been by actual force.” “It may be,” said Randal de Lacy, joining the crowd, who, forgetting the cause which had brought them together, were now assembled about Damian, “that more powerful was the magnet which drew our kinsman hither, than aught the leech could do to withhold him.” The Constable, still busied about his nephew, looked up as Randal spoke, and when he was done, asked, with formal coldness of manner, “Ha, fair kinsman, of what magnet do you speak?” “Surely of your nephew’s love and regard to your lordship,” answered Randal, “which, not to mention his respect for the Lady Eveline, must have compelled him hither, if his limbs were able to bear him.—And here the bride comes, I think, in charity, to thank him for his zeal.” “What unhappy case is this? “said the Lady Eveline, pressing forward, much disordered with the intelligence of Damian’s danger, which had been suddenly conveyed to her. “Is there nothing in which my poor service may avail?” “Nothing, lady,” said the Constable, rising from beside his nephew, and taking her hand; “your kindness is here mistimed—this motley assembly, this unseeming confusion, becomes not your presence.” “Unless it could be helpful, my lord,” said Eveline, eagerly. “It is

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your nephew who is in danger—my deliverer—one of my deliverers, I would say.” “He is fitly attended by his chirurgeon,” said the Constable, leading back his reluctant bride into the convent, while the medical attendant triumphantly exclaimed, “Well judgeth my Lord Constable, to withdraw his noble lady from the host of petticoated empirics, who, like so many Amazons, break in upon and derange the regular course of physical practice, with their petulant prognostics, their rash recipes, their mithridate, their sumifuges, their amulets, and their charms. Well speaketh the Ethnic poet, ‘Non audet, nisi quæ didicit, dare quod medicorum est; Promittunt medici—tractant fabrilia fabri.’”

As he repeated these lines with much emphasis, the doctor permitted his patient’s arm to drop from his hand, that he might aid the cadence with a flourish of his own. “There,” said he to the spectators, “is what not one of you understands—no, by Saint Luke, nor the Constable himself.” “But he knows how to whip in a hound that brabbles when he should be busy,” said Raoul; and, silenced by the hint, the chirurgeon betook himself to his proper duty of superintending the removal of young Damian to an apartment in the neighbouring street, where the symptoms of his disorder seemed rather to increase than diminish, and speedily required all the skill and attention which the leech could bestow. The subscription of the contract of marriage had, as already noticed, been just concluded, when the company assembled on the occasion were interrupted by the news of Damian’s illness. When the Constable led his bride from the court-yard into the apartment where the company was assembled, there was discomposure and uneasiness on the countenance of both; and it was not a little increased by the bride pulling her hand hastily from the hold of the bridegroom, on observing that the latter was stained with recent blood, and had in truth left the same stamp upon her own. With a faint exclamation she shewed the marks to Rose, saying, at the same time, “What bodes this?—Is this the revenge of the Bloody-finger already commencing?” “It bodes nothing, my dearest lady,” said Rose—“it is our own fears that are prophets, not those trifles which we take for augury—for God’s sake, speak to my lord!—he is surprised at your agitation.” “Let him ask me the cause himself,” said Eveline; “fitter it should be told at his bidding, than be offered by me unasked.” The Constable, while his bride stood thus conversing with her maiden, had also observed, that in his anxiety to assist his nephew, he

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had transferred part of his blood from his own hands to Eveline’s dress. He came forward to apologize for what at such a moment seemed almost ominous. “Fair lady,” said he, “the blood of a true De Lacy can never bode aught but peace and happiness to you.” Eveline seemed as if she would have answered, but could not immediately find words. The faithful Rose, at the risk of incurring the censure of being over forward, hastened to reply to the compliment. “Every damsel is bound to believe what you say, my noble lord,” was her answer, “knowing how readily that blood hath ever flowed for protecting the distressed, and so lately for our own relief.” “It is well spoken, little one,” answered the Constable; “and the Lady Eveline is happy in a maiden who so well knows how to speak when it is her own pleasure to be silent.—Come, lady,” he added, “let us hope this mishap of my kinsman is but like a sacrifice to fortune, which permits not the brightest hour to pass without some intervening shadow. Damian, I trust, will speedily recover, and be we mindful that the blood-drops which alarm you have been drawn by a friendly steel, and are symptoms rather of recovery than of illness.—Come, dearest lady, your silence discourages our friends, and wakes in them doubts that we are sincere in the welcome due to them. Let me be your sewer,” he said, and taking a silver ewer and napkin from the standing cupboard, which was loaded with plate, he presented them on his knee to his bride. Exerting herself to shake off the alarm into which she had been thrown by some supposed coincidence of the present accident with the apparition at Baldringham, Eveline, entering into her betrothed husband’s humour, was about to raise him from the ground, when she was interrupted by the arrival of a hasty messenger, who, coming into the room without ceremony, informed the Constable that his nephew was so extremely ill, that if he hoped to see him alive, it would be necessary he should come to his lodgings instantly. The Constable started up, made a brief adieu to Eveline and to the guests, who, dismayed at this new and disastrous intelligence, were preparing to disperse themselves, when, as he advanced towards the door, he was met by a Paritor or Summoner of the Ecclesiastical Court, whose official dress had procured him unobstructed entrance into the precincts of the abbey. “Deus vobiscum,” said the paritor; “I would know which of this fair company is the Constable of Chester?” “I am he,” answered the elder De Lacy; “but if thy business be not the more hasty, I cannot now speak with thee—I am bound on matters of life and death.” “I take all Christian people to witness that I have discharged my

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duty,” said the paritor, putting into the hand of the Constable a slip of parchment. “How is this, fellow?” said the Constable in great indignation— “for whom or what does your master the Archbishop take me, that he deals with me in this uncourteous fashion, citing me to compear before him more like a delinquent than a friend or a nobleman?” “My gracious lord,” answered the paritor haughtily, “is accountable to no one but our Holy Father the Pope for the exercise of the power which is intrusted to him by the canons of the Church. Your lordship’s answer to my citation?” “Is the Archbishop present in this city?” said the Constable, after a moment’s reflection—“I knew not of his purpose to travel hither, still less of his purpose to exercise authority within these bounds.” “My gracious lord the Archbishop,” said the paritor, “is but now arrived in this city, of which he is metropolitan; and, besides, by his apostolical commission, a legate a latere hath plenary jurisdiction throughout all England, as those may find (whatsoever be their degree) who may dare to disobey his summons.” “Hark thee, fellow,” said the Constable, regarding the paritor with a grim and angry countenance; “were it not for certain respects which I promise thee thy tawny hood hath little to do with, thou wert better have swallowed thy citation, seal and all, than delivered it to me with the addition of such saucy terms. Go hence, and tell your master I will see him within the space of an hour, during which time I am delayed by the necessity of attending a sick relation.” The paritor left the apartment with more humility in his manner than when he had entered, and left the assembled guests to look upon each other in silence and dismay. The reader cannot fail to remember how severely the yoke of the Roman supremacy pressed both on the clergy and laity of England during the reign of Henry II. Even the attempt of that wise and courageous monarch to make a stand for the independence of his throne in the memorable case of Thomas a Becket, had such an unhappy issue, that, like a suppressed rebellion, it was found to add new strength to the domination of the church. Since the submission of the king in that ill-fated struggle, the voice of Rome had double potency whensoever it was heard, and the boldest peers of England held it more wise to submit to her imperious dictates, than to provoke a spiritual censure which had so many secular consequences. Hence the slight and scornful manner in which the Constable was treated by the prelate Baldwin struck a chill of astonishment into the assembly of friends whom he had collected to witness his espousals; and as he glanced his haughty eye around, he saw how many who would have

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stood by him through life and death in any other quarrel, had it even been with his sovereign, were turning pale at the very thought of a quarrel with the Church. Embarrassed, and at the same time incensed at their timidity, the Constable hasted to dismiss them, with the general assurance that all would be well—that his nephew’s indisposition was a trifling complaint, exaggerated by a conceited physician, and by his own want of care—and that the message of the Archbishop, so unceremoniously delivered, was but the consequence of their mutual and friendly familiarity, which induced them sometimes, for the jest’s sake, to reverse or neglect the ordinary forms of intercourse.—“If I wanted to speak with the prelate Baldwin on express business and in haste, such is the humility and indifference to form of that worthy pillar of the church, that I should not fear offence,” said the Constable, “did I send the meanest horseboy in my troop to ask an audience of him.” So he spoke—but there was something in his countenance which contradicted his words; and his friends and relations retired from the splendid and joyful ceremony of his espousals as from a funeral feast, with anxious thoughts and with downcast eyes. Randal was the only person, who, having attentively watched the whole progress of the affair during the evening, ventured to approach his cousin as he left the house, and asked him, “in the name of their re-united friendship, whether he had nothing to command him?” assuring him, with a look more expressive than his words, that he would not find him cold in his service. “I have nought which can exercise your zeal, fair cousin,” replied the Constable, with the air of one who partly questioned the speaker’s sincerity; and the parting reverence with which he accompanied his words, left Randal no pretext for continuing his attendance, as he seemed to have designed.

Chapter Two Oh, were I seated high as my ambition, I’d place this naked foot on necks of monarchs! Mysterious Mother

T  most anxious and unhappy moment of Hugo de Lacy’s life, was unquestionably that in which, by espousing Eveline with all civil and religious solemnity, he seemed to approach to what for some time he had considered as the prime object of his wishes. He was assured of the early possession of a beautiful and amiable wife, endowed with such advantage of worldly goods, as gratified his ambition as well as

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his affections. Yet, even in this fortunate moment, the horizon darkened around him, in a manner which presaged nought but storm and calamity. At his nephew’s lodging he learned that the pulse of the patient had risen, and his delirium had augmented, and all around him spoke very doubtfully of his chance of recovery, or surviving a crisis which seemed speedily approaching. The Constable stole towards the door of the apartment which his feelings permitted him not to enter, and listened to the raving which the fever gave rise to. Nothing can be more melancholy than to hear the mind at work concerning its ordinary occupations, when the body is stretched in pain and danger upon the couch of severe sickness. The contrast betwixt the ordinary state of health, its joys or its labours, renders doubly affecting the actual helplessness of the patient before whom these visions are rising, and we feel a corresponding degree of compassion for the sufferer whose thoughts are wandering so far from his real condition. The Constable felt this acutely as he heard his nephew shout the war-cry of the family repeatedly, appearing, by the words of command and direction which he uttered from time to time, to be actively engaged in leading his men-at-arms against the Welch. At another time he muttered various terms of the manege, of falconry, and of the chase—he mentioned his uncle’s name repeatedly on these occasions, as if the idea of his kinsman had been connected alike with his martial encounters, and with his sports by wood and river. Other sounds there were, which he muttered so low as to be altogether undistinguishable. With a heart ever still more softened towards his kinsman’s sufferings as he heard the points on which his mind wandered, the Constable twice applied his hand to the latch of the door, in order to enter the bed-room, and twice forbore, his eyes running faster with tears than he chose should be witnessed by the attendants. At length, relinquishing his purpose, he hastily left the house, mounted his horse, and, followed only by four of his personal attendants, rode towards the palace of the Bishop, where, as he learned from public rumour, the Arch-prelate Baldwin had taken up his temporary residence. The train of riders and of led horses, of sumpter mules, and of menials and attendants, both lay and ecclesiastical, which thronged around the gate of the Episcopal mansion, together with the gaping crowd of inhabitants who had gathered around, some to gaze upon the splendid show, some to have the chance of receiving the benediction of the Holy Prelate, was so great as to impede the Constable’s approach to the palace-door; and when this obstacle was surmounted, he found another in the obstinacy of the Archbishop’s attendants, who permitted him not, though announced by name and title, to cross the

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threshold of the mansion, until they should receive the express command of their master to this effect. The Constable felt the full effect of this slighting reception. He had dismounted from his horse in full confidence of being instantly admitted into the palace at least, if not into the Prelate’s presence, and as he now stood on foot among the squires, grooms, and horse-boys of the spiritual lord, he was so much disgusted, that his first impulse was to re-mount his horse, and return to his pavilion, pitched for the time before the city walls, leaving it to the Bishop to seek him there if he really desired an interview. But the necessity of conciliation almost immediately rushed on his mind, and subdued the first haughty impulses of his offended pride. “If our wise King,” he said to himself, “hath held the stirrup of one Prelate of Canterbury when living, and submitted to the most degrading observances before his shrine when dead, surely I need not be more scrupulous towards his priestly successor in the same overgrown authority.” Another thought, which he dared hardly to acknowledge, recommended the same humble and submissive course. He could not but feel that, in endeavouring to evade his vows as a crusader, he was incurring some just censure from the Church; and he was not unwilling to hope, that his present cold and scornful reception on Baldwin’s part, might be meant as a part of the penance which his conscience informed him his conduct was about to receive. After a short interval, De Lacy was at length invited to enter the palace of the Bishop of Gloucester, in which he was to meet the Primate of England; but there was more than one brief pause, in hall and anti-room, ere he at length was admitted to Baldwin’s presence. The successor of the celebrated Becket had neither the extensive views, nor the aspiring spirit, of that celebrated personage; but, on the other hand, saint as the latter had become, it may be doubted, whether, in his professions for the weal of Christendom, he was half so sincere as was the present Archbishop. Baldwin was, in truth, a man well qualified to defend the powers which the Church had gained, though perhaps of a character too sincere and candid to be active in extending them. The advancement of the crusade was the chief business of his life, his success the principal cause of his pride; and, if the sense of possessing the powers of eloquent persuasion, and skill to bend the minds of men to his purpose, was blended with his religious zeal, still the tenor of his life, and afterwards his death before Ptolemais, shewed that the liberation of the Holy Sepulchre from the infidels was the unfeigned object of all his exertions. Hugo de Lacy well knew this; and the difficulty of managing such a temper appeared much greater to him on the eve of the interview in which the attempt was to be made,

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than he had suffered himself to suppose when the crisis was yet distant. The Prelate, a man of a handsome and stately form, with features rather too severe to be pleasing, received the Constable in all the pomp of ecclesiastical dignity. He was seated on a chair of oak, richly carved with Gothic ornaments, and placed above the rest of the floor under a niche of the same workmanship. His dress was the rich episcopal robe, ornamented with costly embroidery, and fringed around the neck and cuffs; it opened from the throat and in the middle, and shewed an under vestment of embroidery, betwixt the folds of which, as if imperfectly concealed, peeped the close shirt of hair-cloth which the Prelate constantly wore under all his pompous attire. His mitre was placed beside him on an oaken table of the same workmanship with his throne, against which also rested his pastoral staff, representing a shepherd’s crook of the simplest form, yet which had proved more powerful and fearful than lance or scymitar, when wielded by the hand of Thomas a Becket. A chaplain in a white surplice kneeled at a little distance before a desk, and read forth from an illuminated volume some portion of a theological treatise, in which Baldwin appeared so deeply interested, that he did not seem to notice the entrance of the Constable, who, highly displeased at this additional slight, stood on the floor of the hall, undetermined whether to interrupt the reader and address the Prelate at once, or to withdraw without saluting him at all. Ere he had formed a resolution, the chaplain had arrived at some convenient pause in the lecture, where the Archbishop stopped him with, Satis est, mi fili. It was in vain that the proud secular Baron strove to conceal the embarrassment with which he approached the Prelate, whose attitude was plainly assumed for the purpose of impressing him with awe and solicitude. He tried, indeed, to exhibit a demeanour of such ease as might characterize their old friendship, or at least of such indifference as might infer the possession of perfect tranquillity; but he failed in both, and his address expressed mortified pride, mixed with no ordinary degree of embarrassment. The genius of the Catholic Church was on such occasions sure to predominate over the haughtiest of the laity. “I perceive,” said De Lacy, collecting his thoughts, and ashamed to find he had difficulty in doing so,—“I perceive that an old friendship is here dissolved. Methinks Hugh de Lacy might have expected another messenger should have summoned him to this reverend presence, and that another welcome waited him on his arrival.” The Archbishop raised himself slowly in his seat, and made a half inclination towards the Constable, who, by an instinctive desire of conciliation, returned it lower than he had intended, or than the

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scanty courtesy merited. The Prelate at the same time signing to his chaplain, the latter arose to withdraw, and receiving permission in the phrase “Do veniam,” retreated reverentially, without either turning his back or looking upwards, his eyes fixed on the ground, his hands still folded in his habit, and crossed over his bosom. When this mute attendant had disappeared, the Prelate’s brow became more open, yet retained a dark shade of grave displeasure, and he replied to the address of De Lacy, but still without arising from his seat. “It skills not now, my lord, to say what the brave Constable of Chester has been to the poor priest Baldwin, or with what love and pride we beheld him assume the holy sign of salvation, and, to honour Him by whom he has himself been raised to honour, vow himself to the deliverance of the Holy Land. If I still see that noble lord before me, in the same holy resolution, let me know the joyful truth, and I will lay aside rochet and mitre, and tend his horse like a groom, if it be necessary by such menial service to shew the cordial respect I bear to him.” “Reverend father,” answered De Lacy, with hesitation, “I had hoped that the propositions which were made to you on my part by the Dean of Hereford, might have seemed more satisfactory in your eyes.” Then, regaining his native confidence, he proceeded with more assurance in speech and manner, for the cold inflexible looks of the Archbishop irritated him. “If these proposals can be amended, my lord, let me know in what points, and, if possible, your pleasure shall be done, even if it should prove somewhat unreasonable. I would have peace, my lord, with Holy Church, and am the last who would despise her mandates. This has been known by my deeds in field, and counsels in the state; nor can I think my services have merited cold looks and cold language from the Primate of England.” “Do you upbraid the Church with your services, vain man?” said Baldwin. “I tell thee, Hugh de Lacy, that what Heaven hath wrought for the Church by thy hand, could, had it been the divine pleasure, have been achieved with as much ease by the meanest horseboy in thy host. It is thou that art honoured, in being the chosen instrument by which great things have been wrought in Israel.—Nay, interrupt me not—I tell thee, proud baron, that, in the sight of Heaven, thy wisdom is but as folly—thy courage, which thou doest boast, but the cowardice of a village maiden—thy strength weakness—thy spear an osier, and thy sword a bulrush.” “All this I know, good father,” said the Constable, “and have ever heard it repeated when such poor services as I may have rendered are gone and past—marry, when there was need for my helping hand, I was the very good lord of priest and prelate, and one who should be

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honoured and prayed for with patrons and founders who sleep in the choir and under the high altar—there was no thought, I trow, of osier or of bulrush, when I have been prayed to couch my lance or draw my weapon—it is only when they are needless that they and their owner are undervalued. Well, my reverend father—be it so—if the Church can cast the Saracens from the Holy Land by grooms and horseboys, wherefore do you preach knights and nobles from the homes and the countries which they are born to protect and defend?” The Archbishop looked steadily on him as he replied, “Not for the sake of their fleshly arm do we disturb your knights and barons in their prosecution of barbarous festivities and murderous feuds, which you call enjoying their homes and protecting their domains—not that Omnipotence wants their aid to execute the great predestined work of liberation—but for the weal of their immortal souls.” These last words he pronounced with great emphasis. The Constable paced the floor impatiently, and muttered to himself, “Such is the airy guerdon for which hosts on hosts have been drawn from Europe to drench the sands of Palestine with their gore— such the vain promises for which we are called upon to barter our country, our lands, and our lives.” “Is it Hugo de Lacy speaks thus?” said the Archbishop, arising from his seat, and qualifying his tone of censure with the appearance of shame and of regret—“Is it he who underprizes the renown of a knight—the virtue of a Christian—the advancement of his earthly honour—the more incalculable profit of his immortal soul?—Is it he who desires a solid and substantial recompence in lands or treasure, to be won by warring on his less powerful neighbours at home, while knightly honour and religious faith, his vow as a knight and his baptism as a Christian, call him to a more glorious and more dangerous strife? —Can it be indeed Hugo de Lacy, the mirror of the Anglo-Norman chivalry, whose thoughts can conceive such sentiments, whose word can utter them?” “Flattery and fair speech, suitably mixed with taunts and reproaches, my lord,” answered the Constable, colouring and biting his lip, “may carry your point with others; but I am of a temper too solid to be either wheedled or goaded into measures of importance. Forbear, therefore, this strain of affected amazement, and believe me, that whether he goes to the crusade or abides at home, the character of Hugh Lacy will remain as unimpeached in point of courage as that of the Archbishop Baldwin in point of sanctitude.” “May it stand much higher,” said the Archbishop, “than the reputation with which you vouchsafe to compare it! but a blaze may be extinguished as well as a spark, and I tell the Constable of Chester,

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that the fame which has sat on his basnet for so many years, may flit from it in one moment, never to be recalled.” “Who dares to say so?” said the Constable, tremblingly alive to the honour for which he had encountered so many dangers. “A friend,” said the Prelate, “whose stripes should be received as benefits. You think of pay, Sir Constable, and of guerdon, as if you still stood in the market, free to chaffer on the terms of your service. I tell you, you are no longer your own master—you are, by the blessed badge you have voluntarily assumed, the soldier of God himself; nor can you fly from your standard without such infamy as even coistrels or grooms are unwilling to incur.” “You deal all too hardly with us, my lord,” said Hugo de Lacy, stopping short in his troubled walk. “You of the spirituality make us the packhorses of your own concerns, and climb to ambitious heights by the help of our over-burthened shoulders—but all hath its limit— Becket transgressed it, and——” A gloomy and expressive look corresponded with the tone in which he spoke this broken sentence; and the Prelate, at no loss to comprehend his meaning, replied, in a firm and determined voice, “And he was murthered!—that is what you dare to hint to me,—even to me, the successor of that glorified saint—as a motive for complying with your fickle and selfish wish to withdraw your hand from the plough. You know not to whom you address such a threat. True, Becket, from a saint militant on earth, arrived, by the bloody path of martyrdom, to the dignity of a saint in heaven; and no less true is it, that, to attain a seat a thousand degrees beneath that of his blessed predecessor, the unworthy Baldwin were willing to submit, under Our Lady’s protection, to whatever the worst of wicked men can inflict on his earthly frame.” “There needs not this show of courage, reverend father,” said De Lacy, recollecting himself, “where there neither is, nor can be, danger. I pray you, let us debate this matter more moderately. I never meant to break off my purpose for the Holy Land, but only to postpone it. Methinks the offers that I have made are fair, and ought to obtain for me what has been granted to others in the like case—a slight delay in the time of my departure.” “A slight delay on the part of such a leader as you, noble De Lacy,” answered the Prelate, “were a death-blow to our holy and most gallant enterprize. To meaner men we might have granted the privilege of marrying and giving in marriage, even although they care not for the sorrows of Jacob; but you, my lord, are a main prop of our enterprize, and, being withdrawn, the whole fabric may fall to the ground. Who in England will deem himself obliged to press forward, when Hugo de

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Lacy falls back? Think, my lord, less upon your plighted bride, and more on your plighted word; and believe not that a union can ever come to good, which shakes your purpose towards our blessed undertaking for the honour of Christendom.” The Constable was embarrassed by the pertinacity of the Prelate, and began to give way to his arguments, though most reluctantly, and only because the habits and opinions of the time left him no means of combating his arguments otherwise than by solicitation. “I admit,” he said, “my engagement for the Crusade, nor have I—I repeat it— further desire than that brief interval which may be necessary to place my important affairs in order—meanwhile my vassals, led by my nephew”—— “Promise that which is within thy power,” said the Prelate. “Who knows whether, in resentment of thy seeking after other things than    most holy cause, thy nephew may not be called hence, even while we speak together?” “God forbid!” said the Baron, starting up, as if about to fly to his nephew’s assistance; then suddenly pausing, he turned on the Prelate a keen and investigating glance. “It is not well,” he said, “that your reverence should thus trifle with the dangers which threaten my house. Damian is dear to me for his own good qualities—dear for the sake of my only brother—may God forgive us both! he died when we were in unkindness with each other. My lord, your words import that my beloved nephew suffers pain and incurs danger on account of my offences.” The Archbishop perceived he had at length touched the chord to which his refractory penitent’s heart-strings must needs vibrate. He replied with circumspection, as well knowing with whom he had to deal. “Far be it from me to presume to interpret the councils of Heaven. But we read in scripture, that when the fathers eat sour grapes, the teeth of the children are set on edge. What so reasonable as that we should be punished for our pride and contumacy, by a judgment specially calculated to abate and bend that spirit of surquedry? You yourself best know if this disease clung to thy nephew before you had meditated defection from the banner of the Cross.” Hugo de Lacy hastily recollected himself, and found it was indeed true, that, until he thought of his union with Eveline, there had appeared no change in his nephew’s health. His silence and confusion did not escape the artful Prelate. He took the hand of the warrior as he stood before him overwhelmed in doubt, lest his preference of the continuance of his own house to the rescue of the Holy Sepulchre should have been punished by the disease which threatened his nephew’s life. “Come,” he said, “noble De Lacy—the judgment pro-

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voked by a moment’s presumption may be even yet averted by prayer and penitence. The dial went back at the prayer of the good King Hezekiah—down, down upon thy knees, and doubt not that, with confession, and penance, and absolution, thou mayst yet atone for thy falling away from the cause of Heaven.” Borne down by the dictates of the religion in which he had been educated, and by the fears lest his delay was punished by his nephew’s indisposition and danger, the Constable sunk on his knees before the Prelate, whom he had shortly before well nigh braved, confessed, as a sin to be deeply repented of, his purpose of delaying his departure for Palestine, and received, with patience at least, if not with willing acquiescence, the penance inflicted by the Archbishop, which consisted in a prohibition to proceed farther in his purposed wedlock with the Lady Eveline until his return from Palestine, where he was bound by his vow to abide for the term of three years. “And now, noble De Lacy,” said the Prelate, “once more my best beloved and most honoured friend—is not thy bosom lighter since thou hast thus nobly acquitted thee of thy debt to Heaven, and cleansed thy gallant spirit from those selfish and earthly stains which dimmed its brightness?” The Constable sighed. “My happiest thoughts at this moment,” he said, “would arise from knowledge that my nephew’s health is amended.” “Be not discomforted on the score of the noble Damian, your hopeful and valorous kinsman,” said the Archbishop, “for well I trust shortly ye shall hear of his recovery, or that, if it shall please God to remove him to a better world, the passage shall be so easy, and his arrival in yonder haven of bliss so speedy, that it were better for him to have died than to have lived.” The Constable looked at him, as if to gather from his countenance more certainty of his nephew’s fate than his words seemed to imply; and the Prelate, to escape being farther pressed on a subject on which he was perhaps conscious he had adventured too far, rung a silver bell which stood before him on the table, and commanded the chaplain who entered at the summons, that he should dispatch a careful messenger to the lodging of Damian Lacy, to bring particular accounts of his health. “A stranger,” answered the chaplain, “just come from the sick chamber of the noble Damian Lacy, waits here even now to have speech of my Lord Constable.” “Admit him instantly,” said the Archbishop, “my mind tells me he brings us joyful tidings. Never knew I such humble penitence—such willing resignation of natural affections and desires to the doing of

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Heaven’s service, but it was rewarded with a guerdon either temporal or spiritual.” As he spoke, a man singularly dressed entered the apartment. His garments, of various colours and showily disposed, were none of the newest or cleanest, neither were they altogether fitting for the presence in which he now stood. “How now, sirrah!” said the Prelate; “when was it that jugglers and minstrels pressed into the company of such as us without permission?” “So please you,” said the man, “my instant business was not with your reverend lordship, but with my lord the Constable, to whom I will hope that my good news will atone for my evil apparel.” “Speak, sirrah, does my kinsman live?” said the Constable eagerly. “And is like to live, my lord,” answered the man—“a favourable crisis (so the leeches call it) hath taken place in his disorder, and they are no longer under any apprehensions for his life.” “Now, God be praised, that hath granted me so much mercy!” said the Constable. “Amen, amen,” replied the Archbishop solemnly;—“About what period did this blessed change take place?” “Scarce half an hour since,” said the messenger, “a soft sleep fell on the sick youth, like dew upon a parched field in summer—he breathed freely—his burning heat abated—and, as I said, the leeches no longer fear for his life.” “Marked you the hour, my Lord Constable?” said the Archbishop with exultation—“even then you stooped to those counsels which Heaven suggested through the meanest of its servants—but two words avouching penitence—but one brief prayer and some kind saint has interceded for an instant hearing, and a liberal granting of thy petition. Noble Hugo,” he continued, grasping his hand in a species of enthusiasm, “surely Heaven designs to work high things by the hand of him whose faults are thus readily forgiven—whose prayer is thus instantly heard—for this shall Te Deum Laudamus be said in each church, and each convent of Gloucester, ere the world be a day older.” The Constable, no less joyful, though perhaps less able to perceive an especial providence in his nephew’s recovery, expressed his gratitude to the messenger of the good tidings, by throwing him his purse. “I thank you, noble lord,” said the man; “but if I stoop to pick up this taste of your bounty, it is only to restore it again to the donor.” “How now, sir?” said the Constable, “methinks thy coat is not so well lined as needs make thee spurn at such a guerdon.” “He that desires to catch larks, my lord,” replied the messenger, “must not close his net upon sparrows—I have a greater boon to ask of

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your lordship, and therefore I decline your present gratuity.” “A greater boon, ha?” said the Constable,—“I am no knight-errant, to bind myself by promise to grant it ere I know its import; but do thou come to my pavilion to-morrow, and thou wilt not find me unwilling to do what is reason.” So saying, he took leave of the Prelate, and returned homeward, failing not to visit his nephew’s lodging as he passed, where he received the same pleasant assurances which had been communicated by the messenger of the particoloured mantle.

Chapter Three He was a minstrel—in his mood Was wisdom, mix’d with folly; A sane companion to the good, But wild and fierce amid the rude, And jovial with the jolly. A A

T  events of the preceding day had been of a nature so interesting, and latterly so harassing, that the Constable felt weary, as after a severely contested battle-field, and slept soundly until the earliest beams of dawn saluted him through the opening of the tent. It was then that, with a mingled feeling of pain and satisfaction, he began to review the change which had taken place in his condition since the preceding morning. He had then arisen an ardent bridegroom, anxious to find favour in the eyes of his fair bride, and scrupulous about his dress and appointments, as if he had been as young in years as in hopes and wishes. This was over, and he had now before him the painful task of leaving his betrothed for a term of years, even before wedlock had united them indissolubly, and of reflecting that she was exposed to all the dangers which assail female constancy in a situation thus critical. When the immediate anxiety for his nephew was removed, he was tempted to think that he had been something hasty in listening to the arguments of the Archbishop, and believing that Damian’s death or recovery depended upon his own accomplishing, to the letter, and without delay his vow for the Holy Land. How many princes and kings, he thought to himself, have assumed the cross, and delayed or renounced it, yet lived and died in wealth and honour, without sustaining such a visitation as that with which Baldwin threatened me; and in what case or particular did such men deserve more indulgence than I? But the die is now cast, and it signifies little to inquire whether my obedience to the mandates of the Church has saved the life of my nephew, or whether I have not fallen, as laymen

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are wont to fall, whenever there is an encounter of wits betwixt them and those of the spirituality. I would to God it may prove otherwise, since, girding on my sword as Heaven’s champion, I might the better expect Heaven’s protection for her whom I must unhappily leave behind me. As these reflections passed through his mind, he heard the warders at the entrance of his tent challenge some one whose footsteps were heard approaching it. The person stopped on their challenge, and presently after was heard the sound of a rote, (a small species of lute,) the strings of which were managed by means of a small wheel. After a short prelude, a manly voice, of good compass, sung verses, which, translated into modern language, might run nearly thus: . “Soldier, wake—the day is peeping, Honour ne’er was won in sleeping, Never when the sunbeams still Lay unreflected on the hill: ’Tis when they are glinted back From axe and armour, spear and jack, That they promise future story Many a page of deathless glory. Shields that are the foeman’s terror, Ever are the morning’s mirror. . “Arm and up—the morning beam Hath call’d the rustic to his team, Hath call’d the falc’ner to the lake, Hath call’d the huntsman to the brake; The early student ponders o’er His dusty tomes of ancient lore. Soldier, wake—thy harvest, fame; Thy study, conquest; war, thy game. Shield, that would be foeman’s terror Still should gleam the morning’s mirror. . “Poor hire repays the rustic’s pain; More paltry still the sportsman’s gain; Vainest of all, the student’s theme Ends in some metaphysic dream: Yet each is up, and each has toil’d Since first the peep of dawn has smiled; And each is eagerer in his aim Than he who barters life for fame. Up, up, and arm thee, son of terror! Be thy bright shield the morning’s mirror.”

When the song was finished, the Constable heard some talking without, and presently Philip Guarine entered the pavilion to tell that a person, come hither as he said by the Constable’s appointment,

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waited permission to speak with him. “By my appointment?” said De Lacy; “admit him presently.” The messenger of the preceding evening entered the tent, holding in one hand his small cap and feather, in the other the rote on which he had been just playing. His attire was fantastic, consisting of more than one inner dress of various colours, all of the brightest and richest dyes, and disposed so as to contrast with each other—the upper garment was a very short Norman cloak of bright green. An embroidered girdle sustained, in lieu of offensive weapons, an inkhorn with its appurtenances on the one side, on the other a knife for the purposes of the table. His hair was cut in imitation of the clerical tonsure, which was designed to intimate that he had arrived to a certain rank in his profession, for the Joyous Science, as the prosecution of minstrelsy was termed, had its various ranks, like the degrees in the church and in chivalry. The features and manners of the man seemed to be at variance with his profession and habit, for, as the latter were gay and fantastic, the former had a cast of gravity, and almost of sternness, with an eye which, unless when kindled by the enthusiasm of his poetical and musical exertions, seemed rather to indicate deep reflection, than the thoughtless vivacity of observation which characterized most of his brethren. His countenance, though not handsome, had therefore something in it striking and impressive, even from its very contrast with the particoloured hues, and fluttering shape of his vestments; and the Constable felt something inclined to patronize him, as he said, “Good morrow, friend, and I thank thee for thy morning greeting; it was well sung and well meant, for when we call forth any one to bethink him how time passes, we do him the credit of supposing that he can employ to advantage that flitting treasure.” The man, who had listened in silence, seemed to pause and make an effort ere he replied, “My intentions were, at least, good, when I ventured to disturb my lord thus early; and I am glad to learn that my boldness hath not been evil received at his hand.” “True,” said the Constable, “you had a boon to ask of me—be speedy, and say thy request—my leisure is short.” “It is for permission to follow you to the Holy Land, my lord,” said the man. “Thou hast asked what I can hardly grant, my friend,” answered De Lacy—“Thou art a minstrel, art thou not?” “An unworthy graduate of the Gay Science, my lord,” said the musician; “yet let me say for myself, that I will not yield to the king of minstrels, Geoffrey Rudel, though the King of England gave him four manors for one song. I would be willing to contend with him in romance, lay, or fable, were the judge to be King Henry himself.”

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“You have your own good word, doubtless,” said De Lacy; “nevertheless, Sir Minstrel, thou goest not with me. The Crusade has been already too much encumbered by men of thy idle profession; and if thou doest add to the number, it shall not be under my protection. I am too old to be charmed by thy art, charm thou never so wisely.” “He that is young enough to seek for and to win the love of beauty,” said the minstrel, but in a submissive tone, as if fearing his freedom might give offence, “should not term himself too old to feel the charms of minstrelsy.” The Constable smiled, not insensible to the flattery which assigned to him the character of a younger gallant. “Thou art a jester,” he said, “I warrant me, in addition to thy other qualities.” “No,” replied the minstrel, “it is a branch of our profession which I have for some time renounced—my fortunes have put me out of tune for jesting.” “Nay, comrade,” said the Constable, “if thou hast been hardly dealt with in the world, and canst comply with the rules of a family so strictly ordered as mine, it is possible we may agree together better than I thought. What is thy name and country?—thy speech, methinks, sounds somewhat foreign.” “I am an Armorican, my lord, from the merry shores of Morbihan, and hence my tongue hath some touch of my country speech. My name is Renault Vidal.” “Such being the case, Renault,” said the Constable, “thou shalt follow me, and I will give orders to the Master of my Household to have thee attired something according to thy function, but in more orderly guise than thou now appearest in. Doest thou understand the use of a weapon?” “Indifferently, my lord,” said the Armorican; at the same time taking a sword from the wall, he drew it, and made a pass with it so close to the Constable’s body as he lay on the couch, that he started up, crying “Villain, forbear!” “Lo you! noble sir,” replied Vidal, lowering with all submission the point of his weapon—“I have already given you a proof of sleight which has alarmed even your experience—I have an hundred others besides.” “It may be so,” said De Lacy, somewhat ashamed at having shewn himself moved by the sudden and lively action of the juggler; “but I love not jesting with edge tools, and have too much to do with swords and sword-blows in earnest, to toy with them; so I pray you let us have no more of this, but call me my squire and my chamberlain, for I am about to array me and go to mass.” The religious duties of the morning performed, it was the Con-

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stable’s intention to visit the Lady Abbess, and communicate, with the necessary precautions and qualifications, the altered relations in which he was placed towards her niece, by the resolution he had been compelled to adopt, of departing for the Crusade before accomplishing his marriage, in the terms of the pre-contract already entered into. He was conscious that it would be difficult to reconcile the good lady to this change of measures, and he delayed some time ere he could think of the best mode of communicating and softening the unpleasant intelligence. An interval was also spent in a visit to his nephew, whose state of convalescence continued to be as favourable, as if in truth it had been a miraculous consequence of the Constable’s having complied with the advice of the Archbishop. From the lodging of Damian, the Constable proceeded to the convent of the Benedictine Abbess. But she had been already made acquainted with the circumstances which he came to communicate, by a still earlier visit from the Archbishop Baldwin himself. The Primate had undertaken the office of mediator on this occasion, conscious that his success of the evening before must have placed the Constable in a delicate situation with the relations of his betrothed bride, and willing, by his countenance and authority, to reconcile the disputes which might ensue. Perhaps he had better have left Hugo de Lacy to plead his own cause, for the Abbess, though she listened to the communication with all the respect due to the highest dignitary of the English Church, drew consequences from the Constable’s change of resolution which the Primate had not expected. She ventured to oppose no obstacle to De Lacy’s accomplishment of his vows, but strongly argued that the contract with her niece should be entirely set aside, and each party left at liberty to form a new choice. It was in vain that the Archbishop endeavoured to dazzle the Abbess with the future honours to be won by the Constable in the Holy Land; the splendour of which would attach not to his lady alone, but to all in the remotest degree allied to or connected with her. All his eloquence was to no purpose, though upon so favourite a topic he exerted to the utmost. The Abbess, it is true, remained silent for a moment after his arguments had been exhausted, but it was only to consider how she should intimate, in a suitable and reverent manner, that children, the usual attendants of an happy union, and the existence of which she looked to for the continuation of the house of her father and brother, could not be hoped for with any probability, unless the pre-contract was followed by marriage, and the residence of the married parties in the same country. She therefore insisted, that the Constable having altered his intentions in this most material particular, the fiançailles should be entirely abrogated and set aside; and she demanded of the

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Primate, as an act of justice, that, as he had interfered to prevent the bridegroom’s execution of his original purpose, he should now assist with his influence wholly to dissolve an engagement which had been thus innovated upon. The Primate, who was sensible he had himself occasioned De Lacy’s breach of contract, felt himself bound in honour and reputation to prevent consequences so disagreeable to his friend, as the dissolution of an engagement in which his interest and inclinations were alike concerned. He reproved the Lady Abbess for the carnal and secular views which she, a dignitary of the church, entertained upon the subject of matrimony, and concerning the interest of her house. He even upbraided her with selfishly preferring the continuation of the line of Berenger to the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre, and denounced to her that Heaven would be avenged of the short-sighted and merely human policy, which postponed the interests of Christendom to those of an individual family. After this severe homily, the Prelate took his departure, leaving the Abbess highly incensed, though she prudently forbore returning any irreverend answer to his paternal admonition. In this humour the venerable lady was found by the Constable himself, when, with some embarrassment, he proceeded to explain to her the necessity of his present departure for Palestine. She received the communication with sullen dignity; her ample black robe and scapular seeming, as it were, to swell out in yet prouder folds as she listened to the reasons and the emergencies which compelled the Constable of Chester to defer the marriage, which he avowed was the dearest wish of his heart, until after his return from the Crusade, for which he was presently setting forth. “Methinks,” replied the Abbess, with much coldness, “if this communication is meant for earnest, and it were no fit business—I myself no fit person—for jesting with, methinks the Constable’s religious resolution should have been proclaimed to us yesterday, before the fiançailles had united his troth with that of Eveline Berenger, under expectations very different from those which he now announces.” “On the word of a knight and a gentleman, reverend lady, I had not then the slightest thought that I should be called upon to take a step no less distressing to me, than, as I see with pain, it is unpleasing to you.” “I can scarcely conceive,” replied the Abbess, “the cogent reasons, which, existing as they must have done yesterday, have nevertheless delayed their operations until to-day.” “I own,” said De Lacy, reluctantly, “that I entertained too ready hopes of obtaining a remission from my vow, which my Lord of

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Canterbury hath, in his zeal for Heaven’s service, deemed it necessary to refuse me.” “At least, then,” said the Abbess, veiling her resentment under the appearance of extreme coldness, “your lordship will do us the justice to place us in the same situation in which we stood yesterday morning; and, by joining with my niece and her friends in desiring the abrogation of a marriage contract, entered into with very different views from those which you now entertain, put a young person in that state of liberty of which she is at present deprived by her contract with you.” “Ah, madam!” said the Constable, “what do you ask of me? and in a tone how cold and indifferent do you ask me to resign hopes, the dearest which my bosom ever entertained since the life-blood warmed it!” “I am unacquainted with language belonging to such feelings, my lord,” replied the Abbess; “but methinks the prospects which could be so easily adjourned for years, might, by a little, and a very little, further self-control, be altogether abandoned.” Hugo de Lacy paced the room in agitation, nor did he answer until after a considerable pause. “If your niece, madam, shares the sentiments which you have expressed, I could not, indeed, with justice to her, or perhaps to myself, desire to retain that interest in her, which our solemn espousals have given me. But I must know my doom from her own lips; and if it is as severe as that which your expressions lead me to fear, I will go to Palestine the better soldier of Heaven, that I will have little left on earth that can interest me.” The Abbess, without farther answer, called on her Præcentrix, and desired her to command her niece’s attendance immediately. The Præcentrix bowed reverently, and withdrew. “May I presume to inquire,” said De Lacy, “whether the Lady Eveline hath been possessed of the circumstances which have occasioned this unhappy alteration in my purposes?” “I have communicated the whole to her, from point to point,” said the Abbess, “even as it was explained to me this morning by my Lord of Canterbury (for with him I have already spoken upon the subject,) and confirmed but now by your lordship’s own mouth.” “I am little obliged to the Archbishop,” said the Constable, “for having forestalled my excuses in the quarter where it was most important for me that they should be accurately stated, and favourably received.” “That,” said the Abbess, “is but an item of the account betwixt you and the Prelate—it concerns not us.” “Dare I venture to hope,” continued De Lacy, without taking offence at the dryness of the Abbess’s manner, “that Lady Eveline has

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heard this most unhappy change of circumstances without emotion,— I would say without displeasure?” “She is the daughter of a Berenger, my lord, and it is our custom to punish a breach of faith, or to contemn it—never to grieve over it. What my niece may do in this case, I know not. I am a woman of religion, sequestered from the world, and would advise peace and Christian forgiveness, with a proper sense of contempt for the unworthy treatment which she has received. She has followers and vassals, and friends, doubtless, and advisers, who may not, in blinded zeal for worldly honour, recommend to her to sit down slightly with this injury, but to appeal to the King, or to the arms of her father’s followers, unless her liberty is restored to her by the surrender of the contract into which she has been enticed—but she comes to answer for herself.” Eveline entered at the moment, leaning on Rose’s arm. She had laid aside mourning since the ceremony of the fiançailles, and was dressed in a kirtle of white with an upper robe of pale blue. Her head was covered with a veil of white gauze, so thin, as to float about her like the misty cloud usually painted around the countenance of a seraph. But the face of Eveline, though in beauty not unworthy one of this angelic order, was at present far from resembling that of a seraph in tranquillity of expression. Her limbs trembled, her cheeks were pale, the tinge of red around the eyelids expressed recent tears. Yet amidst these natural signs of distress and uncertainty, there was an air of profound resignation—a resolution to discharge her duty in every emergence, reigning in the solemn expression of her eye and eyebrow, and shewing her prepared to govern the agitation which she could not entirely subdue. And so well were these opposing qualities of timidity and resolution mingled on her cheek, that Eveline, in the utmost pride of her beauty, never looked more fascinating than at that instant; and Hugo de Lacy, hitherto rather an unimpassioned lover, stood in her presence with feelings as if all the exaggerations of romance were realized, and his mistress were a being of a higher sphere, from whose doom he was to receive happiness or misery, life or death. It was under the influence of such a feeling, that the warrior dropped on one knee before Eveline, took the hand which she rather resigned than gave to him, pressed it to his lips fervently, and, ere he parted with it, moistened it with one of the few tears which he was ever known to shed. But, although surprised, and carried out of his character by a sudden impulse, he regained his composure on observing that the Abbess regarded his humiliation, if it can be so termed, with an air of triumph; and he entered on his defence before Eveline with a manly earnestness, not devoid of fervour, not free from agitation, yet

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made in a tone of firmness and pride, which seemed assumed to meet and control that of the offended Abbess. “Lady,” he said, addressing Eveline, “you have heard from the venerable Abbess in what unhappy position I have been placed since yesterday by the rigour of the Archbishop—perhaps I should rather say, by his just though severe interpretation of my engagement in the Crusade. I cannot doubt that all this has been stated with accurate truth by the venerable lady; but as I must no longer call her my friend, let me fear whether she has done me justice in her commentary upon the unhappy necessity which must presently compel me to leave my country, and with my country to forego—at best to postpone—the fairest hopes which man ever entertained. The venerable lady hath upbraided me, that being myself the cause that the execution of yesterday’s contract is postponed, I would fain keep it suspended over your head for an indefinite term of years. No one resigns willingly such rights as yesterday gave me; and, let me speak a boastful word, sooner than yield them up to man of woman born, I would hold a fair field against all comers, with grinded sword and sharp spear, from sun-rise to sun-set, for three days’ space. But what I would retain at the price of a thousand lives, I am willing to renounce if it would cost you a single sigh. If, therefore, you think you cannot remain happy as the betrothed of De Lacy, you may command my assistance to have the contract annulled, and make some more fortunate man happy.” He would have gone on, but felt the danger of being overpowered again by those feelings of tenderness so new to his steady nature, that he blushed to give way to them. Eveline remained silent. The Abbess took the word. “Kinswoman,” she said, “you hear that the generosity—or the justice—of the Constable of Chester, proposes, in consequence of his departure upon a distant and perilous expedition, to cancel a contract entered into upon the specific and precise understanding that he was to remain in England for its fulfilment. You cannot, methinks, hesitate to accept of the freedom which he offers you, with thanks for his bounty. For my part, I will reserve mine own until I shall see that your joint application is sufficient to win to your purpose his grace of Canterbury, who may again interfere with the actions of his friend the Lord Constable, over whom he has already exerted so much influence—for the weal, doubtless, of his spiritual concerns.” “If it is meant by your words, venerable lady, that I have any purpose of sheltering myself behind the Prelate’s authority, to avoid doing that which I proclaim my readiness, though not my willingness, to do, I can only say, that you are the first who doubted the faith of Hugh de Lacy.”—And while the proud Baron thus addressed a female and a

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recluse, he could not prevent his eye from sparkling, and his cheek from flushing. “My gracious and venerable kinswoman,” said Eveline, summoning together her resolution, “and you, my good lord, be not offended if I pray you not to increase by groundless suspicions and hasty resentments your difficulties and mine. My lord, the obligations which I lie under to you are such as I can never discharge, since they comprehend fortune, life, and honour. Know that, in my anguish of mind, when besieged by the Welch in my castle of the Garde Douloureuse, I vowed to the Virgin, that (my honour safe) I would place myself at the disposal of him whom Our Lady should employ as her instrument to relieve me from yonder hour of agony. In giving me a deliverer, she gave me a master; nor could I desire a more noble one than Hugo de Lacy.” “God forbid, lady,” said the Constable, speaking eagerly, as if he was afraid his resolution should fail him ere he could get the renunciation uttered, “that I should, by such a tie, to which you subjected yourself in the extremity of your distress, bind you to any resolution in my favour which can put force on your own inclinations!” The Abbess herself could not help expressing her applause of this sentiment, declaring it was spoken like a Norman gentleman; but, at the same time, her eyes turned towards her niece seemed to exhort her to beware how she declined to profit by the candour of De Lacy. But Eveline proceeded, with her eyes fixed on the ground, and a slight colour overspreading her face, to state her own sentiments, without listening to the suggestions of any one. “I will own, noble sir,” she said, “that when your valour had rescued me from approaching destruction, I could have wished—honouring and respecting you, as I had done your late friend my excellent father—that you could have accepted a daughter’s service from me. I do not pretend entirely to have surmounted these sentiments, although I have combated them, as being unworthy of me, and ungrateful to you. But from the moment you were pleased to honour me by a claim on this poor hand, I have studiously examined my sentiments towards you, and taught myself so far to make them coincide with my duty, that I may call myself assured that De Lacy would not find in Eveline Berenger an indifferent, far less an unworthy, bride. In this, sir, you may boldly confide, whether the union you have sought for takes place instantly, or is delayed till a longer season. Still farther, I must acknowledge that the postponement of these nuptials will be more agreeable to me than their immediate accomplishment. I am at present very young, and totally inexperienced. Two or three years will, I trust, render me yet more worthy the regard of a man of honour.”

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At this declaration in his favour, however cold and qualified, De Lacy had as much difficulty to restrain his transports as formerly to moderate his agitation. “Angel of bounty and of kindness!” he said, kneeling once more, and again possessing himself of her hand, “perhaps I ought in honour to resign voluntarily those hopes which you decline to ravish from me forcibly. But who could be capable of such unrelenting magnanimity? —let me hope that in time my devoted attachment—that which you shall hear of me when at a distance—that which you shall know of me when near you—may give to your sentiments a more tender warmth than they now express; and, in the meanwhile, blame me not that I accept your plighted faith anew, under the conditions which you attach to it. I am conscious my wooing has been too late in life to expect the animated returns proper to youthful passion—blame me not if I remain satisfied with those calmer sentiments which make life happy, though they cannot make passion rapturous. Your hand remains in my grasp, but it acknowledges not my pressure—can it be that it refuses to ratify what your lips have said?” “Never, noble De Lacy!” said Eveline, with more animation than she had yet expressed; and it appeared that the tone was at length sufficiently encouraging, since her lover was emboldened to take the lips themselves for guarantee. It was with an air of pride, mingled with respect, that, after having received this pledge of fidelity, he turned to conciliate and to appease the offended Abbess. “I trust, venerable mother,” he said, “that you will resume your former kind thoughts of me, which I am aware were only interrupted by your tender anxiety for the interest of her who should be dearest to us both. Let me hope that I may leave this fair flower under protection of the honoured lady who is her next in blood, happy and secure as she must ever be, while listening to your counsels, and residing within these sacred walls.” But the Abbess was too deeply displeased to be propitiated by a compliment, which perhaps it had been better policy to have delayed till a calmer season. “My lord,” she said, “and you, fair kinswoman, you ought needs to be aware how little my counsels—not frequently given where they are unwillingly listened to—can be of avail to those embarked in worldly affairs. I am a woman dedicated to religion, to solitude, and seclusion—to the service, in brief, of Our Lady and Saint Benedict. I have been already censured by my superior because I have, for love of you, fair niece, mixed more deeply in secular affairs than became the head of a convent of recluses—I will merit no farther blame on such an account; nor can you expect it of me. My brother’s daughter, unfettered by worldly ties, had been the welcome sharer of

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my poor solitude, but this house is too mean for the residence of the vowed bride of a mighty baron; nor do I, in my lowliness and inexperience, feel fitness to exercise over such a one that authority, which must belong to me over every one whom this roof protects. The quiet tenor of our devotions, and the serener contemplation to which the females of this house are devoted,” continued the Abbess, with increasing heat and vehemence, “shall not, for the sake of my worldly connexions, be disturbed by the intrusion of one whose thoughts must needs be on the worldly toys of love and marriage.” “I do indeed believe, reverend mother,” said the Constable, in his turn giving way to displeasure, “that a richly dowered maiden, unwedded, and unlikely to wed, were a fitter and more welcome inmate to the convent, than one who cannot be separated from the world, and whose wealth is not likely to increase the House’s revenues.” The Constable did the Abbess great injury in this hasty insinuation, and it only went to confirm her purpose of rejecting all charge of her niece during his absence. She was in truth as disinterested as haughty; and her only reason for anger against her niece was, that her advice had not been adopted without hesitation, although the matter regarded Eveline’s happiness exclusively. The ill-timed reflection of the Constable confirmed her in the resolution which she had already and hastily adopted. “May Heaven forgive you, Sir Knight,” she replied, “your injurious thoughts of his servants! It is indeed time, for your soul’s sake, that you do penance in the Holy Land, having such rash judgments to repent of. For you, my niece, you cannot want that hospitality, which, without verifying, or seeming to verify, unjust suspicions, I cannot now grant to you, while you have, in your kinswoman of Baldringham, a secular relation, whose nearness of blood approaches mine, and who may open her gates to you without incurring the unworthy censure, that she means to enrich herself at your cost.” The Constable saw the deadly paleness which came over Eveline’s cheek at this proposal, and, without knowing the cause of her repugnance, he hastened to relieve her from the apprehensions which she seemed evidently to entertain. “No, reverend mother,” he said; “since you so harshly reject the care of your kinswoman, she shall not be a burthen to any of her other relatives—While Hugo de Lacy hath six gallant castles, and many a manor besides, to maintain fire upon their hearths, his betrothed bride shall burthen no one with her society, who may regard it as otherwise than a great honour; and methinks I were much poorer than Heaven hath made me, could I not furnish friends and followers sufficient to serve, obey, and protect her.”

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“No, my lord,” said Eveline, recovering from the dejection into which she had been thrown by the unkindness of her relative; “since some unhappy destiny separates me from the protection of my father’s sister, to whom I could so securely have resigned myself, I will neither apply for shelter to any more distant relation, nor accept of that which you, my lord, so generously offer; since my doing so might excite harsh, and, I am sure, undeserved reproaches, against her by whom I was driven to choose a less advisable dwelling-place. I have made my resolution—I have, it is true, only one friend left, but she is a powerful one, and as able to protect me against the particular evil fate which seems to follow me, as against the ordinary evils of human life.” “The Queen, I suppose?” said the Abbess, interrupting her impatiently. “The Queen of Heaven! venerable kinswoman,” answered Eveline; “our Lady of the Garde Douloureuse, ever gracious to our house, and so lately my especial guardian and protectress. Methinks, since the vowed votaress of the Virgin rejects me, it is to her holy patroness whom I ought to apply for succour.” The venerable dame, taken somewhat at unawares by this answer, pronounced the interjection “Umph!” in a tone better befitting a Lollard or an Iconoclast, than a Catholic Abbess, and a daughter of the House of Berenger. Truth is, the Lady Abbess’s hereditary devotion to the Lady of the Garde Douloureuse was much decayed since she had known the full merits of another gifted image, the property of her own convent. Recollecting herself, however, she remained silent, while the Constable alleged the vicinity of the Welch, as what might possibly again render the abode of his betrothed bride at the Garde Douloureuse as perilous as she had on a former occasion found it. To this Eveline replied, by reminding him of the great strength of her native fortress —the various sieges which it had withstood—and the important circumstance, that, upon the late occasion, it was only endangered, because, in compliance with a point of honour, her father Raymond had sallied out with the garrison, and fought at disadvantage a battle under the walls. She farther suggested, that it was easy for the Constable to name, from among his own vassals or hers, a seneschal of such approved prudence and valour, as might ensure the safety of the place, and of its lady. Ere De Lacy could reply to her arguments the Abbess rose, and, pleading her total inability to give counsel in secular affairs, and the rules of her order, which called her, as she said, with a heightened colour and raised voice, “to the simple and peaceful discharge of her conventual duties,” she left the betrothed parties in the locutory, or

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parlour, without any company, save Rose, who prudently remained at some distance. The issue of their private conference seemed agreeable to both; and when Eveline told Rose that they were to return presently to the Garde Douloureuse, under a sufficient escort, and were to remain there during the period of the Crusade, it was in a tone of heartfelt satisfaction, which her follower had not heard her make use of for many days. She spoke also highly in praise of the kind acquiescence of the Constable in her wishes, and of his whole conduct, with a warmth of gratitude approaching to a more tender feeling. “And yet, my dearest lady,” said Rose, “if you will speak unfeignedly, you must, I am convinced, allow that you look upon this interval of years, interposed betwixt your contract and your marriage, rather as a respite than in any other light.” “I confess it,” said Eveline, “nor have I concealed from my future lord that such are my feelings, ungracious as they may seem. But it is my youth, Rose, my extreme youth, which makes me fear the duties of De Lacy’s wife—then those evil auguries hang strangely about me— devoted to evil by one kinswoman—expelled almost from the roof of another, I seem to myself, at present, a creature which must carry distress with her, pass where she will. This evil hour, and, what is more, the apprehensions of it, will give way to time. When I shall have attained the age of twenty, Rose, I shall be a full-grown woman, with all the soul of a Berenger strong within me, to overcome those doubts and tremors which agitate the girl.” “Ah! my sweet mistress,” answered Rose, “may God and our Lady of the Garde Douloureuse guide all for the best, but I would that this contract had not taken place, or, having taken place, that it could have been fulfilled by your immediate union.”

Chapter Four The King called down his merry men all, By one, and by two, and by three; Earl Marshal was wont to be the foremost man, But the hindmost man was he. Old Ballad

I  the Lady Eveline retired satisfied and pleased from her private interview with De Lacy, the joy on the part of the Constable arose to a higher pitch of rapture than he was in the habit of feeling or expressing; and it was augmented by a visit of the leeches who attended his nephew, from whom he received a minute and particular account of his present disorder, with every assurance of a speedy recovery.

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The Constable caused alms to be distributed to the convents and to the poor, masses to be said, and tapers to be lighted. He visited the Archbishop, and received from him his full approbation of the course which he proposed to pursue, with the promise, that out of the plenary power which he held from the Pope, the Prelate was willing, in consideration of his instant obedience, to limit his stay in the Holy Land to the term of three years, to become current from his leaving Britain, and to include the space necessary for his return to his native country. In short, having succeeded in the main point, the Archbishop judged it wise to concede every inferior consideration to a person of the Constable’s rank and character, whose good will to the proposed expedition was perhaps as essential to its success as his bodily presence. In short, the Constable returned to his pavilion highly satisfied with the manner in which he had extricated himself from those difficulties which in the morning seemed almost insuperable; and when his officers assembled to disrobe him, (for great feudal lords had their levees and couchees, in imitation of sovereign princes,) he distributed gratuities amongst them, and jested and laughed in a much gayer humour than they had ever before witnessed. “For thee,” he said, turning to Vidal the minstrel, who, sumptuously dressed, stood to pay his respects among the other attendants, “I will give thee nought at present; but remain by my bed-side until I am asleep, and I will next morning reward thy minstrelsy as I like it.” “My lord,” said Vidal, “I am already rewarded, both by the honour, and by liveries, which better befit a royal minstrel than one of my mean fame; but assign me a subject, and I will do my best, not out of greed of future largesse, but gratitude for past favours.” “Gramercy, good fellow,” said the Constable. “Guarine,” he added, addressing his squire, “let the watch be posted, and do thou remain within the tent—stretch thyself on the bear-hide, and sleep, or listen to the minstrelsy, as thou likest best—thou thinkest thyself a judge, I have heard, of such gear.” It was usual, in those insecure times, for some faithful domestic to sleep at night within the tent of every great baron, that, if danger arose, he might not be unsupported or unprotected. Guarine accordingly drew his sword, and, taking it in his hand, stretched himself on the ground in such a manner, that, on the slightest alarm, he could spring up, sword in hand. His broad black eyes, in which sleep contended with a desire to listen to the music, were fixed on Vidal, who saw them glittering in the reflection of the silver lamp, like those of a dragon or basilisk. After a few preliminary touches on the chords of his rote, the

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minstrel requested of the Constable to name the subject on which he desired the exercise of his powers. “The truth of woman,” answered Hugo de Lacy, as he laid his head upon his pillow. After a short prelude, the minstrel obeyed, by singing nearly as follows:— . Woman’s faith, and woman’s trust— Write the characters in dust; Stamp them on the running stream, Print them on the moon’s pale beam, And each evanescent letter Shall be clearer, firmer, better, And more permanent, I ween, Than the thing those letters mean. . I have strain’d the spider’s thread ’Gainst the promise of a maid; I have weigh’d a grain of sand ’Gainst her plight of heart and hand; I told my true love of the token, How her faith proved light, and her word was broken: Again her word and troth she plight. And I believed them again ere night.

“How now, sir knave,” said the Constable, raising himself on his elbow, “from what drunken rhymer did you learn that half-witted satire?” “From an old, ragged, cross-grained friend of mine, called Experience,” answered Vidal. “I pray heaven he may never take your lordship, or any other worthy man, under his tuition.” “Go to, fellow,” said the Constable in reply; “thou art one of those wiseacres, I warrant me, that would fain be thought witty, because thou canst make a jest of those things which wiser men hold worthy of most worship—the honour of man, and the truth of woman. Doest thou call thyself a minstrel, and hast no tale of female fidelity!” “I had right many a one, noble sir, but I laid them aside when I disused my practice of the jesting part of the Joyous Science. Nevertheless, if it pleases your nobleness to listen, I can sing you an established lay upon such a subject.” De Lacy made a sign of acquiescence, and laid himself as if to slumber, while Vidal began one of those interminable and almost innumerable adventures concerning that paragon of true lovers, the fair Ysolte, and of the constant and uninterrupted faith and affection which she displayed in numerous situations of difficulty and peril, to her paramour, the gallant Sir Tristrem, at the expense of her less

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favoured husband, the luckless King Mark of Cornwall—to whom, as all the world knows, Sir Tristrem was nephew. This was not the lay of love and fidelity which De Lacy would have chosen; but a feeling like shame prevented his interrupting it, perhaps because he was unwilling to yield to or acknowledge the unpleasing sensations excited by the tenor of the tale. He soon fell asleep, or feigned to do so and the harper continuing for a time his monotonous chaunt, began at length himself to feel the influence of slumber; his words, and the notes which he continued to touch upon the harp, were broken and interrupted, and seemed to escape drowsily from his fingers and voice. At length the sounds ceased entirely, and the minstrel seemed to have sunk into profound repose, with his head reclining on his breast, and one arm dropped down by his side, while the other rested on his harp. His slumber, however, was not very long, and when he awoke from it, and cast his eyes around him, reconnoitring, by the light of the night-lamp, whatever was in the tent, he felt a heavy hand, which pressed his shoulder as if gently to solicit his attention. At the same time the voice of the vigilant Philip Guarine whispered in his ear, “Thine office for the night is ended—depart to thine own quarters with all the silence thou mayst.” The minstrel wrapt himself in his cloak without reply, though perhaps not without feeling some resentment at a dismissal so unceremonious.

Chapter Five O! then I see Queen Mab has been with you. Romeo and Juliet

T  subject on which the mind has last been engaged at night is apt to occupy our thoughts even during slumber, when Imagination, uncorrected by the organs of sense, weaves her own fantastic web out of whatever ideas rise at random in the sleeper. It is not surprising, therefore, that De Lacy in his dreams had some confused idea of being identified with the unlucky Mark of Cornwall; and that he awakened from such unpleasant visions with a brow more clouded than when he was preparing for his couch on the evening before. He was silent, and seemed lost in thought, while his squire assisted at his levee with the respect now only paid to sovereigns. “Guarine,” at length he said, “know you the stout Fleming, who was said to have borne him so well at the siege of the Garde Douloureuse?—a tall, big, brawny man.” “Surely, my lord,” answered his squire; “I know Wilkin Flammock —I saw him but yesterday.”

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“Indeed!” replied the Constable—“Here, meanst thou?—In this city of Gloucester?” “Assuredly, my good lord. He came hither partly about his merchandize, partly, I think, to see his daughter Rose, who is in attendance on the gracious young Lady Eveline.” “He is a stout soldier, is he not?” “Like most of his kind—a rampart to a castle, but rubbish in the field,” said the Norman squire. “Faithful, also, is he not?” continued the Constable. “Faithful as most Flemings, while you can pay for their faith,” replied Guarine, wondering a little at the unusual interest taken in one whom he esteemed a being of an inferior order; when, after some farther inquiries, the Constable ordered the Fleming’s attendance to be presently commanded. Other business of the morning now occurred, (for his speedy departure required many arrangements to be hastily adopted,) when, as the Constable was giving audience to several officers of his troops, the bulky figure of Wilkin Flammock was seen at the entrance of the pavilion, in jerkin of white cloth, and having only a knife by his side. “Leave the tent, my masters,” said De Lacy, “but continue in attendance in the neighbourhood; for here comes one I must speak to in private.” The officers withdrew, and the Constable and Fleming were left alone. “You are Wilkin Flammock, who fought well against the Welch at the Garde Douloureuse?” “I did my best, my lord,” answered Wilkin—“I was bound to it by my bargain; and I hope ever to act like a man of credit.” “Methinks,” said the Constable, “that you, so stout of limb, and, as I hear, so bold in spirit, might look a little higher than this weaving trade of thine.” “No one is reluctant to mend his station, my lord,” said Wilkin; “yet am I so far from complaining of mine, that I would willingly consent it should never be better, on condition I could be assured it were never worse.” “Nay, but, Flammock,” said the Constable, “I mean higher things for you than your modesty apprehends—I mean to leave thee in a charge of great trust.” “Let it concern bales of drapery, my lord, and no one will perform it better,” said the Fleming. “Away! thou art too lowly-minded,” said the Constable. “What thinkst thou of being dubbed knight, as thy valour well deserves, and left as Chatelain of the Garde Douloureuse?” “For the knighthood, my lord, I should crave your forgiveness, for it

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would sit on me like a gilded helmet on a hog—for any charge, whether of castle or cottage, I trust I might discharge it as well as another.” “I fear me thy rank must be in some way mended,” said the Constable, surveying the unmilitary dress of the figure before him; “it is at present too mean to befit the protector and guardian of a young lady of high birth and rank.” “I the guardian of a lady of birth and rank!” said Flammock, his light, large eyes turning larger, lighter, and rounder as he spoke. “Even thou,” said the Constable. “The Lady Eveline proposes to take up her residence in her castle of the Garde Douloureuse. I have been casting about to whom I may intrust the keeping of her person, as well as of the stronghold. Were I to choose some knight of name, as I have many in my household, he would be doing deeds of vassalage upon the Welch, and engaging himself in turmoils, which would render the safety of the castle precarious—or he would be absent on feats of chivalry, tournaments, and hunting parties—or he would, perchance, have shows of that light nature under the walls, or even within the courts of the castle, turning the secluded and quiet abode, which becomes the situation of the Lady Eveline, into the misrule of a dissolute revel. Thee I can confide in—thou wilt fight when it is requisite, yet wilt not provoke danger for the sake of danger itself—thy birth—thy habits will lead thee to avoid those gaieties, which, however fascinating to others, cannot but be distasteful to thee—thy management will be as regular, as I will take care that it be honourable, and thy relation to her favourite, Rose, will render thy guardianship more agreeable to the Lady Eveline, than, perchance, that of one of her own rank—And, to speak to thee a language which thy nation readily comprehends, the reward, Fleming, for the regular discharge of this most weighty trust, shall be beyond thy most flattering hope.” The Fleming had listened to the first part of this discourse with an expression of surprise, which gradually gave way to one of deep and anxious reflection. He gazed fixedly on the earth for a minute after the Constable had ceased speaking, and then raising up his eyes suddenly, said, “It is needless to seek for roundabout excuses—this cannot be your earnest, my lord—but if it is, the scheme is nought.” “How, and wherefore?” asked the Constable, with displeased surprise. “Another man might grasp at your bounty, and leave you to take chance of the value you were to receive for it; but I am a downright dealer, I will not take payment for service I cannot render.” “But I demand, once more, wherefore thou canst not, or rather wilt not, accept this trust?” said the Constable. “Surely, if I am willing to confer such confidence, it is well thy part to answer it.”

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“True, my lord,” said the Fleming; “but methinks the noble Lord de Lacy should feel, and the wise Lord de Lacy should foresee, that a Flemish weaver is no fitting guardian for his plighted bride. Think her shut up in yonder solitary castle, under such respectable protection, and reflect how long the place will be solitary in this land of love and of adventure! We shall have minstrels singing ballads by the threave under our windows, and such twangling of harps as would be enough to frighten our walls from their foundations, as clerks say happened to those of Jericho—we shall have as many knights-errant around us as ever had Charlemagne, or King Arthur—mercy on me—a less matter than a fine and noble recluse immured—so will they term it—in a tower, under the guardianship of an old Flemish weaver, would bring half the chivalry in England round us, to break lances, vow vows, display love-liveries, and I know not what follies besides.—Think you such gallants, with the blood flying through their veins like quicksilver, would much mind my bidding them be gone?” “Draw bolts, up with the drawbridge, drop portcullis,” said the Constable with a constrained smile. “And thinks your lordship such gallants would mind these impediments? such are the very essence of the adventures which they come to seek.—The Knight of the Swan would swim through the moat—he of the Eagle would fly over the walls—he of the Thunderbolt would burst open the gates.” “Ply cross-bow and mangonel—” said De Lacy. “And be besieged in form,” said the Fleming, “like the castle of Tintadgel in the old hangings, all for the love of fair lady?—And then those gay dames and demoiselles, who go upon adventure from castle to castle, from tournament to tournament, with bare bosoms, flaunting plumes, poniards at their sides and javelins in their hands, chattering like magpies, and fluttering like jays, and, ever and anon, cooing like doves—how am I to exclude such from the Lady Eveline’s privacy?” “By keeping doors shut, I tell thee,” answered the Constable, still in the same tone of forced jocularity; “a wooden bar will be thy warrant.” “Ay, but if the Flemish weaver say shut, when the Norman young lady says open, think which has best chance of being obeyed. At a word, my lord, for the matter of guardianship, and such like, I wash my hands of it—I would not undertake to be guardian to the chaste Susannah, though she lived in an enchanted castle which no living thing could approach.” “Thou holdest the language and thoughts of a vulgar debauchee, who laughs at female constancy, because he has lived only with the most worthless of the sex,” said the Constable. “Yet thou shouldst know the contrary, having, as I know, a most virtuous daughter”——

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“Whose mother was not less so,” said Wilkin, breaking in upon the Constable’s speech with somewhat more emotion than he usually displayed. “But law, my lord, gave me authority to govern and direct my wife, as both law and nature give me power and charge over my daughter. That which I can govern, I can be answerable for; but how to discharge me so well of a delegated trust, is another question.— Stay at home, my good lord,” continued the honest Fleming, observing that his speech made some impression upon De Lacy; “let a fool’s advice for once be of avail to change a wise man’s purpose, taken, let me say, in no wise hour. Remain in your own land—rule your own vassals and protect your own bride. You only can claim her cheerful love and ready obedience; and sure I am, that, without pretending to guess what she may do if separated from you, she will, under your own eye, do the duty of a faithful and a loving spouse.” “And the Holy Sepulchre?” said the Constable, with a sigh, his heart confessing the wisdom of the advice, which circumstances prevented him from following. “Let those who lost the Holy Sepulchre regain it, my lord,” replied Flammock. “If those Latins and Greeks, as they call them, are no better men than I have heard, it signifies very little whether they or the heathen have the country that has cost Europe so much blood and treasure.” “In good faith,” said the Constable, “there is sense in what thou sayst; but I caution thee to repeat it not, lest thou be taken for a heretic or a Jew. For me, my word and oath are pledged beyond retreat, and I have only to consider whom I may best name for that important station, which thy caution has—not without some shadow of reason— induced thee to decline.” “There is no man to whom your lordship can so naturally or honourably transfer such a charge,” said Wilkin Flammock, “save to the kinsman near to you, and possessed of your trust; yet much better would it be were there no such trust to be reposed in any one.” “If,” said the Constable, “by my near kinsman, you mean Randal de Lacy, I care not if I tell you, that I consider him as totally worthless, and undeserving of honourable confidence.” “Nay, I meant another,” said Flammock, “nearer to you by blood, and, unless I greatly mistake, much nigher also in affection—I had in mind your nephew, Damian de Lacy.” The Constable started as if a wasp had stung him, but instantly replied with forced composure. “Damian was to have gone in my stead to Palestine—it now seems I must go in his—for, since this last illness, the leeches have totally changed their minds, and consider that warmth of the climate as dangerous, which they formerly decided to

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be salutary. But our learned doctors, like our learned priests, must ever be in the right, change their counsels as they may; and we poor laymen still in the wrong. I can, it is true, rely on Damian with the utmost confidence; but he is young, Flammock—very young—and, in that particular, resembles but too nearly the party who might be otherwise committed to his charge.” “Then once more, my lord, remain at home, and be yourself the protector of what is naturally so dear to you.” “Once more I repeat that I cannot,” answered the Constable. “The step which I have adopted as a great duty, may perhaps be a great error —I only know that it is irretrievable.” “Trust your nephew, then, my lord—he is honest and true; and it is better trusting young lions than old wolves. He may err, perhaps, but it will not be from premeditated treachery.” “Thou art right, Flammock,” said the Constable; “and perhaps I ought to wish I had sooner asked thy counsel, blunt as it is. But let what has passed be a secret betwixt us; and bethink thee of something that may advantage thee more than the privilege of speaking about my affairs.” “That accompt will be easily settled, my lord,” replied Flammock; “for my object was to ask your lordship’s favour to obtain certain extensions of our privileges, in yonder wild corner where we Flemings have made our retreat.” “Thou shalt have them, so they be not exorbitant,” said the Constable. And the honest Fleming, among whose good qualities scrupulous delicacy was not the foremost, hastened to detail, with great minuteness, the particulars of his request or petition, long pursued in vain, but to which this interview was the means of insuring success. The Constable, eager to execute the resolution which he had formed, hastened to the lodging of Damian de Lacy, and, to the no small astonishment of his nephew, intimated to him his change of destination; alleging his own hurried departure, Damian’s late and present illness, together with the necessary protection to be afforded to the Lady Eveline, as reasons why his nephew must needs remain behind him—to represent him during his absence—to protect the family rights, and assert the family honour of the House of De Lacy— above all, to act as the guardian of the young and beautiful bride, whom his uncle and patron had been in some measure compelled to abandon for a time. Damian yet occupied his bed while his uncle communicated this change of purpose. Perhaps he might think the circumstance fortunate, that in this position he could conceal from his uncle’s observation the various emotions which he could not help feeling; while the Con-

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stable, with the eagerness of one who is desirous of hastily finishing what he has to say on an unpleasing subject, hurried over an account of the arrangements which he had made, in order that his nephew might have the means of discharging, with sufficient effect, the important trust committed to him. The youth listened as to a voice in a dream, which he had not the power of interrupting, though there was something within him which whispered there would be both prudence and integrity in remonstrating against his uncle’s alteration of plan. Something he accordingly attempted to say, when the Constable at length paused; but it was too feebly spoken to shake a resolution fully though hastily adopted, and explicitly announced, by one not in the use to speak before his purpose was fixed, or to alter it when it was declared. The remonstrance of Damian, if it could be termed such, was spoken in terms too contradictory to be intelligible. In one moment he professed his regret for the laurels which he had hoped to gather in Palestine, and implored his uncle not to alter his purpose, but permit him to attend his banner thither; and in the next sentence, he professed his readiness to defend the safety of Lady Eveline with the last drop of his blood. De Lacy saw nothing inconsistent in these feelings, though they were for the moment contradictory of each other. It was natural, he thought, that a young knight should be desirous to win honour—natural also that he should willingly assume a charge so honourable and important as that with which he purposed to invest him; and therefore he thought it was no wonder that, assuming his new office willingly, the young man should yet feel regret at losing the prospect of honourable adventure, which he must abandon. He therefore only smiled in reply to the broken expostulations of his nephew, and, having confirmed his former arrangement, left the young man to reflect at leisure on his change of destination, while he himself, in a second visit to the Benedictine Abbey, communicated the purpose which he had adopted, to the Abbess, and to his bride elect. The displeasure of the former lady was in no measure abated by this communication, in which, indeed, she affected to take very little interest. She pleaded her religious duties, and her want of knowledge of secular affairs, if she should chance to mistake the usages of the world —yet she had always, she said, understood, that the guardians of the young and beautiful of her own sex were chosen from the more mature of the other. “Your own unkindness, lady,” answered the Constable, “leaves me no better choice than I have made. Since the Lady Eveline’s nearest friends deny her the privilege of their roof, on account of the claim with which she has honoured me, I, on my side, were worse than

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ungrateful did I not secure for her the protection of my nearest male heir. Damian is young, but he is true and honourable; nor does the chivalry of England afford me a better choice.” Eveline seemed surprised, and even struck with consternation, at the resolution which her bridegroom thus suddenly announced; and perhaps it was fortunate that the remark of the Lady Abbess made the answer of the Constable necessary, and prevented him from observing that her colour shifted more than once from pale to deep red. Rose, who was not excluded from the conference, drew close up to her mistress; and, by affecting to adjust her veil, while in secret she strongly pressed her hand, gave her time and encouragement to compose her mind for a reply. It was brief and decisive, and announced with a firmness which shewed that the uncertainty of the moment had passed away or been suppressed. “In case of danger,” she said, “she would not fail to apply to Damian de Lacy to come to her aid, as he had once done before; but she did not apprehend any danger at present, within her own secure castle of the Garde Douloureuse, where it was her purpose to dwell, attended only by her own household. She was resolved,” she continued, “in consideration of her peculiar condition, to observe the strictest retirement, which she expected would not be violated even by the noble young knight who was to act as her guardian, unless some apprehension for her safety made his visit unavoidable.” The Abbess acquiesced, though coldly, in a proposal, which her ideas of decorum recommended; and preparations were hastily made for the Lady Eveline’s return to the castle of her father. Two interviews which intervened before her leaving the convent, were in their nature painful. The first was when Damian was formally presented to her by his uncle, as the delegate to whom he had committed the charge of his own property, and, which was much dearer to him, as he affirmed, the protection of her person and interest. Eveline scarce trusted herself with one glance; but that single look comprehended and reported to her the ravage which disease, aided by grief, had made on the manly form and handsome countenance of the youth before her. She received his salutation in a manner as embarrassed as that in which it was made; and, to his hesitating proffer of service, answered, that she trusted only to be obliged to him for his good will during the interval of his uncle’s absence. Her parting with the Constable was the next trial which she was to undergo. It was not without emotion, although she preserved her modest composure, and De Lacy his calm gravity of deportment. His voice faltered, however, when he came to announce, “that it were unjust she should be bound by the engagement which she had been graciously contented to abide under. Three years he had assigned for

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its term; to which space the Archbishop Baldwin had consented to shorten the period of his absence. If I appear not when these are elapsed,” he said, “let the Lady Eveline conclude that the grave has De Lacy, and seek out for her mate some happier man. She cannot find one more grateful, though there are many who better deserve her.” On these terms they parted; and the Constable, speedily afterwards embarking, ploughed the narrow seas for the shores of Flanders, where he proposed to unite his forces with the Count of that rich and warlike country, who had lately taken the Cross, and to proceed by the route which should be found most practicable on their destination for the Holy Land. The broad pennon, with the arms of the Lacys, streamed forward with a favourable wind from the prow of the vessel, as if pointing to the quarter of the horizon where its renown was to be augmented; and, considering the fame of the leader, and the excellence of the soldiers who followed him, a more gallant band, in proportion to their numbers, never went to avenge on the Saracens the evils endured by the Latins of Palestine. Meanwhile Eveline, after a cold parting with the Abbess, whose offended dignity had not yet forgiven the slight regard which she had paid to her opinion, resumed her journey homeward to her paternal castle, where her household was to be arranged in a manner suggested by the Constable, and approved of by herself. The same preparations were made for her accommodation at every halting place which she had experienced upon her journey to Gloucester, and, as before, the purveyor was invisible, although she could be at little loss to guess his name and purpose. Yet it appeared as if the character of these preparations was in some degree altered. All the realities of convenience and accommodation, with the most perfect assurances of safety, accompanied her everywhere on the route; but they were no longer mingled with that display of tender gallantry and taste, which marked that the attentions were paid to a young and beautiful female. The clearest fountain-head, and the most shady grove, were no longer selected for the noontide repast; but the house of some franklin, or a small abbey, afforded the necessary hospitality. All seemed to be ordered with the most severe attention to rank and decorum—it seemed as if a nun of some strict order, rather than a young maiden of high quality and a rich inheritance, had been journeying through the land; and Eveline, though pleased with the delicacy which seemed thus to respect her unprotected and peculiar condition, would sometimes think it unnecessary, that, by so many indirect hints, it should be forced on her recollection. She thought it strange also, that Damian, to whose care she had

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been so solemnly committed, did not even pay his respects to her on the road. Something there was which whispered to her, that close and frequent intercourse might be unbecoming—even dangerous—but surely the ordinary duties of a knight and gentleman enjoined him some personal communication with the maiden under his escort, were it only to ask if her accommodations had been made to her satisfaction, or if she had any special wish which was ungratified. The only intercourse, however, which took place betwixt them, was through means of Amelot, Damian de Lacy’s youthful page, who came at morn and evening to receive Eveline’s commands concerning their route, and the hours of journey and repose. These formalities rendered the solitude of Eveline’s return less endurable; and had it not been for the society of Rose, she would have found herself under an intolerably irksome degree of restraint. She even hazarded to her attendant some remarks upon the singularity of Damian de Lacy’s conduct, who, authorized as he was by his situation, seemed yet as much afraid to approach her as if she had been a basilisk. Rose let the first observation of this nature pass as if it had been unheard; but when her mistress made a second remark to the same purpose, she answered, with the truth and freedom of her character, though perhaps with less than her usual prudence, “Damian de Lacy judges well, noble lady. He to whom the safe keeping of a royal treasure is intrusted, should not indulge himself too often by gazing upon it.” Eveline blushed, wrapped herself closer in her veil, nor did she again during their journey mention the name of Damian de Lacy. When the grey towers of the Garde Douloureuse greeted her sight on the evening of the second day, and she once more beheld her father’s banner floating from its highest watch-tower in honour of her approach, her sensations were mingled with pain; but, upon the whole, she looked towards that ancient home as a place of refuge, where she might indulge the new train of thoughts which circumstances had opened to her, amid the same scenes which had sheltered her infancy and childhood. She pressed forward her palfrey, to reach the ancient portal as soon as possible, bowed hastily to the well-known faces which shewed themselves on all sides, but spoke to no one, until, dismounting at the chapel door, she had penetrated to the crypt, in which was preserved the miraculous painting. There, prostrate on the ground, she implored the guidance and protection of the Holy Virgin through those intricacies in which she had involved herself, by fulfilment of the very vow which she had made in her anguish before the same shrine. If the

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prayer was misdirected, its purport was virtuous and sincere; nor are we disposed to doubt that it attained that Heaven towards which it was devoutly addressed.

Chapter Six The Virgin’s image falls—Yet some, I ween, Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might bend, As to a visible power, in which might blend All that was mix’d, and reconciled in her Of mother’s love with maiden purity, Of high with low, celestial with terrene. W

T  household of the Lady Eveline, though of an establishment becoming her present and future rank, was of a solemn and sequestered character, corresponding to her place of residence, and the privacy connected with her situation, retired as she was from the class of maidens who are yet unengaged, and yet not united with that of matrons, who enjoy the protection of a married name. Her immediate female attendants, with whom the reader is already acquainted, constituted almost her whole society. The garrison of the castle, besides household servants, consisted of veterans of tried faith, the followers of Berenger and of De Lacy in many a bloody field, to whom the duties of watching and warding were as familiar as any of their natural functions, and whose courage, nevertheless, tempered by age and experience, was not like to engage in any rash adventure or accidental quarrel. These men maintained a constant and watchful guard, commanded by the steward, but under the eye of Father Aldrovand, who, besides discharging his ecclesiastical functions, was at times pleased to shew some sparkles of his ancient military education. Whilst this garrison afforded security against any sudden attempt on the part of the Welch to surprise the castle, a strong body of forces were disposed within a few miles of the Garde Douloureuse, ready, on the least alarm, to advance to defend the place against any more numerous body of invaders, who, undeterred by the fate of Guenwyn, might have the hardihood to form a regular siege. To this band, which, under the eye of Damian himself, was kept in constant readiness for action, could be added on occasion all the military force of the Marches, comprising the numerous bodies of Flemings, and other foreigners, who held their establishments by military tenure. While the fortress was thus secure from hostile violence, the life of its inmates was so unvaried and simple, as might have excused youth and beauty for wishing for variety, even at the expense of some danger.

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The labours of the needle were only relieved by a walk round the battlements, where Eveline, as she passed arm in arm with Rose, received a military salute from each sentinel in turn, or in the courtyard, where the caps and bonnets of the domestics paid her the same respect which she received above from the pikes and javelins of the warders. Did they wish to extend their airing beyond the castle gate, it was not sufficient that doors and bridges were to be opened and lowered; there was besides an escort to get under arms, who, on foot or horseback as the case might require, attended for the security of the Lady Eveline’s person. Without this military attendance they could not in safety move even so far as the mills, where honest Wilkin Flammock, his warlike feats forgotten, was occupied with his mechanical labours. But if a further disport was intended, and the Lady of the Garde Douloureuse proposed to hunt or hawk for a few hours, her safety was not confided to a guard so feeble as the garrison of the castle could afford. It was necessary that Raoul should announce her purpose to Damian by a special messenger dispatched the evening before, that there might be time before day-break to scour, with a body of light cavalry, the region in which she intended to take her pleasure; and sentinels were placed in all suspicious places while she continued in the field. In truth, she tried, upon one or two occasions, to make an excursion, without any formal annunciation of her intention; but all her purposes seemed to be known to Damian so soon as they were formed, and she was no sooner abroad than parties of archers and spearmen from his camp were seen scouring the vallies, and guarding the mountain pass, and Damian’s own plume was usually seen conspicuous amongst the distant soldiers. The formality of these preparations so much allayed the pleasure derived from the sport, that Eveline seldom resorted to amusement which was attended with such bustle, and put in motion so many persons. The day being worn out as it best might, in the evening Father Aldrovand was wont to read out of some holy legend, or from the homilies of some departed saint, such passages as he deemed fit for the hearing of his little congregation. Sometimes also he read and expounded a chapter of the Holy Scripture; but in such cases, the good man’s attention was so strongly turned to the military part of the Jewish history, that he was never able to quit the books of Judges and of Kings, together with the triumphs of Judas Maccabeus; although the manner in which he illustrated the victories of the children of Israel, was much more amusing to himself than edifying to his female audience. Sometimes, but rarely, Rose obtained permission for a strolling

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minstrel to entertain an hour with his ditty of love and chivalry; sometimes a pilgrim from a distant shrine, repaid by long tales of the wonders which he had seen in other lands, the hospitality which the Garde Douloureuse afforded; and sometimes also it happened, that the interest and intercession of the tiring-woman obtained admission for travelling merchants, or pedlars, who, at the risk of their lives, found profit by carrying from castle to castle the materials of rich dresses and female ornaments. The usual visits of mendicants, of jugglers, of travelling jesters, are not to be forgotten in this list of amusements; and though his nation subjected him to close watch and observation, even the Welch bard, with his huge harp strung with horse hair, was sometimes admitted to vary the uniformity of their secluded life. But, saving such amusements, and saving also the regular attendance upon the religious duties at the chapel, it was impossible for life to glide away in more wearisome monotony than at the castle of the Garde Douloureuse. Since the death of its brave owner, to whom feasting and hospitality seemed as natural as thoughts of honour and deeds of chivalry, the gloom of a convent might be said to have enveloped the ancient mansion of Raymond Berenger, were it not that the presence of so many armed warders, stalking in solemn state on the battlements, gave it rather the aspect of a state-prison; and the temper of the inhabitants gradually became infected by the character of their dwelling. The spirits of Eveline in particular felt a depression, which her naturally lively temper was quite inadequate to resist; and as her ruminations became graver, had caught that calm and contemplative manner, which is so often united with an ardent and enthusiastical temperament. She meditated deeply upon the former accidents of her life; nor can it be wondered that her thoughts only went back to the two several periods on which she had witnessed, or supposed that she had witnessed, a supernatural appearance. Then it was that it often seemed to her, as if a good and evil power strove for mastery over her destiny. Solitude is favourable to feelings of self-importance; and it is when alone, and occupied only with their own thoughts, that fanatics have reveries, and imagined saints lose themselves in imaginary ecstacies. With Eveline the influence of enthusiasm went not such a length, yet it seemed to her as if in the vision of the night she saw sometimes the form of the Lady of the Garde Douloureuse, bending upon her glances of pity, comfort, and protection; sometimes the ominous form of the Saxon castle of Baldringham, holding up the bloody hand as witness of the injuries with which she had been treated while in life, and menacing with revenge the descendant of her murderer.

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On awaking from such dreams, Eveline would reflect that she was the last branch of her house—a house to which the tutelage and protection of the miraculous Image, and the enmity and evil influence of the revengeful Vanda, had been peculiarly attached for ages. It seemed as if she was the prize, for the disposal of which the benign saint and vindictive fiend were now to play their last and keenest game. Thus thinking, and experiencing little interruption of her meditations from any external circumstance of interest and amusement, she became pensive, absent, wrapt herself up in contemplations which withdrew her attention from the conversation around her, and walked in the world of reality like one who is still in a dream. When she thought of her engagement with the Constable of Chester, it was with resignation, but without a wish, and almost without an expectation, that she would be called upon to fulfil it. She had accomplished her vow by accepting the faith of her deliverer in exchange for her own; and although she held herself willing to redeem the pledge—nay, would scarce confess to herself the reluctance with which she thought of doing so—yet it is certain that she entertained unavowed hopes that Our Lady of the Garde Douloureuse would not be a severe creditor, but satisfied with the readiness she had shewn to accomplish her vow; and would not insist upon her claim in its full rigour. It would have been the blackest ingratitude, to have wished that her gallant deliverer, whom she had so much cause to pray for, should experience any of those fatalities which in the Holy Land so often changed the laurelwreath into cypress; but other accidents chanced, when men had been long abroad, to alter those purposes with which they had left home. A strolling minstrel, who sought the Garde Douloureuse, had recited, for the amusement of the lady and household, the celebrated lay of the Count of Gleichen, who, already married in his own country, laid himself under so many obligations in the East to a Saracen princess, through whose means he achieved his freedom, that he married her also. The Pope and his conclave were pleased to approve of the double wedlock, in a case so extraordinary; and the good Count of Gleichen shared his nuptial bed between two wives of equal rank, and now sleeps between them, under the same monument. The commentaries of the inmates of the castle had been various and discrepant upon this legend. Father Aldrovand considered it as altogether false, and an unworthy calumny on the Head of the Church, in affirming his Holiness would countenance such irregularity. Old Margery, with the tender-heartedness of an ancient nurse, wept bitterly for pity during the tale, and was pleased that a mode of extrication was found for a complication of love distresses which seemed almost inextricable. Dame Gillian declared it unreasonable, that, since a

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woman was only allowed one husband, a man should, under any circumstances, be permitted to have two wives; whilst Raoul, glancing towards her a look of verjuice, pitied the deplorable idiocy of the man who could avail himself of such a privilege. “Peace, all the rest of you,” said the Lady Eveline; “and do you, my dear Rose, tell me your judgment upon this Count of Gleichen and his two wives.” Rose blushed, and replied she was not much accustomed to think of such matters; but that, in her apprehension, the wife who could be contented with but one half of her husband’s affections, had never deserved to engage the slightest share of them. “Thou art partly right, Rose,” said Eveline; “and methinks the European lady, when she found herself outshone by the young and beautiful foreign princess, would have best consulted her own dignity in resigning her place, and giving the Holy Father no more trouble than in annulling the marriage, as has been done in cases of more frequent occurrence.” This she said with an air of indifference and even gaiety, which intimated to her faithful attendant with how little effort she herself could have made such a sacrifice, and served to indicate the state of her affections towards the Constable. But there was another than the Constable on whom her thoughts turned more frequently, though involuntarily, than perhaps in prudence they should have done. The recollections of Damian de Lacy had not been erazed from Eveline’s mind. They were, indeed, renewed by hearing his name so often mentioned, and by knowing that he was almost constantly in the neighbourhood, with his whole attention fixed upon her convenience, interest, and safety; whilst, on the other hand, so far from waiting on her in person, he never even attempted, by a direct communication with herself, to consult her pleasure, even upon what most concerned her. The messages conveyed by Father Aldrovand, or by Rose, to Amelot, Damian’s page, while they gave an air of formality to their intercourse, which Eveline thought unnecessary, and even unkind, yet served to fix her attention upon the connection between them, and to keep it ever present to her memory. The remark by which Rose had vindicated the distance observed by her youthful guardian, sometimes arose to her recollection; and while her soul repelled with scorn the suspicion, that, in any case, his presence, whether at intervals or constantly, could be prejudicial to his uncle’s interest, she conjured up various arguments for giving him a frequent place in her memory. —Was it not her duty to think of Damian often and kindly, as the Constable’s nearest, best-loved, and most trusted relative?—Was he

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not her former deliverer and her present guardian?—And might he not be considered as an instrument specially employed by her divine patroness, in rendering effectual the protection with which she had graced her in more than one emergency? Eveline’s mind mutinied against the restrictions which were laid on their intercourse, as against something which inferred suspicion and degradation, like the compelled seclusion to which she had heard the Paynim infidels of the East subjected their females. Why should she see her guardian only in the benefits which he conferred upon her, and the cares he took for her safety, and hear his sentiments only by the mouth of others, as if one of them had been infected with the plague, or some other fatal or infectious disorder, which might render their meeting dangerous to the other?—And if they did meet occasionally, what else could be the consequence, save that the care of a brother towards a sister, of a trusty and kind guardian to the betrothed bride of his near relative and honoured patron, might render the melancholy seclusion of the Garde Douloureuse more easy to be endured by one so young in years, and, though dejected by present circumstances, naturally so gay in temper? Yet, though this train of reasoning appeared to Eveline, when tracing it in her own mind, so conclusive, that she several times resolved to communicate her view of the case to Rose Flammock, it so chanced that, whenever she looked on the calm steady blue eye of the Flemish maiden, and remembered that her unblemished faith was mixed with a sincerity and plain dealing proof against every consideration, she feared lest she might be subjected in the opinion of her attendant to suspicions from which her own mind freed her; and her proud Norman spirit revolted at the idea of being obliged to justify herself to another, when she stood self-acquitted to her own mind. “Let things be as they are,” she said; “and let us endure all the weariness of a life which might be so easily rendered more cheerful, rather than that this zealous but punctilious friend should, in the strictness and nicety of her feelings on my account, conceive me capable of encouraging an intercourse which could lead to a less worthy thought of me in the mind of the most scrupulous of man—or of womankind.” But even this vacillation of opinion and resolution tended to bring the image of the handsome young Damian more frequently before the Lady Eveline’s fancy, than perhaps his uncle, had he known it, would altogether have approved of. In such reflections, however, she never indulged long, ere a sense of the singular destiny which had hitherto attended her, led her back into the more melancholy contemplations from which the buoyancy of her youthful fancy had for a short time emancipated her.

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In this monotonous course of life, Eveline gradually advanced to the full bloom of maidenhood, for month went after month, and year after year, yet the Constable of Chester returned not; and such uncertain reports as reached them from Palestine seemed to intimate that though he brought to the East his well-known courage and military talent, he had left behind the good fortune which in England had almost always crowned his banner.

Chapter Seven Ours is the skie, Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall flie. R

O  bright September morning, old Raoul was busy in the mews where he kept his hawks, grumbling all the while to himself as he surveyed the condition of each bird, and blaming alternately the carelessness of the under-falconer, and the situation of the building, and the weather, and the wind, and all things around him, for the dilapidation which time and disease had made in the neglected hawking establishment of the Garde Douloureuse. While in these unpleasing meditations, he was surprised by the voice of his beloved Dame Gillian, who seldom was an early riser, and yet more rarely visited him when he was in his sphere of peculiar authority. “Raoul, Raoul! where art thou, man?—Ever to seek for, when thou canst make ought of advantage for thyself or me!” “And what wantst thou, dame?” said Raoul, “screaming worse than the sea-gull before wet weather. A murrain on thy voice! it is enough to fray every hawk from the perch.” “Hawk!” answered Dame Gillian; “it is time to be looking for hawks, when here is a cast of the bravest falcons come hither for sale that ever flew by lake, brook, or meadow.” “Kites! like her that brings the news,” said Raoul. “No, nor keistrils like he that hears it,” replied Gillian; “but brave jerfalcons, with large nares, strongly armed, and beaks short and something bluish”—— “Pshaw, with thy jargon!—Where came they from?” said Raoul, interested in the tidings, but unwilling to give his wife the satisfaction of seeing that he was so. “From the Isle of Man,” replied Gillian. “They may be good, then, though it was a woman brought tidings of them,” said Raoul, smiling grimly at his own wit; then, leaving the

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mews, he demanded to know where this famous falcon-merchant was to be met withal. “Why, between the barriers and the inner gate,” replied Gillian, “where other men are admitted that have wares to utter—Where should he be?” “And who let him in?” demanded the suspicious Raoul. “Why, Master Steward, thou owl!” said Gillian; “he came but now to my chamber, and sent me hither to call you.” “Oh, the steward—the steward—I might have guessed as much. And he came to thy chamber, doubtless, because he could not have as easily come hither to me himself.—Was it not so, sweetheart?” “I do not know why he chose to come to me rather than to you, Raoul,” said Gillian; “and if I did know, perhaps I would not tell you —go to—miss your bargain, or make your bargain, I care not which— the man will not wait for you—he has had good proffers from the Seneschal of Malpas, and the Welch Lord of Dinevawr.” “I come—I come,” said Raoul, who felt the necessity of embracing this opportunity of improving his hawking establishment, and hastened to the gate, where he met the merchant, attended by a servant, who kept in separate cages the three falcons which he offered for sale. The first glance satisfied Raoul that they were of the best breed in Europe, and that, if their education were in correspondence to their race, there could scarce be a more valuable addition even to a royal mews. The merchant did not fail to enlarge upon all their points of excellence; the breadth of their shoulders, the strength of their train, their full and fierce dark eyes, the boldness with which they endured the approach of strangers, and the lively spirit and vigour with which they pruned their plumes, and shook, or, as it was technically termed, roused themselves. He expatiated on the difficulty and danger with which they were obtained from the Rock of Ramsey, on which they were bred, and which was an eyrie unrivalled even on the coast of Norway. Raoul turned apparently a deaf ear to all these commendations. “Friend merchant,” said he, “I know a falcon as well as thou dost, and I will not deny that thine are fine ones; but if they be not carefully trained and reclaimed, I would rather have a goss-hawk on my perch, than the fairest falcon that ever stretched wing to weather.” “I grant ye,” said the merchant; “but if we agree on the price, for that is the main matter, thou shalt see the birds fly if thou wilt, and then buy them or not as thou likest. I am no true merchant if thou ever sawst birds beat them, whether at the mount or the stoop.” “That I call fair,” said Raoul, “if the price be but equally so.” “It shall be corresponding,” said the hawk-merchant; “for I have

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brought six casts from the island, by the good favour of good King Reginald of Man, and I have sold every feather of them save these; and so, having emptied my cages and filled my purse, I desire not to be cumbered longer with the residue; and if a good fellow, and a judge, as thou seemest to be, should like the hawks when he has seen them fly, he shall have the price of his own making.” “Go to,” said Raoul, “we will have no blind bargains; my lady, if the hawks be suitable, is more able to pay for them than thou to give them away.—Will a bezant be a conformable price for the cast?” “A bezant, Master Falconer!—By my faith you are no bold bodesman—nevertheless, double your offer, and I will consider it.” “If the hawks are well reclaimed,” said Raoul, “I will give you a bezant and a half, and I will see them strike a heron ere I will be so rash as deal with you.” “It is well,” said the merchant, “and I had better take your offer than be longer cumbered with them, for were I to carry them into Wales, I might get paid in a worse fashion by some of their long knives. Will you to horse presently?” “Assuredly,” said Raoul; “and, though March be the fitter month for hawking at the heron, yet I will shew you one of these frog-peckers for riding the matter of a mile by the water-side.” “Content, Sir Falconer,” said the merchant. “But are we to go alone, or is there no lord or lady in the castle who would take pleasure to see a piece of game gallantly struck? I am not afraid to shew these hawks to a countess.” “My lady used to love the sport well enough,” said Raoul; “but I wot not why, she is moped and mazed ever since her father’s death, and lives in her fair castle like a nun in cloister, without disport or revelry of any kind.—Nevertheless, Gillian, thou canst do something with her —good now, do a kind deed for once, and move her to come out and look on this morning’s sport—The poor heart hath seen no pastime this summer.” “That I will do,” quoth Gillian; “and, moreover, I will shew her such a new riding tire for the head, that no woman born could ever look at without the wish to toss it a little in the wind.” As Gillian spoke, it appeared to her jealous-pated husband that he surprised a glance of more intelligence exchanged betwixt her and the trader than brief acquaintance seemed to warrant, even when allowance was made for the extreme frankness of Dame Gillian’s disposition. He thought also, that, on looking more closely at the merchant, his lineaments were not totally unknown to him; and proceeded to say to him drily, “We have met before, friend, but I cannot call to remembrance where.”

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“Like enough,” said the merchant; “I have used this country often, and may have taken money of you in the way of trade. If I were in fitting place, I would gladly bestow a pottle of wine to our better acquaintance.” “Not so fast, friend,” said the old huntsman; “ere I drink to better acquaintance with any one, I must be well pleased with what I already know of him. We will see thy hawks fly, and if their breeding match thy bragging, we may perhaps crush a cup together.—And here come grooms and equerries, in faith—my lady has consented to come forth.” The opportunity of seeing this rural pastime had offered itself to Eveline, at a time when the delightful brilliancy of the day, the temperance of the air, and the joyous work of harvest, proceeding in every direction around, made the temptation to exercise almost irresistible. As they proposed to go no farther than the side of the neighbouring river, near the fatal bridge, over which a small guard of infantry was constantly maintained, Eveline dispensed with any farther escort, and, contrary to the custom of the castle, took no one in her train save Rose and Gillian, and one or two servants, who led spaniels or carried appurtenances of the chase. Raoul, the merchant, and an equerry, attended her of course, each holding a hawk on his wrist, and anxiously adjusting the mode in which they should throw them off, so as best to ascertain the extent of their powers and training. When these important points had been adjusted, the party rode down the river, carefully looking on every side for the object of their game; but no heron was seen stalking on the usual haunts of the bird, although there was a heronry at no great distance. Few disappointments of a small nature are more teazing than that of a sportsman, who, having set out with all means and appliance for destruction of game, finds that there is none to be met with; because he conceives himself, with his full shooting trim and his empty gamepouch, to be subjected to the sneer of every passing rustic. The party of the Lady Eveline felt all the degradation of such disappointment. “A fair country this,” said the merchant, “where, on two miles of river, you cannot find one poor heron!” “It is the clatter those damned Flemings make with their watermills and fulling-mills,” said Raoul; “they destroy good sport and good company wherever they come. But were my lady willing to ride a mile or so farther to the Red Pool, I could shew you a long-shanked fellow who would make your hawks cancelier till their brains were giddy.” “The Red Pool!” said Rose; “thou knowest, Raoul, it is more than three miles beyond the bridge, and lies up towards the hills.”

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“Ay, ay,” said Raoul, “another Flemish freak to spoil pastime—they are not so scarce on the Marches these Flemish wenches, that they should fear being hawked at by Welch haggards.” “Raoul is right, Rose,” answered Eveline; “it is absurd to be cooped up like birds in a cage, when all around us has been so uniformly quiet. I am determined to break out of bounds for once, and see sport in our old fashion, without being surrounded with armed men like prisoners of state. We will merrily to the Red Pool, wench, and kill a heron like free maids of the Marches.” “Let me but tell my father, at least, to mount and follow us,” said Rose, for they were now near the re-established manufacturing houses of the stout Fleming. “I care not if thou doest, Rose,” said Eveline; “yet credit me, girl, we will be at the Red Pool, and thus far on our way home again, ere thy father has donned his best doublet, girded on his two-handed sword, and accoutred his strong Flandrekin elephant of a horse, which he judiciously named Sloth—now, frown not—and lose not, in justifying thy father, the time that may be better spent in calling him out.” Rose rode to the mills accordingly, when Wilkin Flammock, at the command of his liege mistress, readily hastened to get his steel cap and habergeon, and ordered half-a-dozen of his kinsmen and servants to get on horseback. Rose remained with him, to urge him to more dispatch than his methodical disposition rendered natural to him; but in spite of all her efforts to stimulate him, the Lady Eveline had passed the bridge more than half an hour ere her escort was prepared to follow her. Meanwhile, apprehensive of no evil, and riding gaily on, with the sensation of one escaped from confinement, Eveline moved forwards on her lively jennet as lightly as a lark, the plumes with which Dame Gillian had decked her riding-bonnet dancing in the wind, and her attendants galloping behind her, with dogs, pouches, lines, and all other appurtenances of the royal sport of hawking. After passing the river, the wild greensward path which they pursued began to wind upwards among small eminences, sometimes bare and craggy, sometimes overgrown with hazel, sloe-thorn, and other dwarf shrubs, and at length suddenly descending, brought them to the verge of a mountain rivulet, that, like a lamb at play, leapt merrily from rock to rock, seemingly uncertain which way to run. “This little stream was always my favourite, Dame Gillian,” said Eveline, “and now methinks it leaps the lighter that it sees me again.” “Ah! lady,” said Dame Gillian, whose turn for conversation never extended in such cases beyond a few phrases of gross flattery, “many a fair knight would leap shoulder-height for leave to look on you as free

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as the brook may! most especially now you have donned that ridingcap, which, in exquisite delicacy of invention, methinks is a bowshot before aught that I ever invented—What thinkest thou, Raoul?” “I think,” answered her well-natured helpmate, “that women’s tongues were contrived to drive all the game out of the country.— Here we come near to the spot where we hope to speed, or nowhere; wherefore, pray, my sweet lady, be silent yourself, and let us steal along the bank of the pool, under the wind, with our hawks’ hoods cast loose, all ready for a flight.” As he spoke they advanced about a hundred yards up the brawling stream, until the little vale through which it flowed, making a very sudden turn to one side, shewed them the Red Pool, the superfluous water of which formed the rivulet itself. This mountain lake, or tarn, as it is called in some countries, was a deep basin of about a mile in circumference, but rather oblong than circular. On the side next to our falconers arose a ridge of rock, of a dark red hue, giving name to the pool, which, reflecting this massive and dusky barrier, appeared to partake of its colour. On the opposite side there was a heathy hill, whose autumnal bloom had not yet faded from purple to russet; its surface was varied by the dark green furze and the fern, and in many places grey cliffs, or loose stones of the same colour, formed a contrast to the ruddy precipice to which they lay opposed. A natural road of beautiful sand was formed by a beach, which, extending all the way around the lake, separated its waters from the precipitous rock on the one hand, and on the other from the steep and broken hill; and being nowhere less than five or six yards in breadth, and in most places greatly more, offered around its whole circuit a tempting opportunity to the rider, who desired to exercise and breathe the horse on which he was mounted. The verge of the pool on the rocky side was here and there strewed with fragments of large size, detached from the precipice above, but not in such quantity as to encumber the horse-course which we have described. Many of these rocky masses, having passed the margin of the water in their fall, lay immersed there like small islets; and, placed amongst a little archipelago, the quick eye of Raoul detected the heron which they were in search of. A moment’s consultation was held to consider in what manner they should approach the sad and solitary bird, which, unconscious that itself was the object of a formidable ambuscade, stood motionless on a stone, by the brink of the lake, watching for such small fish or waterreptiles as might chance to pass by its lonely stance. A brief debate took place betwixt Raoul and the hawk-merchant on the best mode of starting the quarry, so as to allow Lady Eveline and her attendants the

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most perfect view of the flight. The facility of killing the heron at the far jettee or at the jettee ferré—that is, upon the hither or farther side of the pool—was anxiously debated in language of breathless importance, as if some great and perilous enterprize were about to be executed. At length the arrangements were fixed, and the party began to advance towards the aquatic hermit, who, by this time aware of their approach, drew himself up to his full height, erected his long lean neck, spread his broad fan-like wings, uttered his usual clanging cry, and, projecting his long thin legs far behind him, rose upon the gentle breeze. It was then, with a loud whoop of encouragement, that the merchant threw off the noble hawk he bore, having first unhooded her to give her view of her quarry. Eager as a frigate in chase of some rich galleon, darted the falcon towards the enemy, which she had been taught to pursue; while, preparing for defence, if he should be unable to escape by flight, the heron exerted all his powers of speed to escape from an enemy so formidable. Plying his almost unequalled strength of wing, he ascended high and higher in the air, by short gyrations, that the hawk might gain no vantage ground for pouncing at him; while his spiked beak, at the extremity of so long a neck as enabled him to strike an object at a yard’s distance in every direction, possessed for any less spirited assailant all the terrors of a Moorish javelin. Another hawk was now thrown off, and encouraged by the halloos of the falconer to join her companion. Both kept mounting, or scaling the air, as it were, by a succession of small circles, endeavouring to gain that superior height which the heron on his part was bent to preserve; and to the exquisite delight of the spectators, the contest was continued until all three were well nigh mingled with the fleecy clouds, from which was occasionally heard the harsh and plaintive cry of the quarry, appealing as it were to the heaven which he was approaching, against the wanton cruelty of those by whom he was persecuted. At length one of the falcons had reached a pitch from which she ventured to stoop at the heron; but so judiciously did the quarry maintain his defence, as to receive on his beak the stroke which the falcon, shooting down at full descent, had made against his right wing; so that one of his enemies, spiked through the body by his own weight, fell fluttering into the lake, very near the land, on the side farthest from the falconers, and perished there. “There goes a gallant falcon to the fishes,” said Raoul. “Merchant, thy cake is dough.” Even as he spoke, however, the remaining bird had avenged the fate

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of her sister; for the success which the heron met with on one side, did not prevent his being assailed on the other wing; and the falcon stooping boldly, and grappling with, or, as is called in falconry, binding his prey, both came tumbling down together, from a great height in the air. It was then no small object on the part of the falconers to come in as soon as possible, lest the falcon should receive hurt from the beak or talons of the heron; and the whole party, the men setting spurs, and the females switching their palfreys, went off like the wind, sweeping along the fair and smooth beach betwixt the rock and the water. Lady Eveline, far better mounted than any of her train, her spirits elated by the sport, and by the speed at which she moved, was much sooner than any of her attendants at the spot where the falcon and heron, still engaged in their mortal struggle, lay fighting upon the moss; the wing of the latter having been broken by the stoop of the former. The duty of a falconer in such a crisis was to rush in and assist the hawk, by thrusting the heron’s bill into the earth, and breaking his legs, and then permitting the falcon to dispatch him on easy terms. Neither would the sex nor quality of the Lady Eveline have excused her becoming second to the falcon in this cruel manner; but, just as she had dismounted for that purpose, she was surprised to find herself seized on by a wild form, who exclaimed in Welch, that he seized her as a waif, for hawking on the demesnes of Dawfyd with the one eye. At the same time many others, to the number of more than a score, shewed themselves from behind crags and bushes, all armed at point with the axes called Welch hooks, long knives, darts, and bows and arrows. Eveline screamed to her attendants for assistance, and at the same time made use of what Welch phrases she possessed, to move the fears or excite the compassion of the outlawed mountaineers, for she doubted not that she had fallen under the power of such a party. When she found her requests were unheeded, and she perceived it was their purpose to detain her prisoner, she disdained to use farther entreaties, but demanded at their peril that they should treat her with respect, promising in that case that she would pay them a large ransom, and threatening them with the vengeance of the Lords Marchers, and particularly of Damian de Lacy, if they ventured to use her otherwise. The men seemed to understand her, and although they proceeded to tie a bandage over her eyes, and to bind her arms with her own veil, yet they observed in these acts of violence a certain delicacy and attention both to her feelings and her safety, which led her to hope that her request had had some effect on them. They secured her to the saddle of her palfrey, and led her away with them through the recesses of the hills; while she had the additional distress to hear behind her

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the noise of conflict, occasioned by the fruitless efforts of her retinue to procure her rescue. Astonishment had at first seized the hawking party, when they saw from some distance their sport interrupted by a violent assault on their mistress. Old Raoul valiantly put spurs to his horse, and calling to the rest to follow him to the rescue, rode furiously towards the banditti. But, having no other arms save a hawking-pole and short sword, he and those who followed him in his meritorious but ineffectual attempt were easily foiled, and Raoul and one or two of the foremost severely beaten; the banditti exercising upon them their own poles till they were broken to splinters, but generously abstaining from the use of more dangerous weapons. The rest of the retinue, completely discouraged, dispersed to give the alarm, and the merchant and Dame Gillian remained by the lake, filling the air with shrieks of useless fear and sorrow. The outlaws, in the meanwhile, drawing together in a body, shot a few arrows at the fugitives, but more to alarm than to injure them, and then marched off in a body, as if to cover their companions who had gone before, with the Lady Eveline in their custody.

Chapter Eight Four ruffians seized me yester morn— Alas! a maiden most forlorn! They choked my cries with wicked might, And bound me on a palfrey white. C

S    adventures as are now only recorded in works of mere fiction were not uncommon in the feudal ages, when might was so universally superior to right; and it followed that those whose condition exposed them to frequent violence, were more prompt in repelling, and more patient in enduring it, than could otherwise have been expected from their sex and age. The Lady Eveline felt that she was a prisoner, nor was she devoid of fears concerning the purpose of this assault; but she suffered neither her alarm, nor the violence with which she was hurried along, to deprive her of the power of observing and reflecting. From the noise of hoofs which now increased around, she concluded that the greater part of the ruffians by whom she had been seized had betaken themselves to their horses. This she knew was consonant to the practice of the Welch marauders, who, although the small size and slightness of their nags made them totally unfit for service in battle, availed themselves of their spirit, speed and sureness of foot to transport them with

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the necessary rapidity to and from the scenes of their rapine; insuring thus a rapid and unperceived approach, and a secure and speedy retreat. These animals traversed without difficulty, and beneath the load of a heavy soldier, the wild mountain paths by which the country was intersected, and in one of which Lady Eveline Berenger concluded she was now engaged, from the manner in which her own palfrey, supported by a man on foot at either rein, seemed now to labour up some precipice, and anon to descend with still greater risk on the other side. At one of those moments a voice which she had not yet distinguished addressed her in the Anglo-Norman language, and asked, with apparent interest, if she sat safely on her saddle, offering at the same time to have her accoutrements altered at her pleasure and convenience. “Insult not my condition with the mention of safety,” said Eveline; “you may well believe that I hold my safety altogether irreconcilable with these deeds of violence. If I or my vassals have done injury to any of the Cymry, let me know, and it shall be amended—if it is ransom which you desire, name the sum, and I will send an order to treat for it. But detain me not prisoner, for that can but injure me, and will avail you nothing.” “The Lady Eveline,” answered the voice, still in a tone of courtesy inconsistent with the violence which she sustained, “will speedily find that our actions are more rough than our purposes.” “If you know who I am,” said Eveline, “you cannot doubt that this atrocity will be avenged—you must know by whose banner my lands are at present protected.” “Under De Lacy’s,” answered the voice, with a tone of indifference. “Be it so—falcons fear not falcons.” At this moment there was a halt, and a confused murmur arose amongst those around her, who had hitherto been quite silent, unless when muttering to each other in Welch, and as briefly as possible, direction which way to hold, or encouragement to use haste. There was a pause of several minutes; at length Eveline again heard the voice which formerly addressed her, giving directions which she could not understand. He then spoke to herself, “You will presently see,” he said, “whether I have spoken truly, when I said I scorned the ties by which you are fettered. But you who are at once the cause of strife and the reward of victory—your safety must be cared for as time will admit; and, strange as the mode of protection is to which we are to entrust you, I trust the victor in the approaching struggle will find you uninjured.” “Do not, for the sake of the Blessed Virgin, let there be strife and bloodshed!” said Eveline; “rather unbind my eyes, and let me speak

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with those whose approach you dread. If friends, as it would seem to me, I will be the means of peace between you.” “I scorn peace,” replied the speaker. “I have not undertaken a resolute and daring adventure to resign it as a child doth his plaything, at the first frown of fortune. Please to alight, noble lady; or rather be not offended that I thus lift you from the seat, and place you on the greensward.” As he spoke, Eveline felt herself lifted from her palfrey, and placed carefully and safely on the ground, in a sitting posture. A moment after, the same peremptory valet who had aided her to dismount, disrobed her of her cap, the masterpiece of Dame Gillian, and of her upper mantle. “I must yet further require you to draw your feet towards your body,” said the bandit leader, “that your person may be the more easily inclosed within the singular fortification to which I commit it for safety.” Eveline drew herself into the constrained posture which he recommended, conceiving resistance to be of no avail, and thinking that compliance with the request of one who spoke like a person of consequence and of her own race, might find her protection against the unbridled fury of the Welch, to whom she was obnoxious, as being the cause of Guenwyn’s death, and the defeat of the Britons under the walls of the Garde Douloureuse. There was a bustle among those around her, and there was a clanging, roaring sound like that of a distant ocean and, while, blindfolded and obedient, she continued in the posture enjoined, it suddenly seemed to Eveline that she was excluded from the external air by some large, hollow substance which rung dismal as a death-bell when it sunk on all hands, leaving her no doubt that it was of metallic substance. Immediately after were heard cries, blows, the trampling of steeds, the oaths, shouts, and screams of the combatants, while a thrilling and ringing sound produced by the hollow iron arch with which she was covered mingled the while into one general mass of sound, astounding the ears of the unfortunate captive and driving her well nigh mad at once by the acuteness and unceasing clangor of the din which affected her sensorium with inconceivable agony, the tumult without being aggravated and protaracted by the echoes of the hollow mass around her ear. Influenced by desperation, under circumstances so dreadful, Eveline struggled for liberty with such frantic energy, that she partly effected her purpose by freeing her arms from the bonds which confined them. But this only convinced her of the impossibility of escape; for, rending off the veil which wrapped her head, she found herself in

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total darkness, and flinging her arms hastily around her, she discovered she was cooped up under an arch of iron with walls of the same metal completely covering her person and preventing her from changing in any considerable degree the constrained posture in which she sate, while every effort she made for liberating herself from the ponderous circumvallation was as ineffectual as if directed against the dome of a cathedral. The noise by which her ears were at first assailed increased rapidly, and at one moment it seemed as if the covering under which she lay sounded repeatedly to blows, or the shock of substances which had fallen, or been thrust, against it. It was impossible that a human brain could have withstood these terrors, operating upon it so immediately; but happily this extremity of complicated din lasted not long. Echoes more hollow and less acute argued that one or other of the parties had retreated. The iron concave rang to a few sharp and short sounds as those of shafts shot off at random by the fugitives and striking against its metallic boundary; and, finally, no sound continuing to awaken its echoes, they seemed to die away in a deep growling sound, like murmurs of some huge tiger sinking to rest. At length all was silent and Eveline was left to the undisturbed contemplation of her own disastrous situation. The fight was over, and, as circumstances led her to infer, her own friends were conquerors; for otherwise the victor would have relieved her from her place of confinement, and carried her away captive with him, as his words had menaced. But what could the success of her faithful friends and followers avail Eveline, who, pent up under a place of concealment which, whatever was its character, must have escaped their observation, was left on the field of battle, to become again the prize of the enemy, should their band venture to return, or, in the stifling and constrained situation, to die in darkness and privation, a death as horrid as ever tyrant invented, or martyrs underwent, and which the unfortunate young lady could not even bear to think of, without a prayer that her agony might at least be shortened. In this hour of dread she recollected the poniard which she wore, and the dark thought crossed her mind, that, when life became hopeless, a speedy death was at least within her reach. As her soul shuddered at so dreadful an alternative, the question suddenly occurred, might not this weapon be put to a more hallowed use, and aid her emancipation, instead of abridging her sufferings? This hope once adopted, the daughter of Raymond Berenger hastened to prove the experiment, and by repeated efforts succeeded, though with much difficulty, in changing her posture, so as to admit of her inspecting her place of confinement all around, but particularly where its edges rested on the ground. In one place she discerned with

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pleasure a glimmering of light, and by using her dagger and hands, though little accustomed to such labour, succeeded in making a hole under the edge of the huge copper or cauldron, for such she could now discover was the nature of the vessel to which she owed her safety during the combat and her present durance. From the size and massiveness of the vessel there was no hope that her unassisted strength could effect her extrication. But her condition was improved by the admission of air and light, as well as by the opportunity afforded of calling out for assistance. Such cries, indeed, were for some time uttered in vain—the field had probably been left to the dead and the dying; for low and indistinct groans were the only answer which she received for several minutes. At length, as she repeated her exclamation, a voice, faint as that of one just awakened from a swoon, pronounced these words in answer:— “Edris of the Iron House, doest thou call from thy tomb the wretch who just hastens to his own?—are the boundaries broken down which divide me from the living?—and do I already hear, with fleshly ears, the faint and screaming accents of the dead?” “It is no spirit who speaks,” replied Eveline, overjoyed at finding she could at least communicate her existence to a living person —“no spirit, but a most unhappy maiden, Eveline Berenger by name, immured beneath this mass of concave metal, and in danger to perish horribly, unless God send me rescue!” “Eveline Berenger!” exclaimed he whom she addressed, in the accents of wonder. “It is impossible!—I watched her green mantle—I watched her plumy bonnet as I saw her hurried from the field, and felt my own inability to follow to the rescue; nor did force or exertion altogether leave me till the waving of the robe and the dancing of the feathers were lost to my eyes, and hope of rescuing her abandoned my heart.” “Faithful vassal, or right true friend, or courteous stranger, whichsoever I may name thee,” answered Eveline, “know thou hast been abused by the artifice of these Welch banditti—the mantle and headgear of Eveline Berenger they have indeed with them, and perchance have decked out with these habiliments some one of their company to mislead those true friends, who, like thee, are anxious for my fate. Wherefore, brave sir, devise some succour, if thou canst, for thyself and me, since I dread that these ruffians, when they shall have escaped immediate pursuit, will return hither, like the robber to the hoard where he has deposited his stolen booty.” “Now, the Holy Virgin be praised,” said the wounded man, “that I can spend the last breath of my life in thy just and honourable service —I would not before blow my bugle, lest I recalled from the pursuit to

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the aid of my worthless self some of those who might be effectually engaged in thy rescue—may Heaven grant that the recall may now be heard, that my eyes may yet see the Lady Eveline in safety and liberty!” The words, though spoken in a feeble tone, breathed a spirit of enthusiasm, and were followed by the blast of a horn, faintly winded, to which no answer was made save the echoing of the dell. A sharper and louder blast was then sent forth, but sunk so suddenly, that it seemed the breath of him who blew it had failed in the effort.—A strange thought crossed Eveline’s mind even in that moment of uncertainty and terror. “That,” she said, “was the note of a De Lacy—surely you cannot be my gentle kinsman, Sir Damian!” “I am that unhappy wretch, deserving of death for the evil care which I have taken of the treasure entrusted me.—What was my business to trust to reports and messengers? I should have worshipped the saint who was committed to my keeping, with such vigilance as avarice bestows on the dross which he calls treasure—I should have rested nowhere, save at your gate; outwatched the brightest stars in the horizon; unseen and unknown myself, I should never have parted from your neighbourhood; then had not you been in the present danger—and, much less important consequence, thou, Damian de Lacy, had not filled the grave of a forsworn and negligent caitiff!” “Alas! noble Damian,” said Eveline, “break not my heart by blaming yourself for an imprudence which is altogether my own. Thy succour was ever near when I intimated the least want of it; and it embitters my own misfortune to know that my rashness has been the cause of your disaster. Answer me, gentle kinsman, and give me to hope that the wounds you have suffered are such as may be cured.— Alas! how much of your blood have I seen spilled, and what a fate is mine, that I should ever bring distress on all for whom I would most willingly sacrifice my own happiness!—But do not let us embitter the moments given us in mercy, by fruitless repinings—Try what you can to stop thine ebbing blood, which is so dear to England—to Eveline— and to thine uncle.” Damian groaned as she spoke, and was silent; while, maddened with the idea that he might be perishing for want of aid, Eveline repeated her efforts to extricate herself for her kinsman’s assistance, as well as her own. It was all in vain, and she had ceased the attempt in despair; and, passing from one hideous subject of terror to another, she sat listening, with sharpened ear, for the dying groan of Damian, when—feeling of ecstasy!—the ground was shaken with horses’ feet advancing rapidly. Yet this joyful sound, if decisive of life, did not assure her of liberty—It might be the banditti of the mountains return-

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ing to seek their captive. Even then they would surely allow her leave to look upon and bind up the wounds of Damian de Lacy; for to keep him as a captive might vantage them more in many degrees, than could his death. The horseman came up—Eveline invoked his assistance, and the first word she heard was an exclamation in Flemish from the faithful Wilkin Flammock, which nothing save some spectacle of the most unusual kind was ever known to compel from that phlegmatic person. His presence, indeed, was particularly useful on this occasion, for, being informed by the Lady Eveline in what condition she was placed, and implored at the same time to look to the situation of Sir Damian de Lacy, he began, with admirable composure and some skill, to stop the wounds of the one, while his attendants collected levers, left by the Welch as they retreated, and were soon ready to attempt the liberation of Eveline. With much caution, and under the experienced direction of Flammock, the cauldron was at length so much raised, that the Lady Eveline was visible, to the delight of all, and especially of the faithful Rose, who, regardless of the risk of personal harm, fluttered around her mistress’s place of confinement, like a bird robbed of her nestlings around the cage in which the truant urchin has imprisoned them. At length the iron vessel was raised so that she could creep out; while her people, as in hatred of the coercion which she had sustained, ceased not to heave, with bar and lever, till, totally destroying the balance of the heavy mass, it turned over from the little flat on which it had been placed, and, acquiring force as it revolved down a steep declivity, was at length put into rapid motion, and rolled, flashed, and thundered, down the hill, amid flashes of fire which it forced from the rocks, and clouds of smoke and dust, until it alighted in the channel of a brook, where it broke into five massive fragments, with a noise that might have been heard three miles off. With garments rent and soiled through the violence she had sustained; with dishevelled hair, and disordered dress; faint from the stifling effect of her confinement, and exhausted by the efforts she had made to relieve herself, Eveline did not, nevertheless, waste a single minute in considering her own condition; but, with the eagerness of a sister hastening to the assistance of her only brother, betook herself to examine the several severe wounds of Damian de Lacy, and to use proper means to staunch the blood and recall him from his swoon. We have said elsewhere, that, like other ladies of the time, Eveline was not altogether unacquainted with the surgical art, and she now displayed a greater share of knowledge than she had been thought capable of exerting. There was prudence, foresight, and tenderness, in every

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direction which she gave, and the softness of the female sex, with their officious humanity, ever ready to assist in alleviating human misery, seemed in her enhanced, and rendered dignified, by the sagacity of a strong and powerful understanding. After hearing with wonder for a minute or two the prudent and ready-witted directions of her mistress, Rose seemed at once to recollect that the patient should not be left to the exclusive care of the Lady Eveline, and joining, therefore, in the task, she rendered what assistance she could, while the attendants were employed in forming a litter, on which the wounded knight was to be conveyed to the castle of the Garde Douloureuse.

Chapter Nine A merry place, ’tis said, in times of yore, But something ails it now—the place is cursed. Wordsworth

T  place on which the skirmish and deliverance of the Lady Eveline had taken place, was a wild and singular spot, being a small level plain, forming a sort of stage, or resting-place, between two very rough paths, one of which winded up the rivulet from below, and another continued the ascent above. Being surrounded by hills and woods, it was a celebrated spot for finding game, and, in former days, a Welch prince, renowned for his universal hospitality, his love of crw and of the chase, had erected a forest-lodge, where, in evidence of the extent of his housekeeping, he caused to be transported a vessel of enormous size which he used for the purpose of brewing ale. Many yoke of oxen, and much manual labour, were employed to bring this enormous symbol of good living to the Prince’s woodland residence. Like every uncommon circumstance, this caught the fancy of the bards, who always pleased with magnificence, and having no objections to the peculiar species of profusion practised by this potentate, gave him the surname of Edris of the Cauldron; and celebrated in their odes the Mother of Crw, as they termed it, in strains as high as those which exalt the heroes of the famous Hirlas Horn. The artist, who had formed a vessel of such uncommon size, was also the subject of their praises, which, however, he finally forfeited by stabbing Edris, in one of those scenes of confusion and drunkenness which were frequently the conclusion of the banquets of Edris. Shocked at this catastrophe, the assembled Britons interred the reliques of the Prince on the place where he had died, and put the assassin to death upon his grave. Finally, they reversed the celebrated cauldron over the tomb of the dead, and left it as a perpetual monument of the extraordinary tale.

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Superstition guarded the spot; and for many a year this singular memorial of Edris remained unviolated, although the lodge had gone to ruin, and its vestiges had totally decayed. It was thus undisturbed until the events of which we have just spoken, and which occasioned its final destruction. When the followers of Damian, five or six in number, came to explain their part of the history of the day to Wilkin Flammock, it appeared that Damian had ordered them to horse at break of day, with a more considerable body, to act, as they understood, against a party of insurgent peasants, when of a sudden he had altered his mind, and, dividing his force into small bands, employed himself and them in reconnoitring more than one mountain-pass betwixt Wales and the Marches of the English county, in the neighbourhood of the Garde Douloureuse. This was an occupation so ordinary for him that it excited no particular notice. These manœuvres were frequently undertaken by the warlike marchers, for the purpose of intimidating the Welch in general, more especially the bands of outlaws, who, independent of any regular government, infested these wild frontiers. Yet it escaped not comment, that, in undertaking such service at this moment, Damian seemed to abandon that of dispersing the insurgents, which had been considered as the chief object of the day. It was about noon, when, falling in, as good fortune would have it, with one of the fugitive grooms, Damian and his immediate attendants received information of the violence committed on the Lady Eveline, and, by their perfect knowledge of the country, were able to intercept the ruffians at the Cauldron-pass, as it was called, by which the Welch rovers ordinarily returned to their strongholds in the interior. It is probable that the banditti were not aware of the small force which Damian headed in person, and at the same time knew that there would be an immediate and hot pursuit in their rear; and these circumstances led their leader to adopt the singular expedient of hiding Eveline under the cauldron, while one of their own number, dressed in her clothes, might serve as a decoy to deceive their assailants, and lead them from the spot where she was really concealed, to which it was no doubt the purpose of the banditti to return, when they had eluded their pursuers. Accordingly, the robbers had already drawn up for the purpose of regularly retreating, until they should find some suitable place either for making a stand, or where, if overmatched, they might, by abandoning their horses, and dispersing among the rocks, evade the attack of the Norman cavalry. Their plan had been defeated by the precipitation of Damian, who, beholding as he thought the plumes and mantle of the Lady Eveline in the rear of their party, charged them without

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considering either the odds of numbers, or the lightness of his own armour, which, consisting only of a head-piece and a buff surcoat, offered but imperfect resistance to the Welch knives and glaives. He was accordingly wounded severely at the onset, and would have been slain, but for the exertions of his few followers, and the fears of the Welch, that, while thus continuing the battle in front, they might be assaulted in the rear by the followers of Eveline, whom they must now suppose were all in arms and motion. They retreated, therefore, or rather fled, and the attendants of Damian were dispatched after them by their fallen master, with directions to let no consideration induce them to leave off the chase, until the captive Lady of the Garde Douloureuse was delivered from her ravishers. The outlaws, secure in their knowledge of the paths, and the activity of their small Welch horses, made an orderly retreat, with exception of two or three of their rear-guard, cut down by Damian in his furious onset. They shot arrows, from time to time, at the men-at-arms, and laughed at the ineffectual efforts which these heavy-armed warriors, with their barbed horses, made to overtake them. But the scene was changed by the appearance of Wilkin Flammock, on his puissant war-horse, who was beginning to ascend the pass, leading a party consisting both of foot and horse. The fear of being intercepted caused the outlaws to have recourse to their last stratagem, and, abandoning their Welch nags, they betook themselves to the cliffs, and, by superior activity and dexterity, baffled, generally speaking, the attempts of their pursuers on either hand. All of them, however, were not equally fortunate, for two or three fell into the hands of Flammock’s party; amongst others, the person upon whom Eveline’s clothes had been placed, and who now, to the great disappointment of those who had attached themselves to his pursuit, proved to be, not the lady whom they were emulous to deliver, but a fair-haired young Welchman, whose wild looks, and incoherent speech, seemed to argue a disturbed imagination. This would not have saved him from immediate death, the usual doom of captives taken in such skirmishes, had not the faint blast of Damian’s horn, sounding from above, recalled his own party, and summoned that of Wilkin Flammock to the spot; while, in the confusion and hurry of their obeying the signal, the pity or the contempt of his guards suffered the prisoner to escape. They had, indeed, little to learn from him, even had he been disposed to give intelligence, or capable to communicate it. All were well assured that their lady had fallen into an ambuscade, formed by Dafyd the oneeyed, a redoubted freebooter of the period, who had ventured upon this hardy enterprize in hope of obtaining a large ransom for the captive Eveline, and all, incensed at his extreme insolence and auda-

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city, devoted his head and limbs to the eagles and the ravens. These were the particulars which the followers of Flammock and of Damian learned by comparing notes with each other, on the incidents of the day. As they returned by the Red Pool they were joined by Dame Gillian, who, after many exclamations of joy at the unexpected liberation of her lady, and as many of sorrow at the unexpected disaster of Damian, proceeded to inform the men-at-arms, that the merchant, whose hawks had been the original cause of these adventures, had been taken prisoner by two or three of the Welch in their retreat, and that she herself and the wounded Raoul would have shared the same fate, but that they had no horse left to mount her upon, and did not consider old Raoul as worth either ransom, or the trouble of killing. One had, indeed, flung a stone at him as he lay on the hill-side, but happily, as his dame said, it fell something short of him. “It was but a little fellow who threw it,” she said—“there was a big man among them, if he had tried, it’s like, by our Lady’s grace, he had cast it a thought farther.” So saying, the dame gathered herself up, and adjusted her dress for again mounting on horseback. The wounded Damian, on a litter, hastily constructed of boughs, with the females, was placed in the centre of the little troop, augmented by the rest of the young knight’s followers, who began to rejoin his standard. The united body now marched with military order and precaution, and winded through the passes with the attention of men prepared to meet and to repel injury.

Chapter Ten What! fair, and young, and faithful too? A miracle, if this be true. W 

R , by nature one of the most disinterested and affectionate maidens that ever breathed, was the first who, hastily considering the peculiar condition in which her lady was placed, and the marked degree of restraint which had hitherto characterized her intercourse with her youthful guardian, became anxious to know how the wounded knight was to be disposed of; and yet, when she came to Eveline’s side for the purpose of asking this important question, her resolution well nigh failed her. The appearance of Eveline was indeed such as might have made it almost cruelty to intrude upon her any other subject of anxious consideration than those with which her mind had been so lately assailed, and was still occupied. Her countenance was as pale as death could

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have made it, unless where it was specked with drops of blood; her veil, torn and disordered, was soiled with dust and with gore; her hair, wildly dishevelled, fell in elf-locks on her brow and shoulders, and a single broken and ragged feather, which was all that remained of her head-gear, had been twisted among her tresses, and still flowed there, as if in mockery, rather than ornament. Her eyes were fixed on the litter where Damian was deposited, and she rode close beside it, without apparently wasting a thought on anything, save the danger of him who was extended there. Rose plainly saw that her lady was under feelings of excitation, which might render it difficult for her to take a wise and prudent view of her own situation. She endeavoured gradually to awaken her to a sense of it. “Dearest lady,” said Rose, “will it please you to take my mantle?” “Torment me not,” answered Eveline, with some sharpness in her accent. “Indeed, my lady,” said Dame Gillian, bustling up as one who feared her functions as mistress of the robes might be interfered with —“indeed, my lady, Rose Flammock speaks truth; and neither your kirtle nor your gown are sitting as they should do; and, to speak truth, they are but barely decent. And so, if Rose will turn herself, and put her horse out of my way,” continued the tire-woman, “I will put your dress in better order in the sticking in of a bodkin, than any Fleming of them all could do in twelve hours.” “I care not for my dress,” replied Eveline, in the same manner as before. “Care then for your honour—for your fame,” said Rose, riding close to her mistress, and whispering in her ear; “think, and that hastily, how you are to dispose of this wounded young man.” “To the castle,” answered Eveline, aloud, and as if scorning the affectation of secrecy; “lead to the castle, and that straight as you can.” “Why not rather to his own camp, or to Malpas?” said Rose— “dearest lady, believe, it will be for the best.” “Wherefore not—wherefore not?—wherefore not leave him on the wayside at once, to the knife of the Welchman, and the tooth of the wolf?—Once—twice—three times has he been my preserver. Where I go, he shall go; nor will I be in safety myself a moment sooner than I know that he is so.” Rose saw that she could make no impression on her mistress, and her own reflection told her that the wounded man’s life might be endangered by a longer transportation than was absolutely necessary. An expedient occurred to her, by which she imagined this objection might be obviated; but it was necessary she should consult her father.

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She struck her palfrey with her riding-rod, and in a moment her diminutive, though beautiful figure, and her spirited little jennet, were by the side of the gigantic Fleming and his tall black horse, and riding, as it were, in their vast shadow. “My dearest father,” said Rose, “the lady intends that Sir Damian be transported to the castle, where it is like he may be a long sojourner—What think you?—is this wholesome counsel?” “Wholesome for the youth, surely, Roschen,” answered the Fleming, “because he will scape the better the risk of a fever.” “True; but is it wise for my lady?” continued Rose. “Wise enough, if she deal wisely—but wherefore shouldst thou doubt her, Roschen?” “I know not,” said Rose, unwilling to breathe even to her father the fears and doubts which she herself entertained; “but where there are evil tongues, there may be evil rehearsings. Sir Damian and my lady are both very young—methinks it were better, dearest father, would you offer the shelter of your roof to the wounded knight, in the stead of his being carried to the castle.” “That I shall not, wench,” answered the Fleming, hastily—“that I shall not, if I may help. Norman shall not cross my quiet threshold, nor Englishman neither, to mock my quiet thrift, and consume my substance. Thou doest not know them, because thou art ever with thy lady, and hast her good favour. But I know them well; and the best I can get from them is Lazy Flanderkin, and Greedy Flanderkin, and Flemish sot—I thank the saints they cannot say Coward Flanderkin, since Guenwyn’s Welch uproar.” “I had ever thought, my father,” answered Rose, “that your spirit was too calm to regard these base calumnies. Bethink you we are under this lady’s banner, and that she has been my loving mistress, and her father was your good lord; to the Constable, too, are you beholden, for enlarged privileges. Money may pay debt, but kindness only can requite kindness—and I forebode that you will never have such an opportunity to do kindness to the houses of Berenger and De Lacy, as by opening the doors of your house to this wounded knight.” “The doors of my house!” answered the Fleming—“do I know how long I may call that, or any house upon earth, my own? Alas, my daughter! we came hither to fly from the rage of the elements, but who knows how soon we may perish by the wrath of men.” “You speak strangely, my father,” said Rose; “it holds not with your solid wisdom to augur such general evil from the rash enterprize of a Welch outlaw.” “I think not of the One-eyed robber,” said Wilkin; “although the increase and audacity of such robbers as Dawfyd is no good sign of a

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quiet country. But thou, who livest within yonder walls, hearest but little of what passes without—and your estate is less anxious—you had known nothing of the news from me, in case I had found it necessary to remove to another country.” “To remove, my dearest father, from the land where your thrift and industry have gained you an honourable competency?” “Ay, and where the hunger of wicked men, who envy me the produce of my thrift, may likely bring me to a dishonourable death. There have been tumults among the English rabble in more than one county, and their wrath is directed against those of our nation, as if we were Jews or heathens, and not better Christians and better men than themselves. They have, at York, Bristol, and elsewhere, sacked the houses of the Flemings, spoiled their goods, misused their families, and murdered themselves.—And why—except that we have brought among them the skill and the industry which they possessed not, and that wealth, which they would never else have seen in Britain, was the reward of our art and our toil. Roschen, this evil spirit is spreading wider daily. Here we are more safe than elsewhere, because we form a colony of some numbers and strength. But I confide not in our neighbours; and hadst not thou, Rose, been in security, I would long ere this have given up all, and left Britain.” “Given up all, and left Britain!”—The words sounded prodigious in the ears of his daughter, who knew better than any one how successful her father had been in his industry, and how unlikely one of his firm and sedate temper was to abandon known and present advantages for the dread of distant or contingent peril. At length she replied, “If such be the peril, my father, methinks your house and goods cannot have a better protection than the presence of this noble knight. Where lives the man who dare aught of violence against the house which harbours Damian de Lacy?” “I know not that,” said the Fleming, in the same composed and steady, but ominous tone—“May Heaven forgive it me, if it be sin! but I see little save folly in these Crusades, which the priesthood have preached up so successfully.—Here has the Constable been absent for nearly three years, and no certain tidings of his life or death, victory or defeat. He marched from hence, as if he meant not to draw bridle or sheathe sword until the Holy Sepulchre was won by the English, yet we can hear with no certainty whether even a hamlet has been taken from the Saracen. In the meanwhile, the people that are at home grow discontented—their lords, with the better part of their followers, are in Palestine—dead or alive we scarcely know—they themselves are oppressed and flayed by stewards and deputies, whose yoke is neither so light nor so lightly endured as that of the actual lord. The commons,

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who naturally hate the knights and gentry, think it no bad time to make some head against them—ay, and there be some of noble blood who would not care to head them, that they may have their share in the spoil; for foreign expeditions and profligate habits have made many poor; and he that is poor will murder his father for money—I hate poor people, and I would the devil had every man who cannot keep himself by the work of his own hand!” The Fleming concluded, with this characteristic imprecation, a speech which gave Rose a more frightful view of the state of England, than, shut up as she was within the Garde Douloureuse, she had as yet an opportunity of learning. “Surely,” she said—“surely these violences of which you speak are not to be dreaded by those who live under the banner of De Lacy and of Berenger?” “Berenger subsists but in name,” answered Wilkin Flammock, “and Damian, though a brave youth, hath not his uncle’s ascendancy of character and authority. His men also complain that they are harassed with the duty of watching for protection of a castle, in itself impregnable, and sufficiently garrisoned, and that they lose all opportunities of honourable enterprize, as they call it—that is, of fight and spoil—in this inactive and inglorious manner of life. They say that Damian the Beardless was a man, but that Damian with the moustache is no better than a woman; and that age, which has darkened his upper lip, hath at the same time clouded his courage.—And they say more, which were but wearisome to tell.” “Nay, but, let me know what they say—let me know it, for Heaven’s sake!” answered Rose, “if it concern, as it must concern, my dear lady.” “Even so, Roschen,” answered Wilkin. “There are many among the Norman men-at-arms who talk, over their wine cups, how that Damian de Lacy is in love with his uncle’s betrothed bride; ay, and that they correspond together by art magic.” “By art magic, indeed, it must be,” said Rose, smiling scornfully, “for by no earthly means do they correspond, as I, for one, can bear witness.” “To art magic, accordingly, they impute it,” quoth Wilkin Flammock, “that so soon as ever my lady stirs beyond the portal of her castle, De Lacy is in the saddle with a party of his cavalry, though they are positively certain that he has received no messenger, letter, or other ordinary notice of her purpose—Nor have they ever, on such occasions, scoured the passes long, ere they have seen or heard of my Lady Eveline’s being abroad.” “This has not escaped me,” said Rose; “and my lady has expressed herself even displeased at the accuracy which Damian displayed in

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procuring knowledge of her motions, as well as at the officious punctuality with which he has attended and guarded them. To-day has, however, shewn,” she continued, “that his vigilance may serve a good purpose; and as they never met upon these occasions, but continued at such distance as excluded even the possibility of intercourse, methinks they might have escaped the censure of the most suspicious.” “Ay, my daughter Roschen!” replied Wilkin, “but it is possible to drive caution so far as to excite suspicion. Why, say the men-at-arms, should these two observe such constant, yet such guarded intelligence with each other? Why should their approach be so near, and why, yet, should they never meet? If they had been merely the nephew and the uncle’s bride, they must have had interviews avowedly and frankly; and on the other hand, if they be two secret lovers, there is reason to believe that they do find their own private places of meeting, though they have art sufficient to conceal them.” “Every word that you speak, my father, increases the absolute necessity that you receive this wounded youth into your house. Be the evils you dread ever so great, yet, may you rely upon it that they cannot be augmented by admitting him, with a few of his faithful followers.” “Not one follower,” said the Fleming hastily, “not one beef-fed knave of them, save the page that is to tend him, and the doctor who is to attempt his cure.” “But I may offer the shelter of your roof to these three, at least,” answered Rose. “Do as thou wilt, do as thou wilt,” said the doating father. “By my faith, Roschen, it is well for thee thou hast sense and moderation in asking, since I am so foolishly prompt in granting. This is one of your freaks, now, of honour or generosity—but commend me to prudence and honesty.—Ah! Rose, Rose, those who would do what is better than good, sometimes bring about what is worse than bad!—But I think I shall be quit of the trouble for the fear; and that thy mistress, who is, with reverence, something of a damsel errant, will stand stoutly for the chivalrous privilege of lodging her knight in her own bower, and tending him in person.” The Fleming prophesied true. Rose had no sooner made the proposal to Eveline that the wounded Damian should be left at her father’s house for his recovery, than her mistress briefly and positively rejected the proposal. “He has been my preserver,” she said, “and if there be one being left for whom the gates of Garde Douloureuse should of themselves fly open, it is Damian de Lacy.—Nay, damsel, look not upon me with that suspicious and yet sorrowful countenance —They that are beyond disguise, my girl, contemn suspicion—it is to

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God, and Our Lady that I must answer, to them my bosom lies open!” They proceeded in silence to the castle gate, when the Lady Eveline issued her orders that her Guardian, as she emphatically termed Damian, should be lodged in her father’s apartment; and, with the prudence of more advanced age, she gave the necessary directions for the reception and accommodation of his followers, and the arrangements which such an accession of guests required in the fortress. All this she did with the utmost composure and presence of mind, even before she altered or arranged her own disordered dress. Another step still remained to be taken. She hastened to the Chapel of the Virgin, and prostrating herself before her divine protectress, returned thanks for her second deliverance, and implored her guidance and direction, and, through her intercession, that of Almighty God, for the disposal and regulation of her conduct. “Thou knowst,” she said, “that from no confidence in my own strength, have I thrust myself into danger—O make me strong where I am most weak—Let not my gratitude and my compassion be a snare to me, and while I strive to discharge the duties which thankfulness imposes on me, save me from the evil tongues of men—and save—O save me from the insidious devices of my own heart!” She then told her rosary with devout fervour, and retiring from the chapel to her own apartment, summoned her women to adjust her dress, and remove the external appearance of the violence to which she had been so lately subjected.

Chapter Eleven Julia. ————Gentle sir, You are our captive—but we’ll use you so, That you shall think your prison joys may match Whate’er your liberty hath known of pleasure. Roderick. No, fairest, we have trifled here too long; And, lingering to see your roses blossom, I’ve let my laurels wither. Old Play

A       in garments of a mourning colour, and of a fashion more matronly than perhaps altogether befitted her youth—plain to an extremity, and devoid of all ornament, save her rosary—Eveline now performed the duty of waiting upon her wounded deliverer, a duty which the etiquette of the time not only permitted, but peremptorily enjoined. She was attended by Rose and Dame Gillian. Margery, whose element was a sick-chamber, had been already dispatched to

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that of the young knight, to attend to whatever his condition might require. Eveline entered the room with a light step, as unwilling to disturb the patient. She paused at the door, and cast her eyes around her. It had been her father’s chamber; nor had she entered it since his violent death. Around the walls hung a part of his armour and weapons, with hawking-gloves, hunting-poles, and other instruments of sylvan sport. These reliques brought as it were in living form before her, the stately presence of old Sir Raymond. “Frown not, my father,”—her lips framed the words, though her voice did not utter them—“frown not— Eveline will never be unworthy of thee.” Father Aldrovand, and Amelot, the page of Damian, were seated by the bedside. They rose as Lady Eveline entered; and the first, who meddled a little with the healing art, said to Eveline, “that the knight had slumbered for some time, and was now about to awake.” Amelot at the same time came forward, and in a hasty and low voice, begged that the chamber might be kept quiet, and the spectators requested to retire. “My lord,” he said, “ever since his illness at Gloucester, is apt to speak something wildly as he awakes from sleep, and will be displeased with me should I permit any one to be near him.” Eveline accordingly caused her women and the monk to retire into the anti-room, while she herself remained standing by the doorcommunication which connected the apartments, and heard Damian mention her name as he turned himself painfully on his couch. “Is she safe and unharmed?” was his first question, and it was asked with an eagerness which intimated how far it preceded all other considerations.—When Amelot replied in the affirmative, he sighed, as one whose bosom is relieved from some weighty load, and in a less animated voice, asked of the page where they were. “This apartment,” he said, “with its furniture, are all strange to me.” “My dear master,” said Amelot, “you are at present too weak to ask questions and receive explanations.” “Be I where I will,” said Damian, as if recovering his recollection, “I am not in the place where my duty calls me. Tell my trumpets to sound to horse—to horse, and let Ralph Genvil carry my banner—to horse —to horse! we have not a moment to lose!” The wounded knight made some effort to rise, which, in his state of weakness, Amelot was easily able to frustrate. “Thou art right,” he said, as he sunk back into his reclining posture—“thou art right—I am weak—but why should strength remain when honour is lost?” The unhappy young man covered his face with his hands, and groaned in agony, which seemed more that of the mind than of the

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body. Lady Eveline approached his bedside with unassured steps, fearing she knew not what, yet earnest to testify the interest which she felt in the distresses of the sufferer. Damian looked up and beheld her, and again hid his face with his hands. “What means this strange passion, Sir Knight?” said Eveline, with a voice which, at first weak and trembling, gradually obtained steadiness and composure. “Ought it to grieve you so much, sworn as you are to the duties of chivalry, that Heaven has twice made you his instrument to save the unfortunate Eveline Berenger?” “O no—no,” he exclaimed with rapidity; “since you are saved, all is well—but time presses—it is necessary I should presently depart— nowhere ought I now to tarry—least of all within this castle—Once more, Amelot, let them get to horse.” “Nay, my good lord,” said the damsel, “this must not be—as your ward, I cannot let my guardian part thus suddenly—as a physician, I cannot allow my patient to destroy himself—It is impossible that you can brook the saddle.” “A litter—a bier—a cart, to drag forth the dishonoured knight and traitor—all were too good for me—a coffin were best of all—but see, Amelot, that it be framed like that of the meanest churl—no spurs displayed on the pall—no shield with the ancient coat of the De Lacys —no helmet with their knightly crest must deck the hearse of him whose name is dishonoured.” “Is his brain unsettled?” said Eveline, looking with terror from the wounded man to his attendant; “or is there some dreadful mystery in these broken words?—if so, speak it forth; and if it may be amended by life or goods, my deliverer shall sustain no wrong.” Amelot regarded her with a dejected and melancholy air, shook his head, and looked down on his master with a countenance which seemed to express, that the questions which she asked could not be prudently answered in Sir Damian’s presence. The Lady Eveline observing this gesture, stepped back into the outer room or wardrobe, and made Amelot a sign to follow her. He obeyed, after a glance at his master, who remained in the same disconsolate posture as formerly, with his hands crossed over his eyes, like one who wished to exclude the light, and all which the light made visible. When Amelot was in the wardrobe, Eveline, making signs to her attendants to keep at such distance as the room permitted, questioned him closely on the cause of his master’s desperate expressions of sorrow and remorse. “Thou knowst,” she said, “that I am bound to succour thy master, if I may, both from gratitude, as one whom he hath served to the peril of his life—and also from kinsmanship—tell me, therefore, in what case he stands, that I may help him if I can—that

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is,” she added, her pale cheeks deeply colouring, “if the cause of his distress be fitting for me to hear.” The page bowed low, yet shewed such embarrassment when he began to speak, as produced a corresponding degree of confusion in the Lady Eveline, who, nevertheless, urged him as before “to speak without scruple or delay—so that the tenor of his discourse was fitting for her ears.” “Believe me, noble lady,” said Amelot, “your commands had been instantly obeyed, but that I fear my master’s displeasure if I talk of his affairs without his warrant; nevertheless, on your command, whom I know he honours above all earthly beings, I will speak thus far, that if his life be safe from the wounds he has received, his honour and worship may be in great danger, if it please not Heaven to send a remedy.” “Speak on,” said Eveline; “and be assured you will do Sir Damian de Lacy no prejudice by the confidence you may rest in me.” “I well believe it, lady,” said the page. “Know, then, if it be not already known to you, that the clowns and rabble, who have taken arms against the nobles in the west, pretend to be favoured in their insurrection, not only by Randal Lacy, but by my master, Sir Damian.” “They lie that dare charge him with such foul treason to his own blood, as well as to his sovereign!” replied Eveline. “Well do I believe they lie,” said Amelot; “but this hinders not their falsehoods from being believed by those who know him less inwardly. More than one run-away from our troop have joined this rabblement, and that gives some credit to the scandal. And then they say—they say —that—in short, that my master longs to possess the lands in his proper right which he occupies as his uncle’s administrator; and that if the old Constable—I crave your pardon, madam—should return from Palestine, he should find it difficult to obtain possession of his own again.” “The sordid wretches judge of others by their own base minds, and conceive those temptations too powerful for men of worth, which they are themselves conscious they would be unable to resist. But are the insurgents then so insolent and so powerful? We have heard of their violences, but only as if it had been some popular tumult.” “We had notice last night that they have drawn together in great force, and besieged or blockaded Wild Wenlock, with his men-atarms, in a village about ten miles hence. He hath sent to my master, as his kinsman and companion at arms, to come to his assistance. We were on horseback this morning to march to the rescue—when——” He paused, and seemed unwilling to proceed. Eveline caught at the

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word. “When you heard of my danger?” she said. “I would you had rather heard of my death!” “Surely, noble lady,” said the page, with his eyes fixed on the ground, “nothing but so strong a cause could have made my master halt his troop, and carry the better part of them to the Welch mountains, when his countryman’s distress, and the commands of the King’s Lieutenant, so peremptorily demanded his presence elsewhere.” “I knew it,” she said—“I knew I was born to be his destruction! yet methinks this is worse than I dreamed of, when the worst was in my thoughts. I feared to occasion his death, not his loss of fame.—For God’s sake, young Amelot, do what thou canst, and that without loss of time—get thee straightway to horse, and join to thy own men as many as thou canst gather of mine—Go—ride, my brave youth— shew thy master’s banner, and let them see that his forces and his heart are with them, though his person be absent. Haste, haste, for the time is precious.” “But the safety of this castle—But your own safety?” said the page. “God knows how willingly I would do aught to save his fame! But I know my master’s mood; and were you to suffer by my leaving the Garde Douloureuse, even although I were to save him lands, life, and honour, by my doing so, I should be more like to taste of his dagger, than of his thanks or bounty.” “Go, nevertheless, dear Amelot,” said she; “gather what force thou canst make, and be gone.” “You spur a willing horse, madam,” said the page, springing to his feet; “and in the condition of my master, I see nothing better than that his banner should be displayed against these churls.” “To arms, then,” said Eveline, hastily; “to arms, and win thy spurs. Bring me assurance that thy master’s honour is safe, and I will myself buckle them on thy heels. Here—take this blessed rosary—bind it on thy crest, and be the thought of the Virgin of the Garde Douloureuse, that never failed a votary, strong with thee in the hour of conflict.” She had scarcely ended, ere Amelot flew from her presence, and summoning together such horse as he could assemble, both of his master’s, and of those belonging to the castle, there were soon forty cavaliers mounted in the court-yard. But although the page was thus far readily obeyed, yet when the soldiers heard they were to go forth on a dangerous expedition, with no more experienced general than a youth of fifteen, they shewed a decided reluctance to move from the castle. The old soldiers of De Lacy said, Damian himself was too youthful to command them, and had no right to delegate his authority to a boy; while the followers of

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Berenger said, their mistress might be satisfied with her deliverance of the morning, without trying farther dangerous conclusions by diminishing the garrison of her castle—The times, they said, were stormy, and it was wisest to keep a stone roof over their heads. The more the soldiers communicated their ideas and apprehensions to each other, the stronger their disinclination to the undertaking became; and when Amelot, who, page-like, had gone to see that his own horse was accoutred and brought forth, returned to the castleyard, he found them standing confusedly together, some mounted, some on foot, all men speaking loud, and all in a state of disorder. Ralph Genvil, a veteran whose face had been seamed with many a scar, and who had long followed the trade of a soldier of fortune, stood apart from the rest, holding his horse’s bridle in one hand, and in the other the banner-spear, around which the banner of De Lacy was still folded. “What means this, Genvil?” said the page, angrily. “Why do you not mount your horse and display the banner? and what occasions all this confusion?” “Truly, Sir Page,” said Genvil, composedly, “I am not in my saddle, because I have some regard for this old silken rag, which I have borne to honour in my time, and I would not willingly carry it where men are unwilling to follow and defend it.” “No march—no sally—no lifting of banner to-day,” cried the soldiers, by way of burthen to the bannerman’s discourse. “How now, cowards? do you mutiny?” said Amelot, laying his hand on his sword. “Menace not me, Sir Boy,” said Genvil; “nor shake your sword my way. I tell thee, Amelot, were my weapon to cross with yours, never flail sent abroad more chaff than I would make splinters of your hatched and gilded toasting-iron. Look you, there are grey-bearded men here that care not to be led about on every boy’s humour. For me, I stand little upon that; and I care not whether one boy or another commands me. But I am the Lacy’s man for the time; and I am not sure, that in marching to the aid of this Wild Wenlock, we shall do an errand the Lacy would thank us for. Why led he us not thither in the morning, when we were commanded off into the mountains?” “You well know the cause,” said the page. “Yes, we do know the cause; or if we do not, we can guess it,” answered the bannerman, with a hoarse laugh, which was echoed by several of his companions. “I will cram the calumny down thy false throat, Genvil!” said the page; and drawing his sword, threw himself headlong on the bannerman, without considering the great difference of strength.

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Genvil was contented to foil his attack by one, and, as it seemed, a slight movement of his gigantic arm, with which he forced the page aside, parrying at the same time his blow with the standard-spear. There was another loud laugh, and Amelot, feeling all his efforts baffled, threw his sword from him, and weeping in pride and indignation, hastened back to tell Lady Eveline of his bad success. “All,” he said, “is lost—the cowardly villains have mutinied, and will not move; and the blame of their sloth and faint-heartedness will be laid on my dear master.” “That shall never be,” said Eveline, “should I die to prevent it.— Follow me, Amelot.” She hastily threw a scarlet scarf over her dark garments, and hastened down to the court-yard, followed by Gillian, assuming as she went various attitudes and actions, expressing astonishment and pity, and by Rose, carefully suppressing all appearance of the feelings which she really entertained. Eveline entered the castle-court, with the kindling eye and glowing brow which her ancestors were wont to bear in danger and extremity, when their soul was arming to meet the storm, and displayed in their mien and looks high command and contempt of danger. She seemed at the moment taller than her usual size; and it was with a voice distinct and clearly heard, though not exceeding the delicacy of feminine tone, that the mutineers heard her address them. “How is this, my masters?” she said; and as she spoke, the bulky forms of the armed soldiers seemed to draw closer together, as if to escape her individual censure. It was like a group of heavy water-fowl, when they close to avoid the stoop of the slight and beautiful merlin, dreading the superiority of its nature and breeding over their own inert physical strength. —“How now?” again she demanded of them; “is it a time, think ye, to mutiny, when your lord is absent, and his nephew and lieutenant lies stretched on a bed of sickness?—is it thus ye keep your oaths?—thus ye merit your leader’s bounty?—shame on ye, craven hounds, that quail and give back the instant you lose sight of the huntsman!” There was a pause—the soldiers looked on each other, and then again on Eveline, as if ashamed alike to hold out in their mutiny, or to return to their usual discipline. “I see how it is, my brave friends—ye lack a leader here—but stay not for that—I will guide you myself, and, woman as I am, there need not a man of you fear disgrace where a Berenger commands. Trap my palfrey with a steel saddle,” she said, “and that instantly.” She snatched from the ground the page’s light head-piece, and threw it over her hair, caught up his sword, and unsheathing it, went on. “Here I promise you my countenance and guidance—this gentleman,” she

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pointed to Genvil, “shall supply my lack of military skill. He looks like a man that hath seen many a day of battle, and can well teach a young leader her devoir.” “Certes,” said the old soldier, smiling in spite of himself, and shaking his head at the same time, “many a battle have I seen, but never under such a commander.” “Nevertheless,” said Eveline, seeing how the eyes of the rest turned on Genvil, “you do not—cannot—will not refuse to follow me. You do not as a soldier, for my weak voice supplies your captain’s orders— You cannot as a gentleman, for a lady, a forlorn and distressed female, asks you a boon—You will not as an Englishman, for your country requires your sword, and your comrades are in danger. Unfurl your banner, then, and march.” “I would do so, upon my soul, fair lady,” answered Genvil, as if preparing to unfold the banner—“and Amelot might lead us well enough, with advantage of some lessons from me—but I wot not whether you are sending us on the right road.” “Surely, surely,” said Eveline, earnestly, “it must be the right road which conducts you to the relief of Wenlock and his followers, besieged by the insurgent boors.” “I know not,” said Genvil, still hesitating. “Our leader here, Sir Damian de Lacy, protects the commons—men say he befriends them —and I know he quarrelled with Wild Wenlock once for some petty wrong he did to the miller’s daughter at Twyford. We should be finely off, when our fiery young leader is on foot again, if he should find we had been fighting against the side he favoured.” “Assure yourself,” said the maiden, anxiously, “the more he would protect the commons against oppression, the more he would put them down when oppressing others. Mount and ride—save Wenlock and his men—there is life and death in every moment. I will warrant with my life and lands, that whatsoever you do will be held good service to De Lacy. Come, then, follow me.” “None surely can know Sir Damian’s purpose better than you, fair damsel,” answered Genvil; “nay, for that matter, you can make him change as ye list—And so I will march with the men, and we will aid Wenlock, if it is yet time, as I trust it may; for he is a rugged boar, and when he turns to bay, will cost the boors blood enough ere they sound a mort. But do you remain within the castle, fair lady, and trust to Amelot and me.—Come, Sir Page, assume the command, since so it must be; though by my faith it is pity to take the morion from that pretty head, and the sword from that pretty hand—by Saint George! to see them there is a credit to the soldier’s profession.” The lady accordingly surrendered the weapons to Amelot, exhort-

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ing him in few words to forget the offence he had received, and do his devoir manfully. Meanwhile Genvil slowly unrolled the pennon— then shook it abroad, and without putting his foot in the stirrup, aided himself a little with resting on the spear, and threw himself into the saddle, heavily armed as he was. “We are ready now, an it like your juvenility,” said he to Amelot; and then while the page was putting the band into order, he whispered to his nearest comrade, “Methinks, instead of this old swallow’s tail, we should muster rarely under a broidered petticoat—a furbelowed petticoat has no fellow in my mind. Look you, Stephen Pontoys, I can forgive Damian now for forgetting his uncle and his own credit about this wench, for by my faith she is one I could have doated to death upon par amours—Ah! evil luck be the women’s portion. They govern us at every turn, Stephen, and at every age. When they are young, they bribe us with fair looks and sugared words, sweet kisses and love tokens; and when they are of middle age, they work us to their will by presents and courtesies, red wine and red gold; and when they are old, we are fain to run their errands to get out of sight of their old leathern visages. Well, old De Lacy should have staid at home and watched his falcon. But it is all one to us, Stephen, and we may make some vantage to-day, for these boors have plundered more than one castle.” “Ay, ay,” answered Pontoys, “the boor to the booty, and the bannerman to the boor, a right pithy proverb. But, prithee, canst thou say why his page-ship leads us not forward yet?” “Pshaw!” answered Genvil, “the shake I gave him has addled his brains—or perchance he has not swallowed all his tears yet; for ’tis a forward cockeril for his years, wherever honour is to be won.—See, they now begin to move. Well—it is a singular thing this gentle blood, Stephen; for here is a child whom I but now baffled like a schoolboy, must lead us grey-beards where we may get our heads broken, and that at the command of a light lady.” “I warrant Sir Damian is secretary to my pretty lady,” answered Stephen Pontoys, “as this springald Amelot is to Sir Damian; and so we poor men must obey and keep our mouths shut.” “But our eyes open, Stephen Pontoys—forget not that.” They were by this time out of the gates of the castle, and upon the road leading to the village, in which, as they had understood by the intelligence of the morning, Wenlock was besieged or blockaded by a greatly superior number of the insurgent commons. Amelot rode at their head, still embarrassed by the affront which he had received in presence of the soldiers, and lost in meditating how he was to eke out that deficiency of experience, which on former occasions had been supplied by the councils of the bannerman, with whom he was

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ashamed to seek a reconciliation. But Genvil was not of a nature absolutely sullen, though a habitual grumbler. He rode up to the page, and having made his obeisance, respectfully asked him whether it were not well that some one or two of their number pricked forward upon good horses to learn how it stood with Wenlock, and whether they should be able to come up in time to his assistance. “Methinks, bannerman,” answered Amelot, “you should take the ruling of the troop, since you know so fittingly what should be done— you may be the fitter to command, because—but I will not upbraid you.” “Because I know so ill how to obey,” replied Genvil; “that is what you would say; and by my faith, I cannot deny but there may be some truth in it. But is it not peevish in thee to let a fair expedition be unwisely conducted, because of a foolish word or a sudden action?— Come, let it be peace with us.” “With all my heart,” answered Amelot; “and I will send out an advanced party upon the adventure, as thou hast advised me.” “Let it be old Stephen Pontoys and two of the Chester spears—he is as wily as an old fox, and neither hope nor fear will draw him a hair’s-breadth farther than judgment warrants.” Amelot eagerly embraced the hint, and, at his command, Pontoys and two lances darted forward to reconnoitre the road before them, and inquire into the condition of those whom they were advancing to succour. “And now that we are on the old terms, Sir Page,” said the bannerman, “tell me, if thou canst, doth not yonder fair lady love our handsome knight par amours?” “It is a false calumny,” said Amelot indignantly; “betrothed as she is to his uncle, I am convinced she would rather die than have such a thought, and so would our master. I have noted this heretical thought in thee before now, Genvil, and I have prayed thee to check it. You know the thing cannot be, for you know they have scarce ever met.” “How should I know that,” said Genvil, “or thou either, watch them ever so close—much water slides past the mill that Hob Miller never wots of. They do correspond; that, at least, thou canst not deny.” “I do deny it,” said Amelot, “as I deny all that can touch their honour.” “Then how, in Heaven’s name, comes he by such perfect knowledge of her motions, as he has displayed no longer since than this morning?” “How should I tell?” answered the page; “there be such things, surely, as saints and good angels, and if there be one on earth deserves their protection, it is Dame Eveline Berenger.” “Well said, Master Counsel-keeper,” replied Genvil, laughing;

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“but that will hardly pass on an old trooper.—Saints and angels, quotha! most saintlike doings, I warrant you.” The page was about to continue his angry vindication, when Stephen Pontoys and his followers returned upon the spur. “Wenlock holds out bravely,” he called out, “though he is felly girded in with these boors. The large cross-bows are doing good service; and I little doubt his making his place good till we come up, if it please you to ride something sharply. They have assailed the barriers, and were close up to them even now, but were driven back with small success.” The party were now put to as rapid motion as might consist with order, and soon reached the top of a small eminence, beneath which lay the village where Wenlock was making his defence. The air rung with the cries and shouts of the insurgents, who, numerous as bees, and possessed with that dogged spirit of courage so peculiar to the English, thronged like ants to the barriers, and endeavoured to break down the palisades, or to climb over them in despite of the showers of stones and arrows from within, by which they suffered great loss, as well as by the swords and battle-axes of the men-at-arms, whenever they came to hand-blows. “We are in time, we are in time,” said Amelot, dropping the reins of his bridle, and joyfully clapping his hands. “Shake thy banner abroad, Genvil—give Wenlock and his fellows a fair view of it.—Comrades, halt—breathe your horses for a moment.—Hark hither, Genvil—If we descend by yonder broad pathway into the meadow where the cattle are”—— “Brave, my young falcon!” replied Genvil, whose love of battle, like that of the war-horse of Job, kindled at sight of the spears, and at the sound of the trumpet; “we shall have then an easy field for a charge on yonder knaves.” “What a thick black cloud the villains make!” said Amelot; “but we will let day-light through it with our lances—See, Genvil, the defenders hoist a signal to shew they have seen us.” “A signal to us?” exclaimed Genvil. “By Heaven, it is a white flag— a signal of surrender.” “Surrender? they cannot dream of it, when we are advancing to their succour,” replied Amelot; when two or three melancholy notes from the trumpets of the besieged, with a thundering and tumultuous acclamation from the besiegers, rendered the fact indisputable. “Down goes Wenlock’s pennon,” said Genvil, “and the churls enter the barricades on all points.—here has been cowardice or treachery— what is to be done?” “Advance on them,” said Amelot, “retake the place, and deliver the prisoners.”

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“Advance, indeed?” answered the bannerman—“Not a horse’s length by my counsel—we should have every nail in our corslets counted with arrow-shot, before we got down the hill in the face of such a multitude, and the place to storm afterwards—it were mere insanity.” “Yet come a little forward alongst with me,” said the page; “perhaps we may find some path by which we could descend unperceived.” Accordingly they rode forward a little way to reconnoitre the face of the hill, the page still urging the possibility of descending it unperceived amid the confusion, when Genvil answered impatiently, “Unperceived!—you are already perceived—here comes a fellow, pricking towards us as fast as his beast may trot.” As he spoke, the rider came up to them. He was a short, thick-set peasant, in an ordinary frieze jacket and hose, with a blue cap on his head, which he had been scarcely able to pull over a shock head of red hair, that seemed in arms to repel the covering. The man’s hands were bloody, and he carried at his saddle-bow a linen bag, which was also stained with blood. “Ye be of Damian de Lacy’s company, be ye not?” said this rude messenger; and, when they answered in the affirmative, he proceeded, with the same blunt courtesy, “Hob Miller of Twyford commends him to Damian Lacy, and, knowing his purpose to amend disorders in the commonwealth, Hob Miller sends him toll of the grist which he hath grinded.” With that he took from the bag a human head, and tendered it to Amelot. “It is Wenlock’s head,” said Genvil—“how his eyes stare!” “They will stare after no more wenches now,” said the boor—“I have cured him of caterwauling.” “Thou!” said Amelot, stepping back in disgust and indignation. “Yes, I myself,” replied the peasant; “I am Grand Justiciary of the Commons, for lack of a better.” “Grand hangman, thou wouldst say,” replied Genvil. “Call it what thou list,” replied the peasant. “Truly, it behoves men in state to give good example. I’ll bid no man do that I am not ready to do myself. It is as easy to hang a man, as to say hang him; we will have no splitting of offices in this new world, which is happily set up in old England.” “Wretch!” said Amelot, “take back thy bloody token to them that sent thee—hadst thou not come upon assurance, I had pinned thee to the earth with my lance—But, be assured, your cruelty shall be fearfully avenged.—Come, Genvil, let us to our men; there is no farther use in abiding here.” The fellow, who had expected a very different reception, stood staring after them for a few moments, then replaced his bloody trophy

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in the wallet, and rode back to them who sent him. “This comes of meddling with men’s amourettes,” said Genvil; “Sir Damian would needs brawl with Wenlock about his dealings with this miller’s daughter, and you see they account him a favourer of their enterprize; it will be well if others do not take up the same opinion. I wish we were rid of the trouble which such suspicions may bring upon us—ay, were it at the price of my best horse—I am like to lose him at any rate with the day’s hard service, and I would it were the worst it is to cost us.” The party returned, wearied and discomforted, to the castle of the Garde Douloureuse, and not without losing several of their number by the way, some straggling, owing to the weariness of their horses, and others taking the opportunity of desertion, in order to join with the bands of insurgents and plunderers, who had now gathered together in different quarters, and were augmented by recruits from the dissolute soldiery. Amelot, on his return to the castle, found that the state of his master was still very precarious, and that the Lady Eveline, though much exhausted, had not yet retired to rest, but was awaiting his return with impatience. He was introduced to her accordingly, and, with a heavy heart, mentioned the ineffectual event of his expedition. “Now the saints have pity upon us!” said the Lady Eveline; “for it seems as if a plague or pest attached to me, and extended itself to all who interest themselves in my welfare. From the moment they do so their very virtues became snares to them; and what would, in every other case, recommend them to honour, is turned to destruction to the friends of Eveline Berenger.” “Fear not, fair lady,” replied Amelot; “there are still men enough in my master’s camp to put down these disturbers of the public peace. I will but abide to receive his instructions, and will hence to-morrow, and draw out a force to restore quiet in this part of the country.” “Alas! you know not yet the worst of it,” replied Eveline. “Since you went hence we have received certain notice, that when the soldiers at Sir Damian’s camp heard of the accident which he this morning met with, already discontented with the inactive life which they had of late led, and dispirited by the hurts and reported death of their leader, they have altogether broken up and dispersed their forces.—Yet be of good courage, Amelot,” she said; “this house is strong enough to bear out a worse tempest than any that is likely to be poured on it; and if all men desert your master in wounds and affliction, it becomes yet more the part of Eveline Berenger to shelter and protect her deliverer.”

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Chapter Twelve Let our proud trumpet shake their castle wall, Menacing death and ruin.” O

T  evil news with which the last chapter concluded were necessarily told to Damian de Lacy, as the person whom they chiefly concerned; and Lady Eveline herself undertook the task of communicating them, mingling what she said with tears, and again interrupting those tears to suggest topics of hope and comfort, which carried no consolation to her own bosom. The wounded knight continued with his face turned towards her, listening to these disastrous tidings, as one who was no otherwise affected by them, than as they regarded her who told the story. When she had done speaking, he continued as in a reverie, with his eyes so intently fixed upon her, that she rose up, with the purpose of withdrawing from looks by which she felt herself embarrassed. He hastened to speak, that he might prevent her departure. “All that you have said, fair lady,” he replied, “had been enough, if told by another, to have broken my heart; for it tells me that the power and honour of my house, so solemnly committed to my charge, have been blasted in my misfortunes. But when I look upon you, and hear your voice, I forget everything, saving that you have been rescued, and are here in honour and safety. Let me therefore pray of your goodness that I may be removed from the castle which holds you, and sent elsewhere. I am in no shape worthy of your farther care, since I have no longer the swords of others at my disposal, and am totally unable for the present to draw my own.” “And if you are generous enough to think of me in your own misfortunes, noble knight,” answered Eveline, “can you suppose that I forget wherefore, and in whose rescue, these wounds were incurred? No, Damian, speak not of removal—while there is a turret of the Garde Douloureuse standing, within that turret shall you find shelter and protection. Such, I am well assured, would be the pleasure of your uncle, were he here in person.” It seemed as if a sudden pang of his wound had seized upon Damian; for, repeating the words “My uncle!” he writhed himself round, and averted his face from Eveline; then again composing himself, replied, “Alas! knew my uncle how ill I have obeyed his precepts, instead of sheltering me within this house, he would command me to be flung from the battlements.”

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“Fear not his displeasure,” said Eveline, again preparing to withdraw; “but endeavour, by the composure of your spirit, to aid the healing of your wounds; when, I doubt not, you will be able again to establish good order in the Constable’s jurisdiction, long before his return.” She coloured as she pronounced the last words, and hastily left the apartment. When she was in her own chamber she dismissed her other attendants, and retained Rose. “What doest thou think of these passages, my wise maiden and monitress?” said she. “I would,” replied Rose, “either that this young knight had never entered this castle—or, that being here, he could presently leave it— or, that he could honourably remain here for ever.” “What doest thou mean by remaining here for ever?” said Eveline, sharply and hastily. “Let me answer that question with another—How long has the Constable of Chester been absent from England?” “Three years come Saint Clement’s Day,” said Eveline; “and what of that?” “Nay, nothing, but——” “But what?—I command you to speak out.” “A few weeks will place your hand at your disposal.” “And think you, Rose,” said Eveline, rising with dignity, “that there are no bonds save those which are drawn by the scribe’s pen? We know little of the Constable’s adventures; but we know enough to shew that his towering hopes have fallen, and his sword and courage proved too weak to change the fortunes of the Sultan Saladin. Suppose him returning some brief time hence, as we have seen so many crusaders regain their homes, poor and broken in health—suppose that he finds, as much he may, his lands laid waste, and his followers dispersed, by the consequence of these late misfortunes, how would it sound should he also find that his betrothed bride had wedded and endowed with her substance the nephew whom he most trusted? Doest thou think such an engagement is like a Lombard’s mortgage, which must be redeemed on the very day, else forfeiture is sure to be awarded?” “I cannot tell, madam,” replied Rose; “but they that keep their covenant to the letter, are, in my country, held bound to no more.” “That is a Flemish fashion, Rose,” said her mistress; “but the honour of a Norman is not satisfied with an observance so limited. What?—wouldst thou have my honour, my affections, my duty, all that is most valuable to a woman, depend on the same progress of the kalendar which an usurer watches for the purpose of seizing on a forfeited pledge?—Am I such a mere commodity that I must belong to

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one man if he claims me before Michaelmas, to another if he comes afterwards?—No, Rose, I did not thus interpret my engagement, sanctioned as it was by the special providence of Our Lady of the Garde Douloureuse.” “It is a feeling worthy of you, my dearest lady,” answered the attendant; “yet you are so young—so beset with dangers—so much exposed to calumny—that I, at least, looking forward to the time when you may have a legal companion and protector, see it as an extrication from much doubt and danger.” “Do not think of it, Rose,” answered Eveline; “do not liken your mistress to those provident dames, who, while one husband yet lives, though in old age or weak health, are prudently engaged in plotting for another.” “Enough, my dearest lady,” said Rose;—“yet not so—permit me one word more. Since you are determined not to avail yourself of your freedom, even when the fatal period of your engagement is expired, why suffer this young man to share our solitude? He is surely well enough to be removed to some other place of security—let us resume our former sequestered mode of life, until Providence send us some better or more certain prospects.” Eveline sighed—looked down—then looking upwards, once more had opened her lips to express her willingness to enforce so reasonable an arrangement, but for Damian’s recent wounds, and the distracted state of the country, when she was interrupted by the shrill sound of trumpets, blown before the gate of the castle; and Raoul, with anxiety on his brow, came limping to inform his lady, that a knight, attended by a pursuivant-at-arms, in the royal livery, with a strong guard, was in front of the castle, and demanded admittance in the name of the King. Eveline paused a moment ere she replied, “Not even to the King’s order shall the castle of my ancestors be opened, until we are well assured of the person by whom, and the purpose for which, it is demanded. We will ourself to the gate, and learn the meaning of this summons.—My veil, Rose; and call my women.—Again that trumpet sounds! Alas! it rings like a signal to death and ruin.” The prophetic apprehensions of Eveline were not false; for scarce had she reached the door of the apartment, when she was met by the page Amelot, in a state of such disordered apprehension as an eleve of chivalry was scarce on any occasion permitted to display. “Lady, noble lady,” he said, hastily bending his knee to Eveline, “save my dearest master!—You, and you alone, can save him at this extremity.” “I!” said Eveline, in astonishment—“I save him?—And from what danger?—God knows how willingly!”

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There she stopped short, as if afraid to trust herself with expressing what rose to her lips. “Guy Monthermer, lady, is at the gate, with a pursuivant and the royal banner. The hereditary enemy of the House of Lacy, thus accompanied, comes hither for no good—the extent of the evil I know not, but for evil he comes. My master slew his nephew at the field of Malpas, and therefore——” He was here interrupted by another flourish of trumpets, which rung as if in shrill impatience through the vaults of the ancient fortress. The Lady Eveline hasted to the gate, and found that the warders, and others who attended there, were looking on each other with doubtful and alarmed countenances, which they turned upon her at her arrival, as if to seek from their mistress the comfort and the courage which they could not communicate to each other. Without the gate, mounted, and in complete armour, was an elderly and stately knight, whose raised visor and beaver depressed, shewed a beard already grizzled. Beside him appeared the pursuivant on horseback; the royal arms embroidered on his heraldic dress of office, and all the importance of offended consequence on his countenance, which was shaded by his barret-cap and triple plume. They were attended by a body of about fifty soldiers, arrayed under the guidon of England. When the Lady Eveline appeared at the barrier, the knight, after a slight reverence, which seemed more in formal courtesy than in kindness, demanded if he saw the daughter of Raymond Berenger. “And is it,” he continued, when he had received an answer in the affirmative, “before the castle of that approved and favoured servant of the House of Anjou, that King Henry’s trumpets have thrice sounded, without obtaining an entrance for those who are honoured with their Sovereign’s command?” “My condition,” answered Eveline, “must excuse my caution. I am a lone maiden, residing in a frontier fortress. I may admit no one without inquiring his purpose, and being assured that his entrance consists with the safety of the place, and with mine own honour.” “Since you are so punctilious, lady,” replied Monthermer, “know, that in the present distracted state of the country, it is his Grace the King’s pleasure to place within your walls a body of men-at-arms, sufficient to guard this important castle both from the insurgent peasants, who burn and slay, and from the Welch, who, it must be expected, will, according to their wont in time of disturbance, make incursions on the frontiers. Undo your gates, then, Lady of Berenger, and suffer his Grace’s forces to enter the castle.” “Sir Knight,” answered the lady, “this castle, like every other fortress in England, is the King’s by law; but by law also I am the keeper

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and defender of it; and it is the tenure by which my ancestors held these lands. I have men enough to maintain the Garde Douloureuse in my time, as my father, and my grandfather before him, defended it in theirs. The King is gracious to send me succours, but I need not the aid of hirelings; neither do I think it safe to admit such into my castle, who may, in this lawless time, make themselves masters of it for other than its lawful mistress.” “Lady,” replied the old warrior, “his Grace is not ignorant of the motives which produce a contumacy like this. It is not any apprehension for the royal forces, which influences you, a royal vassal, in this refractory conduct. I might proceed upon your refusal to proclaim you a traitor to the Crown, but the King remembers the services of your father. Know, then, we are not ignorant that Damian de Lacy, accused of instigating and heading this insurrection, of deserting his duty in the field, and abandoning a noble comrade to the sword of the brutal peasants, has found shelter under this roof, with little credit to your loyalty as a vassal, or your conduct as a high-born maiden. Deliver him up to us, and I will draw off these men-at-arms, and dispense, though I may scarce answer doing so, with the occupation of the castle.” “Guy de Monthermer,” answered Eveline, “he that throws a stain on my name, speaks falsely and unworthily. As for Damian de Lacy, he knows how to defend his own fame. This only let me say, that while he takes his abode in the castle of the betrothed of his kinsman, she delivers him to no one, least of all to his well-known feudal enemy. Drop the portcullis, warders, and let it not be raised without my special order.” The portcullis, as she spoke, fell rattling and clanging to the ground, and Monthermer, in baffled spite, remained excluded from the castle. “Unworthy lady—” he began in passion, then checking himself, said calmly to the pursuivant, “Ye are witness that she hath admitted that the traitor is within that castle—ye are witness that, lawfully summoned, this Eveline Berenger refuses to deliver him up. Do your duty, Sir Pursuivant, as is usual in such cases.” The pursuivant then advanced and proclaimed, in the formal and fatal phrase befitting the occasion, that Eveline Berenger, lawfully summoned and refusing to admit the King’s forces into her castle, and to deliver up the body of a false traitor called Damian de Lacy, had herself incurred the penalty of high treason, and had involved within the same doom all who aided, abetted, or maintained her in holding out the said castle against their allegiance to Henry of Anjou. The trumpets, so soon as the voice of the herald had ceased, confirmed the doom he had pronounced by a long and ominous peal, startling from

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their nests the owl and the raven, who replied to it by their ill-boding screams. The defenders of the castle looked on each other with blank and dejected countenances, while Monthermer, raising aloft his lance, exclaimed, as he turned his horse from the castle-gate, “When I next approach the Garde Douloureuse, it will be not merely to intimate, but to execute, the mandate of my Sovereign.” As Eveline stood pensively to behold the retreat of Monthermer and his associates, and to consider what was to be done in this emergency, she heard one of the Flemings, in a low tone, ask an Englishman who stood beside him what was the meaning of a traitor. “One who betrayeth a trust reposed—a betrayer,” said the interpreter. The phrase which he used recalled to Eveline’s memory her boding vision or dream. “Alas!” she said, “the vengeance of the fiend is about to be accomplished. Widowed wife and wedded maid—these epithets have long been mine—Betrothed—woe’s me—it is the keystone of my destiny—Betrayer I am now denounced, though, thank God, I am clear from the guilt! It only follows that I should be betrayed, and the evil prophecy will be fulfilled to the very letter.”

Chapter Thirteen Out on ye, owls!—Nothing but songs of death? Richard III

M  than three months had elapsed since the event narrated in the last chapter, and it had, as might have been expected, been the precursor of others of still greater importance, which will evolve themselves in the course of our narrative. But we profess to present to the reader not a precise detail of circumstances, according to their order and date, but a series of pictures, endeavouring to present the most striking incidents before the eye or imagination of those whom it may concern. We therefore open a new scene, and bring other actors upon the stage. Along a wasted tract of country, more than twelve miles distant from the Garde Douloureuse, in the heat of a summer noonday, which shed a burning lustre on the silent valley, and the blackened ruins of the cottages with which it had been once graced, two travellers walked slowly. Their palmer cloaks, pilgrims’ staves, large slouched hats, with a scallop shell bound on the front of each, above all, the cross, cut in red cloth upon their shoulders, marked them as pilgrims who had accomplished their vow, and had returned from that fatal bourne, from which, in those days, returned so few of the thousands

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who visited it, whether in the love of enterprize, or in the ardour of devotion. The pilgrims had passed, that morning, through a scene of devastation similar to, and scarce surpassed in misery by, those which they had often trod during the wars of the Cross. They had seen hamlets which appeared to have suffered all the fury of military execution, the houses being burned to the ground, and in many cases the carcases of the miserable inhabitants, or rather reliques suspended on temporary gibbets, or on the trees, which had been allowed to remain standing, only, it would seem, to serve the convenience of the executioner. Living creatures they saw none, excepting those wild denizens of nature who seemed silently resuming the now wasted districts, from which they might have been formerly expelled by the course of civilization. Their ears were no less disagreeably occupied than their eyes. The pensive travellers might indeed hear the screams of the raven, as if lamenting the decay of the carnage on which he had been gorged; and now and then the plaintive howl of some dog, deprived of his home and master; but no sounds which argued either labour or domestication of any kind. The sable figures who, with wearied steps, as it seemed, travelled through these scenes of desolation and ravage, seemed assimilated to them in appearance. They spoke not with each other—they looked not to each other—but one, the shorter of the pair, keeping about half a pace in front of his companion, they moved slowly, as priests returning from a sinner’s death-bed, or rather as spectres flitting along the precincts of a church-yard. At length they reached a grassy mound, on the top of which was placed one of those receptacles for the dead of the ancient British chiefs of distinction, which are composed of upright fragments of granite, so placed as to form a stone coffin, or something bearing that resemblance. The sepulchre had been long violated by the victorious Saxons, either in scorn or in idle curiosity, or because treasures were supposed to be sometimes concealed in such spots. The huge flat stone which had once been the cover of the coffin, if so it might be termed, lay broken in two pieces at some distance from the sepulchre; and overgrown as the fragments were with grass and lichens, shewed plainly that the lid had been removed to its present situation many years since. A stunted and doddered oak-tree still spread its branches over the open and rude mausoleum, as if the Druid’s badge and emblem, shattered and storm-broken, was still bending to offer its protection to the last remnants of their worship. “This, then, is the Kist-vaen,” said the shorter pilgrim; “and here we must abide tidings of our scout. But what, Philip Guarine, have we

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to expect as an explanation of the devastation which we have traversed?” “Some incursion of the Welch wolves, my lord,” replied Guarine; “and by Our Lady, here lies a poor Saxon sheep whom they have snapped up.” The Constable (for he was the pilgrim who had walked foremost) turned as he heard his squire speak, and saw the corpse of a man amongst the long grass; by which, indeed, it was so hidden, that he himself had passed without notice, what the esquire, in less abstracted mood, had not failed to observe. The leathern doublet of the slain bespoke him an English peasant—the body lay on its face, and the arrow which had caused his death still stuck in his back. Philip Guarine, with the cool indifference of one accustomed to such scenes, drew the shaft from the man’s back, as composedly as he would have removed it from the body of a deer. With similar indifference the Constable signed to his esquire to give him the arrow, looked at it with indolent curiosity, and then said, “Thou hast forgotten thy old craft, Guarine, when thou callst that a Welch shaft. Trust me, it flew from a Norman bow; but why it should be found in the body of yonder English churl, I can ill guess.” “Some runaway serf, I would warrant—some mongrel cur, who had joined the Welch pack of hounds,” answered the esquire. “It may be so,” said the Constable; “but I rather augur some civil war among the Lords Marchers themselves. The Welch, indeed, sweep the villages, and leave nothing behind them but blood and ashes, but here even castles seem to have been stormed and taken. May God send us good news of the Garde Douloureuse!” “Amen!” replied his squire; “but if Renault Vidal brings it, ’twill be the first time he has proved a bird of good omen.” “Philip,” said the Constable, “I have already told thee thou art a jealous-pated fool. How many times has Vidal shown his faith in doubt—his address in difficulty—his courage in battle—his patience under suffering?” “It may be all very true, my lord,” replied Guarine; “yet—but what avails to speak?—I own he has done you sometimes good service; but loath were I that your life or honour were at the mercy of Renault Vidal.” “In the name of all the saints, thou peevish and suspicious fool, what is it thou canst found upon to his prejudice?” “Nothing, my lord,” replied Guarine, “but instinctive suspicion and aversion. The child that sees a snake knows nothing of its evil properties, yet he will not chase it and take it up as he would a butterfly. Such is my dislike of Vidal—I cannot help it. I could pardon

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the man his malicious and gloomy side-long looks, when he thinks no one observes him; but his sneering laugh I cannot forgive—it is like the beast we heard of in Judaea, who laughs, they say, before he tears and destroys.” “Philip,” said De Lacy, “I am sorry for thee—sorry, from my soul, to see such a predominating and causeless jealousy occupy the brain of a gallant old soldier. Here, in this last misfortune, to recast no more ancient proofs of his fidelity, could he mean otherwise than well with us, when, thrown by shipwreck upon the coast of Wales, we would have been doomed instead to death, had the Cymri recognized in me the Constable of Chester, and in thee his trusty esquire, the executioner of his commands against the Welch in so many instances?” “I acknowledge,” said Philip Guarine, “death had surely been our fortune, had not that man’s ingenuity represented us as Italians, and, under that character, acted as our interpreter—and in that character he entirely secluded us from getting information from any one respecting the state of things here, which it behoved your lordship much to know, and which I must needs say looks gloomy enough.” “Still art thou but a fool, Guarine,” said the Constable; “for, look you, had Vidal meant ill by us, why should he not have betrayed us to the Welch, or suffered us, by showing such knowledge as thou and I may have of their gibberish, to betray ourselves?” “Well, my lord,” said Guarine, “I may be silenced, but not satisfied. All the fair words he can speak—all the fine tunes he can play— Renault Vidal will be to my eyes ever a dark and suspicious man, with features always ready to mould themselves into the fittest form to attract confidence; with a tongue framed to utter the most flattering and agreeable words at one time, and at another to play shrewd plainness or blunt honesty; and an eye which, when he thinks himself unobserved, contradicts every assumed expression of features, every protestation of honesty, and every word of courtesy or cordiality to which his tongue has given utterance. But I speak not more on the subject; only I am an old mastiff, of the true breed—I love my master, but cannot endure some of those whom he favours; and yonder, as I judge, comes Vidal, to give us such an account of our situation as it shall please him.” A horseman was indeed seen advancing on the path towards the Kist-vaen, with a hasty pace; and his dress, in which something of the eastern fashion was mingled, with the fantastic attire usually worn by men of his profession, made the Constable aware that the minstrel, of whom they were speaking, was rapidly approaching them. Although Hugo de Lacy rendered this attendant no more than what in justice he supposed his services demanded, when he vindicated him

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from the suspicions thrown out by Guarine, yet at the bottom of his heart he had sometimes shared these suspicions, and was often angry at himself, as a just and honest man, for censuring, on the slight testimony of looks, and sometimes casual expressions, a fidelity which seemed to be proved by many acts of zeal and integrity. When Vidal approached and dismounted to make his obeisance, his master hasted to speak to him in words of favour, as if conscious he had been partly sharing Guarine’s unjust judgment upon him, by even listening to it. “Welcome, my trusty Vidal,” he said; “thou hast been the raven that fed us in the mountains of Wales, be now the dove who brings us good tidings from the marches.—Thou art silent. What mean these downcast looks—that embarrassed carriage—that cap plucked down on thine eyes?—In God’s name, man, speak!—Fear not for me—I can bear worse than tongue of man may tell. Thou hast seen me in the wars of Palestine, when my true followers fell, man by man, around me, and when I was left well nigh alone—and did I blench then?—Thou hast seen me when the ship’s keel lay grating on the rock, and the billows flew in foam over her deck—did I blench then?—No—nor will I now.” “Boast not,” said the minstrel, looking fixedly upon the Constable, as the former assumed the port and countenance of one who sets fortune and her utmost malice at defiance—“boast not, lest thy bands be made strong.” There was a pause of a minute, during which the group formed at this instant a singular picture. Afraid to ask, yet ashamed to seem to fear the ill tidings which impended, the Constable confronted his messenger with his person erect, arms folded, and brow expanded with resolution; while the minstrel, carried beyond his usual and guarded apathy by the interest of the moment, bent on his master a keen fixed glance, as if to discover whether his courage was real or assumed. Philip Guarine, on the other hand, to whom heaven, in assigning him a rough exterior, had denied neither sense nor observation, kept his eye in turn firmly fixed on Vidal, as if endeavouring to determine what was the character of that deep interest which gleamed in his keen eye, and to ascertain whether it was that of a faithful domestic sympathetically agitated by the bad news with which he was about to afflict his master, or that of an executioner standing with his knife suspended over his victim, and deferring his blow until he should discover where it would be most sensibly felt. In Guarine’s opinion, prejudiced, perhaps, by the previous opinion he had entertained, the latter sentiment so decidedly predominated, that he longed to raise his staff, and strike down to the earth the servant, who seemed thus to enjoy the protracted

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sufferings of their common master. At length a convulsive movement crossed the brow of the Constable, and Guarine beheld a sardonic smile begin to curl on Vidal’s lip. He could keep silence no longer. “Vidal,” he said, “thou art a”—— “A bearer of bad tidings,” said Vidal, interrupting him, “therefore subject to the misconstruction of every fool who cannot distinguish between the author of harm, and him who unwillingly repeats it.” “To what purpose this delay?” said the Constable. “Come, Sir Minstrel, I will spare you a pang—Eveline has forsaken and forgotten me?” The minstrel assented by a low inclination. Hugo de Lacy paced a short turn before the stone monument, endeavouring to conquer the deep emotion which he felt. “I forgive her,” he said. “Forgive, did I say?—Alas! I have nothing to forgive. She used but the right I left in her hand—Yes—our date of engagement was out—She had heard of my losses—my defeats—the destruction of my hopes—the expenditure of my wealth, and has taken the first opportunity which strict law afforded, to break off her engagement with one bankrupt in fame and fortune. Many a maiden would have done,—perhaps in prudence should have done this—but that woman’s name should not have been Eveline Berenger.” He leaned on his esquire’s arm, and for an instant laid his head on his shoulder with a depth of emotion which Guarine had never before seen him betray, and which, in awkward kindness, he could only attempt to console by bidding his master “be of good courage—he had lost but a woman.” “This is no selfish emotion, Philip,” said the Constable, resuming his self-command. “I grieve less that she has left me, than that she has misjudged me—that she has treated me as the pawnbroker does his wretched debtor, who he forfeits the pledge as the very moment elapses within which it might have been redeemed. Did she then think that I in my turn would have been a creditor so rigid?—that I, who, since I knew her, scarce deemed myself worthy of her when I had wealth and fame, might insist on her sharing my diminished and degraded fortunes? How little she ever knew me, or how selfish must she have supposed my misfortunes to have made me! But be it so— she is gone, and may she be happy. The thought that she distrusted me shall pass from my mind; and I will think she has done that which I myself, as her best friend, must in honour have advised.” So saying, his countenance, to the surprise of his attendants, resumed its usual firm composure. “I give you joy,” said the esquire, in a whisper to the minstrel; “your

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evil news have wounded less deeply than, doubtless, you believed was possible.” “Alas!” replied the minstrel, “I have others and worse behind.” This answer was made in an equivocal tone of voice, corresponding to the peculiarity of his manner, and like that seeming emotion of a deep but very doubtful character. “Eveline Berenger is then married,” said the Constable; “and, let me make a wild guess—she has not abandoned the family, though she has forsaken the individual—She is still a Lacy, ha?—Dolt that thou art, wilt thou not understand me? She is married to Damian Lacy—to my nephew.” The effort with which the Constable gave breath to this supposition formed a strange contrast to the constrained smile to which he compelled his features as he uttered it. With such a smile a man about to drink poison might name a health, as he put the fatal beverage to his lips. “No, my lord—not married,” answered the minstrel, with an emphasis on the word, which the Constable knew how to interpret. “No, no,” he replied quickly, “not married, perhaps, but engaged— troth-plighted. Wherefore not? The date of her old affiance was out, why not enter into a new engagement?” “The Lady Eveline and Sir Damian de Lacy are not affianced that I know of,” answered his attendant. This reply drove De Lacy’s patience to extremity. “Dog! dost thou trifle with me?” he exclaimed: “Vile wire-twangler, thou torturest me. Speak the worst at once, or I will presently make thee minstrel to the household of Satan.” Calm and collected did the minstrel reply—“The Lady Eveline and Sir Damian are neither married nor affianced, my lord. They have loved and lived together par amours.” “Dog, and son of a dog, thou liest!” And, seizing the minstrel by the breast, the exasperated baron shook him with his full strength. But, great as that strength was, it was unable to stagger Vidal, a practised wrestler, in the firm posture which he had assumed, any more than his master’s wrath could disturb the composure of the minstrel’s bearing. “Confess thou hast lied,” said the Constable, releasing him, after having effected by his violence no greater degree of agitation than the exertion of human force produces upon the Rocking Stones of the Druids, which may be shaken, indeed, but not displaced. “Were a lie to buy my own life, yea, the lives of all my tribe,” said the minstrel, “I would not tell one. But truth itself is ever termed falsehood when it counteracts the train of our passions.” “Hear him, Philip Guarine, hear him!” exclaimed the Constable,

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turning hastily to his squire: “He tells me of my disgrace—of the dishonour of my house—of the depravity of those whom I loved the best in the world. He tells me of it with a calm look, an eye composed, an unfaltering tongue—is this—can it be natural?—is De Lacy sunk so low, that his dishonour shall be told by a common strolling minstrel, as calmly as if it were a theme for a new ballad? Perhaps thou wilt make it one, ha!” as he concluded, darting a furious glance at the minstrel. “Perhaps I might, my lord,” said Vidal, “were it not that I must record therein the disgrace of Renault Vidal, who served a lord without either patience to bear insults and wrongs, or spirit to revenge them on the authors of his shame.” “Thou art right, thou art right, good fellow,” said the Constable hastily; “it is vengeance now alone which is left us.—And yet upon whom!” As he spoke, he walked shortly and hastily to and fro; and, becoming suddenly silent, stood still and wrung his hands with deep emotion. “I told thee,” said the minstrel to Guarine, “that my news would find a tender part at last. Doest thou remember the bull-feast we saw in Spain?—A thousand little darts perplexed and annoyed the noble animal, ere he received the last deadly thrust from the lance of the Moorish cavalier.” “Man, or fiend, be which thou wilt,” replied Guarine, “that canst thus drink in with pleasure, and contemplate at your ease, the misery of another, I bid thee beware of me! Utter thy cold taunts in some other ear, for if my tongue be blunt, I wear a sword that is sharp enough.” “Thou hast seen me among swords,” answered the minstrel, “and knowst how little terror they have for such as I am.” Yet as he spoke he drew off from the esquire. He had, in fact, only addressed him in that sort of fulness of heart, which would have vented itself in soliloquy if alone, and now poured itself out on the nearest auditor, without the speaker being conscious of the sentiments which his speech excited. Few minutes had elapsed before the Constable of Chester had regained the calm external semblance with which, until this last dreadful wound, he had borne all the inflictions of fortune. He turned towards his followers, and addressed the minstrel with his usual calmness. “Thou art right, good fellow,” he said, “in what thou saidst to me but now, and I forgive thee the taunt which accompanied thy good counsel. Speak out, in God’s name! and speak to one prepared to endure the evil which God hath sent him. Certes, a good knight is best known in battle, and a Christian in the time of trouble and adversity.” The tone in which the Constable spoke, seemed to produce a

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corresponding effect upon the deportment of his follower. The minstrel dropped at once the cynical and audacious tone in which he had hitherto seemed to tamper with the passions of his master; and, in language simple and respectful, and with an air which approached to sympathy, informed him of the evil news which he had collected during his absence. It was indeed disastrous. The refusal of the Lady Eveline Berenger to admit Monthermer and his forces into her castle, had of course given circulation and credence to all the calumnies which had been circulated to her prejudice, and that of Damian de Lacy; and there were many who, for various causes, were interested in spreading and supporting these reports. A large force had been sent into the country to subdue the insurgent peasants; and the knights and nobles dispatched for that purpose, failed not to avenge to the uttermost, upon the wretched plebeians, the noble blood which they had spilled during their temporary triumph. Many of the wretches who were made prisoners declared that they had been partly driven into the rebellion by the general expectation that Damian Lacy only wanted an opportunity to stand forth as their leader; and they quoted every instance of kindness and protection which he had extended to their oppressed order, as undoubted marks of his disaffection to the aristocracy. The followers of the unfortunate Wenlock were infected with the same persuasion. Blamed by many for a hasty and cowardly surrender of a post which might have been defended, they endeavoured to vindicate themselves by alleging the hostile demonstrations of De Lacy’s cavalry as the sole cause of their premature submission. These rumours, supported by such interested testimony, spread wide and far through the land, and, joined to the undeniable fact that Damian had sought refuge in the strong castle of Garde Douloureuse, which was now defending itself against the royal arms, animated the numerous enemies of the House of De Lacy, and drove its vassals and friends almost to despair, as men reduced either to disown their feudal allegiance, or renounce that still more sacred fealty which they owed to their sovereign. At this crisis they received intelligence that the wise and active monarch by whom the sceptre of England was then swayed, was moving towards that part of England, at the head of a large body of soldiers, for the purpose at once of pressing the siege of the Garde Douloureuse, and completing the suppression of the insurrection of the peasantry, which Guy Monthermer had nearly accomplished. In this emergency, and when the friends and dependants of the House of Lacy scarce knew which hand to turn to, Randal, the Constable’s kinsman, and after Damian his heir, suddenly appeared

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amongst them, with a royal commission to raise and command such followers of the family as might not desire to be involved in the supposed treason of the Constable’s delegate. In troublesome times, men’s vices are forgotten, so they display activity, courage, and prudence, the virtues of the time; and the appearance of Randal, who was by no means deficient in any of these attributes, was received as a good omen by the followers of his cousin. They quickly gathered around him, surrendered to the royal mandate such strongholds as they possessed, and, to vindicate themselves from any participation in the alleged crimes of Damian, they distinguished themselves, under Randal’s command, against such scattered bodies of peasantry as still kept the field, or lurked in the mountains and passes; and conducted themselves with such severity after success, as made the troops even of Monthermer appear gentle and clement in comparison with those of De Lacy. Finally, with the banner of his ancient house displayed, and five hundred good men assembled under it, Randal appeared before the Garde Douloureuse, and joined Henry’s camp there. The castle was already hardly pressed, and the few defenders, disabled by wounds, watching, and privation, had now the additional discouragement to see displayed against their walls the only banner in England, under which they had hoped forces might be mustered for their aid. The high-spirited entreaties of Eveline, unbent by adversity and want, gradually lost effect on the defenders of the castle; and proposals for surrender were urged and discussed by a tumultuary council, into which not only the inferior officers, but many of the common men had thrust themselves, as in a period of such general distress, unloosing all the bonds of discipline, and leaving each man at liberty to speak and act for himself. To their surprise, in the midst of these discussions, Damian de Lacy, arisen from the sick-bed to which he had been so long confined, appeared among them, pale and feeble, his cheek tinged with the ghastly look which is left by long illness—he leaned on his page Amelot. “Gentlemen,” he said, “and soldiers—Yet why should I call you either?—Gentlemen are ever ready to die in behalf of a lady—soldiers hold life in scorn compared to their honour.” “Out upon him! out upon him!” exclaimed some of the soldiers, interrupting him; “he would have us, who are innocent, die the death of traitors, and be hanged in our armour over the walls, rather than part with his leman.” “Peace, irreverent slave!” said Damian, in a voice like thunder, “or my last blow shall be a mean one, aimed against such a caitiff as thou art. And you,” he continued, addressing the rest,—“you, who are shrinking from the toils of your profession, because death may close

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them a few years sooner than it needs must—you, who are scared like children at the sight of a death’s-head, do not suppose that Damian de Lacy would desire to shelter himself at the expense of those lives which you hold so dear. Make your bargain with King Henry. Deliver me up to his justice, or his severity; or, if you like it better, strike my head from my body, and hurl it, as a peace-offering, from the walls of the castle. To God, in his good time, will I trust for the clearance of mine honour. In a word, surrender me, dead or alive, or open the gates and permit me to surrender myself. Only as ye are men, since I may not say better of ye, care at least for the safety of your mistress, and make such terms as may secure  safety, and save yourselves from the dishonour of being held cowardly and perjured caitiffs even in your graves.” “Methinks the gentle speaks well and reasonably,” said Wilkin Flammock. “Let us e’en make a grace of surrendering his body up to the King, and assure thereby such terms as we can for ourselves and the lady, ere the last morsel of our provision is consumed.” “I would hardly have proposed this measure,” said, or rather mumbled, Father Aldrovand, who had recently lost four of his front teeth by a stone from a sling, “——yet, being so generously offered by the party principally concerned, I hold with the learned scholiast, Volenti non fit injuria.” “Priest and Fleming,” said the old bannerman, Ralph Genvil, “I see how the wind sits with you, but you deceive yourselves if you think to make our young master, Sir Damian, a scape-goat for your light lady. —Nay, never frown nor fume, Sir Damian; if you know not your safest course, we know it for you.—Followers of Lacy, throw yourselves on your horses, and two men on one, if it be necessary—we will take this stubborn boy in the midst of us, and the dainty squire Amelot shall be prisoner too, if he troubles us with his peevish opposition. Then let us make a fair sally upon the siegers. Those who can cut their way through will do well enough; those who fall, will be provided for.” A shout from the troopers of Lacy’s band approved this proposal, whilst the followers of Berenger expostulated in loud and angry tone. Eveline, summoned by the tumult, in vain endeavoured to appease it; and the anger and entreaties of Damian were equally lost on his followers. To each and either the answer was the same. “Have you no care of it—because you love par amours, is it reasonable you should throw away your life and ours?” So exclaimed Genvil to Lacy. And in softer language, but with equal obstinacy, the followers of Raymond Berenger refused on the present occasion to listen to the commands or prayers of his daughter. Wilkin Flammock had retreated from the tumult when he saw the

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turn which matters had taken. He left the castle by a sally-port, of which he had been entrusted with the key, and proceeded without observation or opposition to the royal camp, where he requested access to the sovereign. This was easily obtained, and Wilkin speedily found himself in the presence of King Henry. The monarch was in his royal pavilion, attended by two of his sons, Richard and John, who afterwards swayed the sceptre of England with different auspices. “How now?—What art thou?” was the royal question. “An honest man, from the castle of the Garde Douloureuse.” “Thou mayst be honest,” replied the Sovereign, “but thou comest from a nest of traitors.” “Such as they are, my lord, it is my purpose to put them at your royal disposal, for they have no longer the wisdom to guide themselves, and lack alike prudence to hold out, and grace to submit. But I would first know of your Grace, to what terms you will admit the defenders of yonder garrison.” “To such as kings give to traitors,” said Henry, sternly—“sharp knives and tough cords.” “Nay, my gracious lord, you must be kinder than that amounts to, if the castle is to be rendered by my means; else will your cords and knives have only my poor body to work upon, and you will be as far as ever from the inside of the Garde Douloureuse.” The King looked at him fixedly. “Thou knowest,” he said, “the law of arms. Here, provost-marshal, stands a traitor, and yonder stands a tree.” “And here is a throat,” said the stout-hearted Fleming, unbuttoning the collar of his doublet. “By mine honour,” said Prince Richard, “a sturdy and faithful yeoman—it were better send such fellows their dinner, and then buffet it out with them for the castle, than to starve them as the beggarly Frenchmen famish their hounds.” “Peace, Richard,” said his father; “thy wit is over green, and thy blood over hot, to make thee my counsellor here.—And you, knave, speak you some reasonable terms, and we will not be over strict with thee.” “First, then,” said the Fleming, “I stipulate full and free pardon for life and limb, body and goods, to me, Wilkin Flammock, and my daughter Rose.” “A true Fleming,” said Prince John; “he takes care of himself in the first instance.” “His request,” said the King, “is reasonable. What next?” “Safety, in life, honour, and land, for the demoiselle Eveline Berenger.”

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“How, sir knave,” said the King, angrily, “is it for such as thou to dictate to our judgment or clemency in the case of a noble Norman lady? Confine thy mediation to such as thyself—or rather render us this castle without farther delay; and be assured thy doing so will be of more service to the traitors within, than weeks more of resistance, which must and shall be bootless.” The Fleming stood silent, unwilling to surrender without some specific terms, yet half convinced, from the situation in which he left the garrison of the Garde Douloureuse, that his admitting the King’s forces would be, perhaps, the best he could do for Lady Eveline. “I like thy fidelity, fellow,” said the King, whose acute eye perceived the struggle in the Fleming’s bosom; “but carry not thy stubbornness too far. Have we not said we will be gracious to yonder offenders, as far as our royal duty will permit?” “And, royal father,” said Prince John, interposing, “I pray you let me have the grace to take first possession of the Garde Douloureuse, and the wardship or forfeiture of this offending lady.” “I pray you also, my royal father, to grant John’s boon,” said his brother Richard, in a tone of mockery. “Consider, royal father, it is the first desire he hath shewn to approach the barriers of the castle, though we have attacked them forty times at least. Marry, cross-bow and mangonel were busy on the former occasions, and it is like they will be silent now.” “Peace, Richard,” said the King; “your taunts pierce my heart— John, thou hast thy boon as concerns the castle—for this unhappy young lady, we will take her in our own charge—Fleming, how many men wilt thou undertake to admit?” Ere Flammock could answer, a squire approached Prince Richard, and whispered in his ear, yet so as to be heard by all present, “We have discovered that some internal disturbance, or other cause unknown, has withdrawn many of the warders from the castle walls, and that a sudden attack might”—— “Doest thou hear that, John?” exclaimed Richard. “Ladders, man —get ladders, and to the wall—how I would delight to see thee on the highest round—thy knees shaking—thy hands grasping convulsively, like those of one in an ague fit—all air around thee, save a batten or two of wood—the moat below—half a dozen pikes at thy throat——” “Peace, Richard, for shame, if not for charity,” said his father, in a tone of anger, mingled with grief. “And thou, John, get ready for the assault.” “So soon as I have put on my armour, father,” answered the Prince, and withdrew slowly, and with a visage so blank as to promise no speed in his preparations.

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His brother laughed as he retired, and said to his squire, “It were no bad jest, Alberick, to carry the place ere John can change his silk doublet for a steel one.” So saying, he hastily withdrew, and his father exclaimed in paternal distress, “Out, alas! as much too hot as his brother is too cold—but it is the manlier fault.—Gloucester,” said he to that celebrated earl, “take sufficient strength and follow Prince Richard, to guard and sustain him. If any one can rule him, it must be a knight of thy established fame. Alas, alas! for what sin have I deserved the affliction of these cruel family feuds!” “Be comforted, my lord,” said the chancellor, who was also in attendance. “Speak not of comfort to a father, whose sons are at discord with each other, and agree only in their disobedience to him!” Thus spoke Henry the Second, than whom no wiser, or, generally speaking, more fortunate monarch, ever sat upon the throne of England; yet whose life is a striking illustration, how family dissensions can tarnish the most brilliant lot to which Heaven permits humanity to aspire; and how little gratified ambition, extended power, and the highest reputation in war and peace, can do towards curing the wounds of domestic affliction. The sudden and fiery attack of Richard, who hastened to the escalade at the head of a score of followers, collected at random, had the complete effect of surprise; and having surmounted the walls with their ladders, the assailants burst open the gates, and admitted Gloucester, who had hastily followed with a strong body of men-at-arms. The garrison, in their state of surprise, confusion, and disunion, offered but little resistance, and would have been put to the sword, and the place plundered, had not Henry himself entered it, and by his personal exertions and authority, restrained the excesses of the dissolute soldiery. The King conducted himself, considering the times and the provocation, with laudable moderation. He contented himself with disarming and dismissing the common soldiers, giving them some trifle to carry them out of the country, lest want should lead them to form themselves into bands of robbers. The officers were more severely treated, being for the greater part thrown into dungeons, to abide the course of the law. In particular, imprisonment was the lot of Damian de Lacy, against whom, believing the various charges with which he was loaded, Henry was so highly incensed, that he proposed to make him an example to all false knights and disloyal subjects. To the Lady Eveline Berenger he assigned her own apartment as a prison, in which she was honourably attended by Rose and Alice, but guarded with the

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utmost strictness. It was generally reported that her demesnes would be declared a forfeiture to the crown, and bestowed, at least in part, upon Randal Lacy, who had done good service during the siege. Her person, it was thought, was destined to the seclusion of some distant French nunnery, where she might at leisure repent her of her follies and her rashness. Father Aldrovand was delivered up to the discipline of his convent, long experience having very effectually taught Henry the imprudence of infringing on the privileges of the church; although, when the King first beheld him with a rusty corslet clasped over his frock, he with difficulty repressed the wish to cause him be hanged over the battlements, to preach to the ravens. With Wilkin Flammock, Henry held much conference, particularly on the subject of manufactures and commerce, on which the soundheaded, though blunt-spoken Fleming, was well qualified to instruct an intelligent monarch. “Thy intentions,” he said, “shall not be forgotten, good fellow, though they have been anticipated by the headlong valour of my son Richard, which has cost some poor caitiffs their lives —Richard loves not to sheath a bloodless weapon. But thou and thy countrymen shall return to thy mills yonder, with a full pardon for past offences, so that you meddle no more with such treasonable matters.” “And our privileges, my liege?” said Flammock. “Your Majesty knows well we are vassals to the lord of this castle, and must follow him in battle.” “It shall no longer be so,” said Henry; “I will form a community of Flemings here, and thou, Flammock, shalt be Mayor, that thou mayst not plead feudal obedience for a relapse into treason.” “Treason, my liege?” said Flammock, longing, yet scarce venturing, to interpose a word in behalf of Lady Eveline, for whom, despite the constitutional coldness of his temperament, he really felt much interest—“I would that your Grace but justly knew how many threads went to that woof.” “Peace, sirrah!—meddle with your loom,” said Henry; “and if we deign to speak to thee concerning the mechanical arts which thou doest profess, take it for no warrant to intrude farther on our privacy.” The Fleming retired, rebuked, and in silence; and the fate of the unhappy prisoners remained in the King’s bosom. He himself took up his lodging in the castle of the Garde Douloureuse, as a convenient station for sending abroad parties to suppress and extinguish all the embers of rebellion; and so active was Randal de Lacy on these occasions, that he appeared daily to rise in the King’s grace, and was gratified with considerable grants out of the domains of Berenger and Lacy, which the King seemed already to treat as forfeited property.

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Most men considered this growing favour of Randal as a perilous omen, both for the life of young De Lacy, and for the fate of the unfortunate Eveline.

Chapter Fourteen A vow, a vow—I have a vow in heaven. Shall I bring perjury upon my soul? No, not for Venice. Merchant of Venice

T  conclusion of the last chapter contains the tidings with which the minstrel greeted his unhappy master, Hugo de Lacy; not indeed with the same detail of circumstances with which we have been able to invest the narrative, but so as to infer the general and appalling facts, that his betrothed bride, and beloved and trusted kinsman, had leagued together for his dishonour—had raised the banner of rebellion against their lawful sovereign, and, failing in their audacious attempt, had brought the life of one of them, at least, into the most eminent danger, and the fortunes of the House of Lacy, unless some instant remedy could be found, to the very verge of ruin. Vidal marked the countenance of his master as he spoke, with the same keen observation which the chirurgeon gives to the progress of his dissecting knife. There was grief on the Constable’s features— deep grief—but without the expression of abasement or prostration, which usually accompanies it; there was anger and shame—but they were both of a noble character, seeming excited by his bride and nephew’s transgressing the laws of allegiance, honour, and virtue, rather than by the disgrace and damage which he himself sustained through their crime. The minstrel was so much astonished at this change of deportment, from the sensitive acuteness of agony which attended the beginning of his narrative, that he stepped back two paces, and gazing on the Constable with wonder, mixed with admiration, exclaimed, “We have heard of martyrs in Palestine, but this exceeds them.” “Wonder not so much, good friend,” said the Constable, patiently; “it is the first blow of the lance or mace which pierces or stuns—those which follow are little felt.” “Think, my lord,” said Vidal, “all is lost—love—dominion—high office and bright fame—so late a chief among the nobles—now a poor palmer.” “Wouldst thou make sport with my misery?” said Hugo, sternly; “but even that comes of course behind my back, and why should it be not endured when said to my face?—Know, then, minstrel, and put it

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in song, if you list, that Hugh de Lacy, having lost all he carried to Palestine, and all which he left at home, is still lord of his own mind; and adversity can no more shake him, than the breeze which strips the oak of its leaves can tear up the trunk by the roots.” “Now, by the tomb of my father,” said the minstrel, rapturously, “this man’s resolution is too much for mine!” and stepping hastily to the Constable, he kneeled on one knee, and caught his hand more freely than the state maintained by men of De Lacy’s rank usually permitted. “Here,” said Vidal, “on this hand—this noble hand—I renounce”—— But ere he could utter another word, Hugo de Lacy, who, perhaps, felt the freedom of the action as an intrusion on his fallen condition, pulled back his hand, and bid the minstrel, with a stern frown, arise, and remember that misfortune made not De Lacy a fit personage for a mummery. Renault Vidal rose rebuked. “I had forgot,” he said, “the distance between an Armorican violer and a high Norman baron. I thought that the same depth of sorrow, the same burst of joy, levelled, for a moment at least, these artificial barriers by which men are divided. But it is well as it is. Live within the limits of your rank, as heretofore within your donjon tower and your fosses, my lord, undisturbed by the sympathy of any mean man like me. I, too, have my duties to discharge.” “And now to the Garde Douloureuse,” said the baron, turning to Philip Guarine—“God knoweth how well it deserveth the name!— there to learn, with our own eyes and ears, the truth of these woeful tidings. Dismount, minstrel, and give me thy palfrey—I would, Guarine, that I had one for thee—as for Vidal, his attendance is less necessary. I will face my foes, or my misfortunes, like a man—that be assured of, violer—and look not so sullen, knave, I will not forget old adherents.” “One of them, at least, will not forget you, my lord,” replied the minstrel, with his usual dubious turn of look and emphasis. But just as the Constable was about to prick forwards, two persons appeared on the path, mounted on one horse, who, hidden by some dwarf wood, had come very near them, without being perceived. They were male and female; and the man, who rode foremost, was such a picture of famine, as the eyes of the pilgrims had scarce witnessed in all the wasted lands through which they had travelled. His features, naturally sharp and thin, had disappeared among the uncombed grey beard and hairs with which they were overshadowed; and it was but the glimpse of a long nose, that seemed as sharp as the edge of a knife, and the twinkling glimpse of his grey eyes, which gave any intimation

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of his lineaments. His leg, in the wide old boot which inclosed it, showed like the handle of a mop left by chance in a washing-pail—his arms were about the thickness of riding-rods—and such parts of his person as were not concealed by the tatters of a huntsman’s cassock, seemed rather the appendages of a mummy than a live man. The female who sat behind this spectre exhibited also some symptoms of extenuation; but being a brave jolly dame naturally, famine had not been able to render her a spectacle so rueful as the anatomy behind which she rode. Dame Gillian’s cheeks (for it was the reader’s old acquaintance) had indeed lost the rosy hue of good cheer, and the smoothness of complexion, which art and easy living had formerly substituted for the more delicate bloom of youth; her eyes were sunken, and had lost much of their bold and roguish lustre; but she was still in some measure herself, and the remnants of former finery, together with the tight-drawn scarlet hose, though sorely faded, shewed still a remnant of coquettish pretension. So soon as she came within sight of the pilgrims, she began to punch Raoul with the end of her riding-rod. “Try thy new trade, man, since thou art unfit for any other—to the good men—to them—crave their charity.” “Beg from beggars?—” muttered Raoul; “that were hawking at sparrows, dame.” “It will bring our hand in use though,” said Gillian; and commenced, in a whining tone, “God love you, holy men, who have had the grace to go to the Holy Land, and, what is more, have had the grace to come back again—I pray, bestow some of your alms upon my poor old husband, who is a miserable object, as you see, and upon me who have the bad luck to be his wife, Heaven help you!” “Peace, woman, and hear what I have to say,” said the Constable, laying his hand upon the bridle of the horse, “I have present occasion for this horse, and”—— “By the hunting-horn of Saint Hubert, but thou gettest him not without blows!” answered the huntsman. “A fine world it is, when palmers turn horse-stealers.” “Peace, fellow!” said the Constable, sternly,—“I say I have occasion presently for the use of thy horse—here be two gold bezants for a day’s use of the brute: it is well worth the fee simple of him, were he never returned.” “But the palfrey is an old acquaintance, masters,” said Raoul; “and if perchance——” “Out upon if and perchance both,” said the dame, giving her husband so determined a thrust as well nigh pushed him out of the saddle. “Off the horse and thank God and this worthy man for the help he has

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sent us in extremity. What signifies the palfrey, when we have not enough to get food either for the brute or ourselves? not though we would eat grass and corn with him, like King Somebody, whom the good father used to read us to sleep about.” “A truce with your prating, dame,” said Raoul, offering his assistance to help her from the croupe; but she preferred that of Guarine, who, though advanced in years, retained the advantage of his stout soldierly figure. “I humbly thank your goodness,” said she, as, having first kissed her, the squire set her on the ground. “And, pray, sir, are ye come from the Holy Land?—Heard ye any tidings there of him that was Constable of Chester?” De Lacy, who was engaged in removing the pillion from behind the saddle, stopped short in his task, and said, “Ha, dame! what would you with him?” “A great deal, good palmer, an I could light on him; for his lands and offices are all to be given, it’s like, to that false thief, his kinsman.” “What?—to Damian, his nephew?” exclaimed the Constable, in a harsh and hasty tone. “Lord, how you startle me, sir!” said Gillian; then continued, turning to Philip Guarine, “Your friend is a hasty man, belike.” “It is the fault of the sun he has lived in so long,” said the squire; “but look you answer his questions truly, and he will make it the better for you.” Gillian instantly took the hint. “Was it Damian de Lacy you asked after?—Alas! poor young gentleman! no offices or lands for him— more likely to have a gallows-cast, poor lad—and all for nought, as I am a true dame. Damian!—no, no, it is not Damian, nor damson neither—but Randal Lacy, that must rule the roast, and have all the old man’s lands, and livings, and lordships.” “What?” said the Constable—“before they know whether the old man is dead or no?—Methinks that were against law and reason both.” “Ay, but Randal Lacy has brought about less likely matters. Look you, he hath sworn to the King that they have true tidings of the Constable’s death—ay, and let him alone to make them soothfast enough, if the Constable were once within his danger.” “Indeed?” said the Constable. “But you are forging tales on a noble gentleman. Come, come, dame, you say this because you like not Randal Lacy.” “Like him not!—And what reason have I to like him, I trow?” answered Gillian. “Is it because he seduced my simplicity to let him into the castle of the Garde Douloureuse when he was disguised as a

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pedlar, and told him all the secrets of the family, and how the boy Damian, and the girl Eveline, were dying of love with each other, but had not courage to say a word of it, for fear of the Constable, though he were a thousand miles off?—You seem commoved, worthy sir— may I offer your reverend worship a trifling sup from my bottle, which is sovereign for tremor cordis and fits of the spleen?” “No, no,” ejaculated De Lacy—“I was but grieved with the shooting of an old wound. But, dame, I warrant me this Damian and Eveline, as you call them, became better, closer friends, in time?” “They!—not they indeed, poor simpletons!—they wanted some wise counsellor to go between and advise them. For, look you, sir, if old Hugo be dead, as is most like, it were near natural that his bride and his nephew should inherit his lands, than this same Randal, who is but a distant kinsman and a forsworn caitiff to boot.—Would you think it, reverend pilgrim, after the mountains of gold he promised me, when the castle was taken and he saw I could serve him no more, he called me old beldame, and spoke of the beadle and the cuckingstool.—Yes, reverend sir, old beldame and cucking-stool were his best words, when he knew I had no one to take my part, save old Raoul, who cannot take his own. But if grim old Hugh bring back his old carcase from Palestine, and have but half the devil in him which he had when he was fool enough to go away, Saint Mary, but I will do his kinsman’s office to him!” There was a pause when she had done speaking. “Thou sayst,” at length exclaimed the Constable, “that Damian de Lacy and Eveline love each other, yet are unconscious of guilt, or falsehood, or ingratitude to me—I would say, to their relative in Palestine?” “Love, sir!—in troth and so it is—they do love each other,” said Gillian; “but it is like angels—or like lambs—or like fools, if you will —for they would never so much as have spoken together, but for a prank of that same Randal Lacy’s.” “How!” demanded the Constable—“a prank of Randal’s?—What motive had he that these two should meet?” “Nay, their meeting was none of his seeking; but he had formed a plan to carry off the Lady Eveline himself, for he was a wild woon, this same Randal; and so he came disguised as a merchant of falcons, and trained out my old stupid Raoul, and the Lady Eveline, and all of us, as if to the hawking at the heron. But he had a band of Welch kites in readiness to pounce upon us and but for the sudden making in of Damian to our rescue, it is undescribable to think what might have come of us—And Damian being hurt in the onslaught, was carried to the Garde Douloureuse in mere necessity and but to save his life, it is

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my belief my lady would never have asked him to cross the drawbridge, even if he had offered.” “Woman,” said the Constable, “think what thou sayest—if thou hast done evil in these matters heretofore, as I suspect from thine own story, think not to put it right by a train of new falsehoods, merely from spite at missing thy reward.” “Palmer,” said old Raoul, with his broken-toned voice, cracked by many a hallow, “I am wont to leave the business of tale-bearing to my wife Gillian, who will tongue-pad it with any shrew in Christendom. But thou speakest like one having some interest in these matters, and therefore I will tell thee plainly, that this woman has published her own shame in owning her correspondence with that same Randal Lacy, yet what she has said is true as the gospel and, were it my last word, I would say that Damian and the Lady Eveline are innocent of all treason and all dishonesty, as is the babe unborn—but what avails what the like of us say, who are even driven to the very begging for mere support, after having lived at a good house, and in a good lord’s service—blessing be with him!” “But hark you,” continued the Constable, “are there left no ancient servants of the house, that could speak out as well as you?” “Umph!” answered the huntsman—“men are not willing to babble when Randal Lacy is cracking his thong above their heads. Many are slain, or starved to death—some disposed of—some spirited away. But there are the weaver Flammock and his daughter Rose, who know as much of the matter as we do.” “What, Wilkin Flammock, the stout Netherlander?” said the Constable; “he and his blunt but true daughter Rose? I will venture my life on their faith. Where dwell they? What has been their lot amidst these changes?” “And in God’s name, who are you that ask the questions?” said Dame Gillian. “Husband, husband, we have been too free—there is something in that look and that tone which I should remember.” “Yes, look at me more fixedly,” said the Constable, throwing back the hood which had hitherto in some degree obscured his features. “On your knees—on your knees, Raoul!” exclaimed Gillian, dropping on her own at the same time; “it is the Constable himself, and he has heard me call him old Hugh!” “It is all that is left of him who was the Constable, at least,” replied De Lacy; “and old Hugh willingly forgives your freedom, in consideration of your good news. Where are Flammock and his daughter?” “Rose is with the Lady Eveline,” said Dame Gillian; “her ladyship, belike, chose her for bower-woman in place of me, although Rose was never fit to attire so much as a Dutch doll.”

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“The faithful girl!” said the Constable. “And where is Flammock?” “Oh, for him, he has pardon and favour,” said Raoul; “and is at his own house, with his rabble of weavers, close beside the Battle-bridge, as they now call the place where your lordship quelled the Welch.” “Thither will I then,” said the Constable; “and we will then see what welcome King Henry of Anjou has for an old servant. You two must accompany me.” “My lord,” said Gillian, with hesitation, “you know poor folks are little thanked for interference with great men’s affairs. I trust your lordship will be able to protect us if we speak the truth, and that you will not look back with displeasure on what I did, acting for the best.” “Peace, dame, with a wanion to ye!” said Raoul. “Will you think of your own old sinful carcase, when you should be saving your sweet young mistress from shame and oppression?—And for thy ill tongue, and worse practices, his lordship knows they are bred in the bone of thee.” “Peace, good fellow!” said the Constable; “we will not look back on thy wife’s errors, and your fidelity shall be rewarded.—For you, my faithful followers,” he said, turning towards Guarine and Vidal, “when De Lacy shall receive his rights, of which he doubts nothing, his first wish shall be to reward your fidelity.” “Mine, such as it is—has been—shall be its own reward,” said Vidal. “I will not accept favours from him in prosperity, who, in adversity, refused me his hand—our accompt stands yet open.” “Go to, thou art a fool; but thy profession hath a privilege to be humorous,” said the Constable, whose weather-beaten and homely features looked even handsome, when animated by gratitude to Heaven and benevolence towards mankind. “We will meet,” he said, “at Battle-bridge, an hour before vespers—I shall have much achieved before that time.” “The space is short,” said his esquire. “I have won a battle in yet shorter,” replied the Constable. “In which,” said the minstrel, “many a man has died that thought himself well assured of life and victory.” “Even so shall my dangerous cousin Randal find his schemes of ambition blighted,” answered the Constable; and rode forwards, accompanied by Raoul and his wife, who had remounted their palfrey, while the minstrel and squire followed a-foot, and, of course, much more slowly.

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Chapter Fifteen “Oh, fear not, fear not, good Lord John, That I would you betray, Or sue requital for a debt, Which nature cannot pay. “Bear witness, all ye sacred powers— Ye lights that ’gin to shine— This night shall prove the sacred tie That binds your faith and mine.” Ancient Scottish Ballad

L behind by their master, the two dependants of Hugh de Lacy marched on in sullen silence, like men who dislike and distrust each other, though bound to one common service, and partners, therefore, in the same hopes and fears. The dislike, indeed, was chiefly upon Guarine’s side; for nothing could be more indifferent to Renault Vidal than was his companion, farther than as he was conscious that Philip loved him not, and was not unlikely, so far as lay in his power, to thwart some plans which he had nearly at heart. He took little notice of his companion, but hummed over to himself, as for the exercise of his memory, romances and songs, many of which were composed in languages which Guarine, who had only an ear for his native Norman, did not understand. They had proceeded together in this sullen manner for nearly two hours, when they were met by a groom on horseback, leading a saddled palfrey. “Pilgrims,” said the man, after looking at them with some attention, “which of you is called Philip Guarine?” “I, for fault of a better,” said the esquire, “reply to that name.” “Thy lord, in that case, commends him to you,” said the groom; “and sends you this token, by which you shall know that I am his true messenger.” He shewed the esquire a rosary, which Philip instantly recognized as that used by the Constable. “I acknowledge the token,” he said; “speak my master’s pleasure.” “He bids me say,” replied the rider, “that his suit thrives as well as is possible, and that this very evening, by time that the sun sets, he will be possessed of his own. He desires, therefore, you will mount this palfrey, and come with me to the Garde Douloureuse, as your presence will be wanted there.” “It is well, and I obey him,” said the esquire, much pleased with the import of the message, and not dissatisfied at being separated from his travelling companion.

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“And what charge for me?” said the minstrel, addressing the messenger. “If you, as I guess, are the minstrel, Renault Vidal, you are to abide your master at the Battle-bridge, according to the charge formerly given.” “I will meet him, as in duty bound,” was Vidal’s answer; and scarce was it uttered, ere the two horsemen, turning their back on him, rode briskly forward, and were speedily out of sight. It was now four hours past noon, and the sun was declining, yet there was more than three hours’ space to the time of rendezvous, and the distance from the place did not now exceed four miles. Vidal, therefore, either for the sake of rest or reflection, withdrew from the path into a thicket on the left hand, from which gushed the waters of a streamlet, fed by a small fountain that bubbled up amongst the trees. Here the traveller sat himself down, and with an air which seemed unconscious of what he was doing, bent his eye on the little sparkling font for more than half an hour, without change of posture; so that he might, in pagan times, have represented the statue of a water-god bending over his urn, and attentive only to the supplies which it was pouring forth. At length, however, he seemed to recall himself from this state of deep abstraction, drew himself up, and took some coarse food from his pilgrim’s scrip, as if suddenly reminded that life is not supported without means. But he had probably something at his heart which affected his throat or appetite. After a vain attempt to swallow a morsel, he threw it from him in disgust, and applied him to a small flask, in which he had some wine or other liquor. But apparently this also tasted disgusting, for he threw from him both scrip and bottle, and, bending down to the spring, drank deeply of the pure element, bathed in it his hands and face, and arising from the fountain much refreshed, moved slowly on his way, singing as he went, but in a low and melancholy tone, wild fragments of ancient poetry, in a tongue equally ancient. Journeying in this melancholy manner, he at length came in sight of the Battle-bridge; near to which arose, in proud and gloomy strength, the celebrated castle of the Garde Douloureuse. “Here, then,” he said —“here, then, I am to await the proud De Lacy. Be it so, in God’s name!—he shall know me better ere we part.” So saying, he strode, with long and resolved steps, across the bridge, and ascending a mound which arose on the opposite side at some distance, he gazed for a time upon the scene beneath—the beautiful river, rich with the reflected tints of the western sky—the trees, which were already brightened with the hue of autumn—and the darksome walls and towers of the feudal castle, from which, at times, flashed a

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glimpse of splendour, as some sentinel’s arms caught and gave back a transient ray of the setting sun. The countenance of the minstrel, which had hitherto been dark and troubled, seemed softened by the quiet of the scene. He threw loose his pilgrim’s dress, yet suffering part of its dark folds to hang around him mantle-wise; under which appeared his minstrel’s tabard. He took from his side a rote, (a small species of violin, managed by a wheel,) and striking, from time to time, a wild descant, sung at others a lay, of which we can only offer a few fragments, literally translated from the ancient language in which they were chanted, premising that they are in that excursive symbolical style of poetry, which Taliessin, Llewarch Hen, and other bards, had derived perhaps from the time of the Druids. “I asked of my harp, ‘Who hath injured thy chords?’ And she replied, ‘The crooked finger, which I mocked in my tune.’ A blade of silver may be bended—a blade of steel abideth— Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance endureth. “The sweet taste of mead passeth from the lips, But they are long corroded by the juice of wormwood; The lamb is brought to the shambles, but the wolf rangeth the mountain; Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance endureth. “I asked the red-hot iron, when it glimmered on the anvil, ‘Wherefore glowest thou longer than the fire-brand?’— ‘I was born in the dark mine, and the brand in the pleasant greenwood.’ Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance endureth. “I asked the green oak of the assembly, wherefore its boughs were dry and seared like the horns of the stag? And it showed me that a small worm had gnawed its roots. The boy who remembered the scourge, undid the wicket of the castle at midnight. Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance endureth. “Lightning destroyeth temples, though their spires pierce the clouds; Storms destroy armadas, though their sails intercept the gale. He that is in his glory falleth, and that by no strong enemy. Kindness fadeth away, but vengeance endureth.”

More of the same wild images were thrown out, each bearing some analogy, however fanciful and remote, to the theme, which occurred like a chorus at the close of each stanza; so that the poetry resembled a piece of music, which, after repeated excursions through fanciful variations, returns ever and anon to the simple melody which is the subject of ornament. As the minstrel sang, his eyes were fixed on the bridge and its

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vicinity; but when, towards the close of his chant, he raised up his eyes towards the distant towers of the Garde Douloureuse, he saw that the gates were opened, and that there was a mustering of guards and attendants without the barriers, as if some expedition were about to set forth, or some person of importance to appear on the scene. At the same time, glancing his eyes around, he discovered that the landscape, so lonely when he first took his seat on the grey stone from which he overlooked it, was now becoming filled with figures. During his reverie, several persons, solitary and in groups, men, women, and children, had begun to assemble themselves on both sides of the river, and were loitering there, as if expecting some spectacle. There was also much bustle at the Flemings’ mills, which, though at some distance, were also completely under his eye. A procession seemed to be arranging itself there, which soon began to move forward, with pipe and tabour, and various other instruments of music, and soon approached, in regular order, the place where Vidal was seated. It appeared the business in hand was of a pacific character; for the grey-bearded old men of the little settlement, in their decent russet gowns, came first after the rustic band of music, walking in ranks of three and three, supported by their staves, and regulating the motion of the whole procession by their sober and staid pace. After these fathers of the settlement came Wilkin Flammock, mounted on his mighty war-horse, and in complete armour, save his head, like a vassal prepared to do military service for his lord. After him followed in battle rank the flower of the little colony, consisting of thirty men, well armed and appointed, whose stout limbs, as well as their clean and glittering armour, promised steadiness and discipline, although they lacked alike the fiery glance of the French soldiery, or the look of dogged defiance which characterizes the English, or the wild ecstatic impetuosity of eye which then distinguished the Welch. The mothers and the maidens of the colony came next; then followed the children, with faces as chubby, and features as serious, and steps as grave, as their parents; and last, as a rear-guard, came the youths from fourteen to twenty, armed with light lances, bows, and similar weapons becoming their age. This procession wheeled around the base of the mound or embankment on which the minstrel was seated; crossed the bridge with the same slow and regular pace, and formed themselves into a double line, facing inwards, as if to receive some person of consequence, or witness some ceremonial. Flammock remained at the extremity of the avenue thus formed by his countrymen, and quietly, yet earnestly, engaged in making arrangements and preparations.

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In the meanwhile, stragglers of different countries began to draw together, apparently brought there by mere curiosity, and formed a motley assemblage at the farther end of the bridge, which was that nearest to the castle. Two English peasants passed very near the stone on which Vidal sat.—“Wilt thou sing us a song, minstrel,” said one of them, “and here is a tester for thee,” throwing into his hat a small silver coin. “I am under a vow,” answered the minstrel, “and may not practise the gay science at present.” “Or you are too proud to play to English churls,” said the elder peasant, “for thy tongue smacks of the Norman.” “Keep the coin, nevertheless,” said the younger man. “Let the palmer have for nought what the minstrel will not earn.” “I pray you reserve your bounty, kind friend,” said Vidal; “I need it not—and tell me of your kindness, instead, what matter is going forward here.” “Why, know you not that we have got our Constable de Lacy again, and that he is to grant solemn investiture to the Flemish weavers of all these fine things Henry of Anjou has given?—Had Edward the Confessor been alive, to give the Netherland knaves their guerdon, it would have been a cast of the gallows-tree. But come, neighbour, we shall lose the show.” So saying, they pressed down hill. Vidal fixed his eyes on the gates of the distant castle; and the distant waving of banners, and mustering of men on horseback, though imperfectly seen at such a distance, apprized him that one of note was about to set forth at the head of a considerable train of military attendants. Distant flourishes of trumpets, which came faintly yet distinctly on his ear, seemed to attest the same. Presently he perceived, by the dust which began to arise in columns betwixt the castle and the bridge, as well as by the nearer sound of the clarions, that the troop was advancing towards him in procession. Vidal, on his own part, seemed as if irresolute whether to retain his present position, where he commanded a full but remote view of the whole scene, or to obtain a nearer but more partial one, by involving himself in the crowd which now closed around on either hand of the bridge, unless where the avenue was kept open by the armed and arrayed Flemings. A monk next hurried past Vidal, and on his inquiring as formerly the cause of the assembly, answered, in a muttering tone, from beneath his hood, that it was the Constable de Lacy, who, as the first act of his authority, was then and there to deliver to the Flemings a royal charter of their immunities.

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“He is in haste to exercise his authority, methinks,” said the minstrel. “He that has just gotten a sword is impatient to draw it,” replied the monk, who added more which the minstrel understood imperfectly; for Father Aldrovand had not recovered the injury which he had received during the siege. Vidal, however, understood him to say, that he was to meet the Constable there, to beg his favourable intercession. “I also will meet him,” said Renault Vidal, rising suddenly from the stone which he occupied. “Follow me, then,” mumbled the priest; “the Flemings know me, and will let me forward.” But Father Aldrovand being in disgrace, his influence was not so potent as he had flattered himself, and both he and the minstrel were jostled to and fro in the crowd, and separated from each other. But Vidal, however, was recognized by the English peasants who had before spoke to him. “Canst thou do any jugglers’ feats, minstrel?” said one. “Thou mayst win a fair largesse, for our Norman masters love jonglerie.” “I know but one,” said Vidal, “and I will show it, if you will yield me some room.” They crowded a little off from him, and gave him time to throw aside his bonnet, bare his legs and knees, by stripping off the leathern buskins which swathed them, and retaining only his sandals. He then tied a party-coloured handkerchief around his swarthy and sunburned hair, and casting off his upper doublet, showed his brawny and nervous arms, naked to the shoulder. But while he amused those immediately about him with these preparations, a commotion and rush among the crowd, together with the close sound of trumpets, answered by all the Flemish instruments of music, as well as the shouts in Norman and English, of “Long live the gallant Constable!—Our Lady for the bold De Lacy!” announced that the Constable was close at hand. Vidal made incredible exertions to approach the leader of the procession, whose morion, distinguished by its lofty plumes, and right hand holding his truncheon or leading-staff, was all he could see, on account of the crowd of officers and armed men around him. At length his exertions prevailed, and he came within three yards of the Constable, who was then in a small circle which had been with difficulty kept clear for the purpose of the ceremonial of the day. His back was towards the minstrel, and he was in the act of bending from his horse to deliver the royal charter to Wilkin Flammock, who had knelt on one knee to receive it the more reverentially. His posture occa-

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sioned the Constable to stoop so low that his plume seemed in the act of mixing with the flowing mane of his noble charger. At this moment, Vidal threw himself, with singular agility, over the heads of the Flemings who guarded the circle; and, ere an eye could twinkle, his right knee was on the croupe of the Constable’s horse— the grasp of his left hand on the collar of De Lacy’s buff-coat; then, clinging to his prey like a tiger after his leap, he drew, in the same instant of time, a short, sharp dagger—and buried it in the back of the neck, just where the spine, which was severed by the stroke, serves to convey to the trunk of the human body the mysterious influences of the brain. The blow was struck with the utmost accuracy of aim and strength of arm. The unhappy horseman dropped from his saddle, without groan or struggle, like a bull in the amphitheatre, under the steel of the tauridor; and in the same saddle sat his murderer, brandishing the bloody poniard, and urging the horse to speed. There was indeed a possibility of his having achieved his escape, so much were those around paralyzed for the moment by the suddenness and audacity of the enterprize. But Flammock’s presence of mind did not forsake him—he seized the horse by the bridle, and, aided by those who wanted but an example, made the rider prisoner, bound his arms, and called aloud that he must be carried before King Henry. This proposal, uttered in Flammock’s strong and decided tone of voice, silenced a thousand wild cries of murther and treason, which had arisen while the different and hostile nations, of which the crowd was composed, threw upon each other reciprocally the charge of treachery. All the streams, however, now assembled in one channel, and poured towards the Garde Douloureuse, excepting a few of the murdered nobleman’s train, who remained to transport their master’s body, in decent solemnity of mourning, from the spot which he had sought with so much pomp and triumph. When Flammock reached the Garde Douloureuse, he was readily admitted with his prisoner, and with such witnesses as he had selected to prove the execution of the crime. To his request of an audience, he was answered, that the King had commanded that no one should be admitted to him for some time; yet so singular were the tidings of the Constable’s slaughter, that the captain of the guard ventured to interrupt Henry’s privacy, in order to communicate that event; and returned with orders that Flammock and his prisoner should be instantly admitted to the royal apartment. Here they found Henry, attended by several persons, who stood respectfully behind the royal seat, in a darkened part of the room. When Flammock entered the room, his large bulk and massive

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limbs were strangely contrasted with cheeks pale with horror at what he had just witnessed, and with awe at finding himself in the royal presence chamber. Beside him stood his prisoner, untamed, undaunted by the situation in which he was placed. The blood of his victim, which had spirted from the wound, was visible on his bare limbs and his scanty garments; but particularly upon his brow, and the handkerchief with which it was bound. Henry gazed on him with a stern look, which the other not only endured without dismay, but seemed to return with a frown of defiance. “Does no one know this caitiff?” said Henry, looking around him. There was no immediate answer, until Philip Guarine, stepping from the group which stood behind the royal chair, said, though with hesitation, “So please you, my liege, but for the strange guise in which he is now arrayed, I should say this was a household minstrel of my master, by name Renault Vidal.” “Thou art deceived, Norman,” replied the minstrel; “my menial place and base lineage were but assumed—I am Cadwallon the Briton —Cadwallon of the Nine Lays—Cadwallon, the chief bard of Guenwyn of Powis-land—and his avenger!” As he uttered the last word, his looks encountered those of a palmer, who had gradually advanced from the recess in which the attendants were stationed, and now confronted him. The Welchman’s eyes looked so eagerly ghastly as if flying from their sockets, while he exclaimed, in a tone of surprise, mingled with horror, “Do the dead come before monarchs?—Or, if thou art alive— whom have I slain?—I dreamed not, surely, of that bound, and that home blow—yet my victim stands before me. Have I not slain the Constable of Chester?” “Thou hast indeed slain the Constable,” answered the King; “but know, Welchman, it was Randal de Lacy, on whom that charge was this morning conferred, by our belief of our loyal and faithful Hugh de Lacy’s having been lost upon his return from the Holy Land, as the vessel in which he had taken passage was reported to have suffered shipwreck. Thou hast cut short Randal’s brief elevation by a few hours; for to-morrow’s sun would have again seen him without land or lordship.” The prisoner dropped his head on his bosom in evident despair. “I thought,” he murmured, “that he had changed his slough, and come forth so glorious all too soon. May the eyes drop out that were cheated with those baubles, a plumed cap and a lacquered batten!” “I shall take care, Welchman, thine eyes cheat thee not again,” said

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the King, sternly; “before the night is an hour older, they shall be closed upon all that is earthly.” “May I request of your nobleness,” said the Constable, “that you will permit me to ask the unhappy man a few questions?” “When I have demanded of him myself,” said the King, “why he has dipped his hands in the blood of a noble Norman.” “Because he at whom I aimed my blow,” said the Briton, his eye glancing fiercely from the King to De Lacy, and back, “had spilled the blood of the descendant of a thousand kings; to which his own gore, or thine, proud Count of Anjou, is but as the puddle of the highway to the silver fountain.” Henry’s eye menaced the audacious speaker; but the King reined in his wrath when he beheld the imploring look of his servant.—“What wouldst thou ask of him?” he said; “be brief, for his time is short.” “So please you, my liege, I would but demand wherefore he has for years forborne to take the life he aimed at, when it was in his power— nay, when it must have been lost but for his seemingly faithful service?” “Norman,” said Cadwallon, “I will answer thee. When I first took upon me thy service, it was well my purpose to have slain thee that night. There stands the man,” pointing to Philip Guarine, “to whose vigilance thou owest thy safety.” “Indeed,” said De Lacy, “I do remember some indications of such a purpose; but why didst thou forego it, when opportunity put it in thy power?” “When the slayer of my Sovereign became God’s soldier,” answered Cadwallon, “and served his cause in Palestine, he was safe from my earthly vengeance.” “A wonderful forbearance on the part of a Welch assassin!” said the King, scornfully. “Ay,” answered Cadwallon; “and which certain Christian princes have scarce attained to, who have never neglected the chance of pillage or conquest afforded by the absence of a rival in the Holy Crusade.” “Now, by the Holy Rood—” said Henry, on the point of bursting out, for the insult affected him peculiarly, but, suddenly stopping, said, with an air of contempt, “To the gallows with the knave!” “But one other question,” said De Lacy, “Renault, or by whatever name thou art called—ever since my return thou hast rendered me service inconsistent with thy stern resolution upon my life—thou didst aid me in my shipwreck—and didst guide me safely through Wales, where my name would have insured my death; and all this after the crusade was accomplished.”

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“I could explain thy doubt,” said the bard, “but that it might be thought I was pleading for my life.” “Hesitate not for that,” said the King; “for were our Holy Father to intercede for thee, his prayer were in vain.” “Well, then,” said the bard, “know the truth—I was too proud to permit either wave or Welchman to share in my revenge. Know also, what is perhaps Cadwallon’s weakness—use and habit had divided my feelings towards De Lacy, between aversion and admiration. I still contemplated my revenge, but as something which I might never complete, and which seemed rather an image in the clouds, than an object to which I must one day draw near. And then I beheld thee,” he said, turning to De Lacy, “this very day so determined, so sternly resolved, to bear thy impending fate like a man—that you seemed to me to resemble the last tower of a ruined palace, still holding its head to heaven, when its halls of splendour, and its bowers of delight, lay in desolation around—May I perish, I said to myself in secret, ere I perfect its ruin. Then, even then—but seven hours since hadst thou accepted my proffered hand, I had served thee as never follower served master. You rejected it with scorn—yet even then it required that I should have seen you, as I thought, trampling over the field in which you slew my master, in the full pride of Norman insolence, to animate my resolution to strike the blow, which, meant for you, has slain at least one of your usurping race.—I will answer no more questions—lead on to axe or gallows—it is indifferent to Cadwallon— my soul will soon be with my free and noble ancestry.” “My liege and prince,” said De Lacy, bending his knee to Henry, “can you hear this, and refuse your ancient servant one request?— Spare this man!—Extinguish not such a light, because it is devious and wild!” “Rise, rise, De Lacy; and shame thee of thy petition,” said the King. “Thy kinsman’s blood—the blood of a noble Norman, is on the Welchman’s hands and brow. As I am crowned King, he shall die ere it is wiped off.—Here! have him to present execution!” Cadwallon was instantly withdrawn under a guard. “Thou art mad, De Lacy—thou art mad, mine old and true friend, to urge me thus,” said the King, compelling De Lacy to rise. “Seest thou not that my care in this matter is for thee?—This Randal, by largesses and promises, hath made many friends, who will not, perhaps, easily again be brought to your allegiance, returning as thou doest, impoverished in power and wealth. Had he lived, we must have had hard work to deprive him entirely of the power which he had acquired. We thank the Welch assassin who hath rid us of him; but his adherents would cry foul play were the murderer spared. When blood

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is paid for blood, all will be forgotten, and their loyalty will once more flow in its proper channel to thee, their lawful lord.” Hugo de Lacy arose from his knees, and endeavoured respectfully to combat the politic reasons of his wily sovereign, which he plainly saw were resorted to less for his sake than to effect the change of feudal authority, with the least possible trouble to the country or Sovereign. Henry listened to his arguments patiently, and combated them with temper, until the death-drum began to beat, and the castle bell to toll. He then led De Lacy to the window; on which, for it was now dark, a strong ruddy light began to gleam from without. A body of men-atarms, each holding in his hand a blazing torch, were returning along the terrace from the execution of the wild but high-soul’d Briton, with cries of “Long live King Henry! and so perish all enemies of the gentle Norman men!”

Conclusion A sun hath set—a star hath risen, O, Geraldine! since arms of thine Have been the lovely lady’s prison. C

P  fame had erred in assigning to Eveline Berenger, after the capture of her castle, any confinement more severe than that of her aunt the Lady Abbess of the Cistertians’ convent afforded. Yet that was severe enough; for maiden aunts, whether abbesses or no, are not tolerant of the species of errors of which Eveline was accused; and the innocent damosel was taught in many ways to eat her bread in shame of countenance and bitterness of heart. Every day of her confinement was rendered less and less endurable by taunts, in the various forms of sympathy, consolation, and exhortation; but which, stripped of their assumed forms, were undisguised anger and insult. The company of Rose was all which Eveline had to sustain her under these inflictions, and that was at length withdrawn on the very morning when so many important events took place at the Garde Douloureuse. The unfortunate young lady inquired in vain at a grim-faced nun, who appeared in Rose’s place, to assist her to dress, why her companion and friend was debarred attendance. The nun observed on that score an obstinate silence, but threw out many hints on the importance attached to the vain ornaments of a frail child of clay, since even that a spouse of heaven was compelled to divert her thoughts from her higher duties, and condescend to fasten clasps and adjust veils. The Lady Abbess, however, told her niece after matins, that her

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attendant had not been withdrawn from her for a space only, but was like to be shut up in a house of the severest profession, for having afforded her mistress assistance in receiving Damian de Lacy into her sleeping apartment at the castle of Baldringham. A soldier of De Lacy’s band, who had hitherto kept what he had observed a secret, being off his post that night, had now in Damian’s disgrace found he might benefit himself by telling the story. This new blow, so unexpected, so afflictive—this new charge, which it was so difficult to explain, and so impossible utterly to deny, seemed to Eveline to seal her lover’s fate and her own; while the thought that she had involved in ruin her single-hearted and high-soul’d attendant, was all that had been wanting to produce a state which approached to the apathy of despair. “Think of me what you will,” she said to her aunt, “I will no longer defend myself—say what you will, I will no longer reply—carry me where you will, I will no longer resist—God will, in his good time, clear my fame—may he forgive my persecutors.” After this, and during several hours of that unhappy day, the Lady Eveline, pale, cold, silent, glided from chapel to refectory, and from refectory to chapel again, at the slightest beck of the Abbess or her official sisters, and seemed to regard the various privations, penances, admonitions, and reproaches, of which she was subjected, in the course of that day, to an extraordinary share, no more than a marble statue minds the inclemency of the external air, or the rain-drops which fall upon it, and must in time waste and consume it. The Abbess, who loved her niece, although her affection showed itself after a vexatious manner, became at length alarmed—countermanded her orders for removing Eveline to an inferior cell—attended herself to see her laid in bed, (in which, as in everything else, the young lady seemed entirely passive,) and, with something like reviving tenderness, kissed and blessed her on leaving the apartment. Slight as the mark of kindness was, it was unexpected, and, like the rod of Moses, opened the hidden fountains of waters. Eveline wept, a resource which had been that day denied to her—she prayed—and, finally, sobbed herself to sleep, like an infant, with a mind somewhat tranquillized by having given way to this tide of natural emotion. She awoke more than once in the night to recal mingled and gloomy dreams of cells and of castles, of funerals and of bridals, of coronets and of racks and gibbets; but towards morning she fell into sleep more sound than she had hitherto enjoyed, and her visions partook of its soothing character. The Lady of the Garde Douloureuse seemed to smile on her amid her dreams, and to promise her votaress protection. The shade of her father was there also; and with the boldness of a

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dreamer, she saw the paternal resemblance with awe, but without fear; his lips moved, and she heard words—their import she could not know, save that they spoke of hope, consolation, and approaching happiness. There also glided in, with bright blue eyes fixed upon hers, dressed in a tunic of saffron-coloured silk, with a mantle of cerulean blue of antique fashion, the form of a female, resplendent in that delicate species of beauty which attends the fairest complexion. It was, she thought, the Britoness Vanda, but her countenance was no longer resentful; her long yellow hair flew not loose on her shoulders, but was mysteriously braided with oak and misletoe; above all, her righthand was gracefully disposed of under her mantle; and it was an unmutilated, unspotted, and beautifully formed hand which pressed that of Eveline. Yet, under these assurances of favour, a thrill of fear passed over her as the vision seemed to repeat, or chant, “Widow’d wife and wedded maid, Betroth’d, betrayer, and betray’d, All is done that has been said; Vanda’s wrong has been y-wroken— Take her pardon by this token.”

She bent down, as if to kiss Eveline, who started at that instant and awoke. Her hand was indeed gently pressed, by one as pure and white as her own. The blue eyes and fair hair of a lovely female face, with half-veiled bosom and dishevelled locks, indeed approached its lips to those of the lovely sleeper at the moment of her waking; but it was Rose in whose arms her mistress found herself pressed, and who moistened her face with tears, as in a passion of affection she covered it with kisses. “What means this, Rose?” said Eveline; “thank God, you are restored to me!—But what mean these bursts of weeping?” “Let me weep—let me weep,” said Rose; “it is long since I have wept for joy, and long, I trust, it will be ere I again weep for sorrow. News are come on the spur from the Garde Douloureuse—Amelot has brought them—he is at liberty—so is his master—and in high favour with Henry. Hear yet more—but let me not tell it too hastily— you grow pale.” “No—no,” said Eveline; “go on—go on—I think I understand you —I think I do.” “The villain Randal Lacy, the master-mover of all our sorrows, will plague you no more; he was slain by an honest Welchman, and grieved am I that they have hanged the man for his good service. Above all, the stout old Constable is himself returned from Palestine, as worthy, and somewhat wiser, than he was; for it is thought he will renounce his contract with your ladyship.”

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“Silly girl,” said Eveline, crimsoning as high as she had been before pale, “jest not amidst such a tale. But can this be, really?—Is Randal indeed slain?—and the Constable returned?” These were hasty and hurried questions, answered as hastily and confusedly, and broken with ejaculations of surprise and thanks to Heaven, and to Our Lady, until the ecstasy of delight sobered down into a sort of tranquil wonder. Meanwhile Damian Lacy also had his explanations to receive, and the mode in which they were conveyed had something remarkable. Damian had for some time been the inhabitant of what our age would have termed a dungeon, but which, in the ancient days, they called a prison. We are perhaps censurable in making the dwelling and the food of acknowledged and convicted guilt more comfortable and palatable than what the parties could have gained by any exertions when at large, and supporting themselves by honest labour; but this is a venial error compared to that of our ancestors, who, considering a charge and a conviction as synonymous, treated the accused before sentence in a manner which would have been of itself a severe punishment after he was found guilty. Damian, therefore, notwithstanding his high birth and distinguished rank, was confined after the manner of the most atrocious criminal, was heavily fettered, fed on the coarsest food, and experienced only this alleviation, that he was permitted to indulge his misery in a solitary and separate cell, the wretched furniture of which was a mean bed-stead, a broken table, and a chair. A coffin—and his own arms and initials were painted upon it—stood in one corner, to remind him of his approaching fate; and a crucifix was placed in another, to intimate to him that there was a world beyond that which must soon close upon him. No news could penetrate into the iron silence of his prison, either touching his own fate or that of his friends. Charged with being taken in open arms against the King, he was subject to military law, and to be put to death even without the formality of a hearing; and he foresaw no milder conclusion to his imprisonment. This melancholy dwelling had been the abode of Damian for nearly a month, when, strange as it may seem, his health, which had suffered much from his wounds, began gradually to improve, either benefited by the abstemious diet to which he was reduced, or that certainty, however melancholy, is an evil better endured by many constitutions than the feverish contrast betwixt passion and duty. But the term of his imprisonment seemed drawing speedily to a close. His jailor, a sullen Saxon of the lowest order, in more words than he had yet used to him, warned him to look to a speedy change of dwelling; and the tone in which he spoke convinced the

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prisoner there was no time to be lost. He demanded a confessor, and the jailor, though he withdrew without reply, seemed to intimate by his manner that the boon would be granted. Next morning, at an unusually early hour, the chains and bolts of the cell were heard to clash and groan, and Damian was startled from a broken sleep, which he had not enjoyed for above two hours. His eyes were bent on the slowly opening door, as if he had expected the headsman and his assistants; but the jailor ushered in a stout man in a pilgrim’s habit. “Is it a priest whom you bring me, warder?” said the unhappy prisoner. “He can best answer the question himself,” said the surly official, and presently withdrew. The pilgrim remained standing on the floor, with his back to the small window, or rather loop-hole, by which the cell was imperfectly lighted, and gazed intently upon Damian, who was seated on the side of his bed; his pale cheek and dishevelled hair bearing a melancholy correspondence to his heavy irons. He returned the pilgrim’s gaze, but the imperfect light only showed him that his visitor was a stout old man, who wore the scallop-shell on his bonnet, as a token that he had passed the sea, and carried a palm branch in his hand, to show he had visited the Holy Land. “Benedicite, reverend father,” said the unhappy young man; “are you a priest, come to unburthen my conscience?” “I am not a priest,” answered the Palmer, “but one who brings you news of discomfort.” “You bring them to one to whom comfort has been long a stranger, and to a place which never knew it,” replied Damian. “I may be the bolder in my communication,” said the Palmer: “those in sorrow will better bear ill news than those whom they surprise in the possession of content and happiness.” “Yet even the situation of the wretched,” said Damian, “can be rendered more wretched by suspense. I pray you, reverend sir, to speak the worst at once—If you came to announce the doom of this poor frame, may God be gracious to the spirit which must be violently dismissed from it!” “I have no such charge—” said the Palmer.—“I come from the Holy Land, and have the more grief in finding you thus, because my message to you was one addressed to a free man, and a wealthy one.” “For my freedom,” said Damian, “let these fetters speak for my freedom, and this apartment for my wealth.—But speak out thy news —should my uncle, for I fear thy tale regards him, want either my arm

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or my fortune, this dungeon and my degradation have further pangs than I had yet supposed.” “Your uncle, young man,” said the Palmer, “is prisoner, I should rather say slave, to the great Soldan, taken in a battle in which he highly distinguished himself, though unable to avert the defeat of the Christians, with which it was concluded. He was made prisoner while covering the retreat, but not until he had slain, for his misfortune as it has proved, Hassan Ali, a favourite of the Soldan. The cruel pagan has caused the worthy knight to be loaded with irons heavier than those you wear, and the dungeon to which he is confined would make this seem a palace. The infidel’s first resolution was to put the valiant Constable to the most dreadful death which his tormentors could devise. But fame told him that this was a man of great power and wealth; and he has demanded a ransom of ten thousand bezants of gold. Your uncle replied that the payment would totally impoverish him, and oblige him to dispose of his whole estates; even then he pleaded time must be allowed him to convert them into money. The Soldan replied, that it imported little to him whether a hound like the Constable were fat or lean, and that he therefore insisted upon the full amount of the ransom. But he so far relaxed as to make it payable in three portions, on condition that, along with the first portion of the price, the nearest of kin and heir of De Lacy must be placed in his hands as a hostage for what remained due. On these conditions he consented your uncle should be put at liberty so soon as you arrive in Palestine with the gold.” “Now may I indeed call myself unhappy,” said Damian, “that I cannot show my love and duty to my noble uncle, who hath ever been a father to me in my orphan state.” “It will be a heavy disappointment, doubtless, to the Constable,” said the Palmer, “because he was eager to return to this happy country, to fulfil a contract of marriage which he had formed with a lady of great beauty and fortune.” Damian shrunk together in such sort that his fetters clashed, but he made no answer. “Were he not your uncle,” continued the Pilgrim, “and well known as a wise man, I should think he is not quite prudent in this matter. Whatever he was before he left England, two summers spent in the wars of Palestine, and another amid the tortures and restraints of a heathen prison, have made him a sorry bridegroom.” “Peace, pilgrim,” said De Lacy, with a commanding tone. “It is not thy part to censure such a noble knight as my uncle, nor is it meet that I should listen to your strictures.” “I crave your pardon, young man,” said the Palmer. “I spoke not

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without some view to your interest, which, methinks, does not so well consort with thine uncle having an heir of his body.” “Peace, base man,” said Damian. “By Heaven, I think worse of my cell than I did before, since its doors opened to such a counsellor, and of my chains, since they restrain me from chastising him.—Depart, I pray thee.” “Not till I have your answer for your uncle,” answered the Palmer. “My age scorns the anger of thine youth, as the rock despises the foam of the rivulet dashed against it.” “Then, say to my uncle,” answered Damian, “I am a prisoner, or I would have come to him—I am a confiscated beggar, or I would have sent him my all.” “Such virtuous purposes are easily and boldly announced,” said the Palmer, “when he who speaks them knows that he cannot be called upon to make good the boast of his tongue. But could I tell thee of thy restoration to freedom and wealth, I trow thou wouldst consider twice ere thy act confirmed the sacrifice thou hast in thy present state promised so glibly.” “Leave me, I prithee, old man,” said Damian; “thy thought cannot comprehend the tenor of mine—go, and add not to my distress insults which I have not the means to avenge.” “But what if I had it in my power to place thee in the situation of a free and wealthy man, would it please thee then to be reminded of thy present boast? for if not, thou mayst rely on my discretion never to mention the difference of sentiment between Damian bound and Damian at liberty.” “How meanest thou?—or hast thou any meaning, save to torment me?” said the youth. “Not so,” replied the old Palmer, plucking from his bosom a parchment scroll to which a heavy seal was attached.—“Know that thy cousin Randal hath been strangely slain, and his treacheries towards the Constable and thee as strangely discovered. The King, in requital of thy sufferings, hath sent thee this full pardon, and endowed thee with a third part of those ample estates which, by his death, revert to the crown.” “And hath the King also restored my freedom?” exclaimed Damian. “From this moment, forthwith,” said the Palmer—“look upon the parchment—behold the royal hand and seal.” “I must have better proof.—Here,” he exclaimed, loudly clashing his irons at the same time, “Here, thou Dogget—warder, son of a Saxon wolf-hound!” The Palmer, striking on the door, seconded the previous exertions

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for summoning the jailor, who entered accordingly. “Warder,” said Damian de Lacy, in a stern tone, “am I yet thy prisoner, or no?” The sullen jailor consulted the Palmer by a look, and then answered to Damian, that he was a free man. “Then, death of thy heart, slave,” said Damian, impatiently, “why hang these fetters on the free limbs of a Norman noble? each moment they confine him are worth a lifetime of bondage to such a serf as thou.” “They are soon rid off, Sir Damian,” said the man; “and I pray you to take some patience, when you remember that ten minutes since you had little right to think these bracelets would have been removed for any other purpose than your progress to the scaffold.” “Peace, ban-dog,” said Damian, “and be speedy!—And thou, who hast brought me these good tidings, I forgive thy former bearing— thou thoughtest, doubtless, that it was prudent to extort from me professions during my bondage which might in honour decide my conduct when at large. The suspicion inferred in it somewhat offensive, but thy motive was to ensure my uncle’s liberty.” “And it is really your purpose,” said the Palmer, “to employ your newly-gained freedom in a voyage to Syria, and to exchange your English prison for the dungeon of the Soldan?” “If thou thyself wilt act as my guide, you will not say I dally by the way.” “And the ransom,” said the Palmer, “how is that to be provided?” “How, but from the estates, which, nominally restored to me, remain in truth and justice my uncle’s, and must be applied to his use in the first instance? If I mistake not greatly, there is not a Jew or Lombard who would not advance the necessary sums on such security.—Therefore, dog,” he continued, addressing the jailor, “hasten thy unclenching and undoing of rivets, and be not dainty of giving me a little pain, so thou break no limb.” The Palmer looked on a little while, as if surprised at Damian’s determination, then exclaimed, “I can keep the old man’s secret no longer—such high-souled generosity must not be sacrificed.—Hark thee, brave Sir Damian, I have a mighty secret still to impart, and as this Saxon churl understands no French, this is no unfit opportunity to communicate it. Know that thine uncle is a changed man in mind, as he is debilitated and broken down in body. Peevishness and jealousy have possessed themselves of a heart which was once strong and generous; his life is now on the dregs, and, I grieve to speak it, these dregs are foul and bitter.” “Is this thy mighty secret?” said Damian. “That men grow old, I

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know; and if with infirmity of body comes infirmity of temper and mind, their case the more strongly claims the dutiful observance of those who are bound to them in blood or affection.” “Ay, but the Constable’s mind has been poisoned against thee by rumours which have reached his ear from England, that there have been thoughts of affection betwixt thee and his betrothed bride, Eveline Berenger.—Ha! have I touched you now?” “Not a whit,” said Damian, putting on the strongest resolution with which his virtue could supply him—“it was but this fellow who struck my shin-bone somewhat sharply with his hammer. Proceed. My uncle heard such a report, and believed it?” “He did,” said the Palmer—“I can well aver it, since he concealed no thought from me. But he prayed me carefully to hide his suspicions from you, ‘Otherwise,’ said he, ‘the young wolf-cub will never thrust himself into the trap for the deliverance of the old one. Were he once in my present prison-house,’ your uncle continued to speak of you, ‘he should rot and die ere I sent one penny of ransom to set at liberty the lover of my betrothed bride.’” “Could this be my uncle in earnest?” said Damian, all aghast. “Could he plan so much treachery towards me as to leave me in the captivity into which I threw myself for his redemption?—Tush! it cannot be.” “Flatter not yourself with such a vain opinion,” said the Palmer— “if you go to Syria, you go to eternal captivity, while your uncle returns to possession of wealth little diminished—and of Eveline Berenger.” “Ha!” ejaculated Damian; and looking down for an instant, demanded of the Palmer, in a subdued voice, what he would have him to do in such an extremity. “The case is plain, according to my poor judgment,” replied the Palmer. “No one is bound to faith with those who mean to observe none with him. Anticipate this treachery of your uncle, and let his now short and infirm existence moulder out in the pestiferous cell to which he would condemn your youthful strength. The royal grant has assigned you lands enough for your honourable support; and wherefore not unite with them those of the Garde Douloureuse?—Eveline Berenger, if I do not greatly mistake, will scarce say nay. Ay, more—I vouch it on my soul that she will say yes, for I have sure information of her mind; and for her pre-contract, a word from Henry to his holiness, now that they are in the hey-day of their reconciliation, will obliterate the name Hugh from the parchment, and insert Damian in its stead.” “Now, by my faith,” said Damian, arising and placing his foot upon the stool, that the warder might more easily strike off the last ring by which he was encumbered,—“I have heard of such things as this—I

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have heard of beings who, with seeming gravity of word and aspect— with subtle counsels, artfully applied to the frailties of human nature —have haunted the cells of despairing men, and made them many a fair promise, if they would but exchange for their by-ways the paths of salvation. Such are the fiend’s dearest agents, and in such a guise hath the fiend himself been known to appear. In the name of God, old man, if human thou art, begone!—I like not thy words or thy presence—I spit at thy counsels. And mark me,” he added, with a menacing gesture, “I will presently be at liberty!” “Boy,” replied the Palmer, folding his arms contemptuously in his cloak, “I scorn thy menaces—I leave thee not till we know each other better.” “I too,” said Damian, “would fain know whether thou be’st man or fiend; and now for the trial.” As he spoke, the last shackle fell from his leg, and clashed on the pavement, and at the same moment he sprung on the Palmer, caught him by the waist, and exclaimed, as he made three distinct and desperate attempts to lift him up, and dash him headlong to the earth, “This for maligning a nobleman—this for doubting the honour of a knight—and this (with a yet more violent exertion) for belying a lady!” Each effort of Damian seemed equal to have rooted up a tree; yet though they staggered the old man, they overthrew him not; and while Damian panted with his last exertion, he replied, “And take thou this, for so roughly entreating thy father’s brother.” As he spoke, Damian de Lacy, the best youthful wrestler in Cheshire, received no soft fall on the floor of the dungeon. He arose slowly and astounded, but the Palmer had now thrown back both hood and dalmatique, and the features, though bearing marks of age and climate, were those of his uncle the Constable, who calmly observed, “I think, Damian, thou art turned stronger, or I weaker, since my breast was last pressed against yours in our country’s celebrated sport. Thou hadst nigh had me down in that last turn, but that I knew the old De Lacy’s back-trip as well as thou.—But wherefore kneel, man?” He raised him with much kindness, kissed his cheek, and proceeded: “Think not, my dearest nephew, that I meant in my late disguise to try your faith, which I myself never doubted. But evil tongues had been busy, and it was this which made me resolve on an experiment, the result of which has been, as I expected, most honourable for you. And know, (for these walls have sometimes ears, even according to the letter,) there are ears and eyes not far distant which have heard and seen the whole. Marry, I wish, though, thy last hug had not been so severe a one. My ribs still feel the impression of thy knuckles.” “Dearest and honoured uncle,” said Damian, “excuse——”

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“There is nothing to excuse,” replied his uncle, interrupting him. “Have we not wrestled a turn before now?—But there remains yet one trial for thee to go through—Get thee out of this hole speedily—don thy best array to accompany me to the church at noon; for, Damian, thou must be present at the marriage of the Lady Eveline Berenger.” This proposal at once struck to the earth the unhappy young man. “For mercy’s sake,” he exclaimed, “hold me excused in this, my gracious uncle!—I have been of late severely wounded, and am very weak.” “As my bones can testify,” said his uncle. “Why, man, thou hast the strength of a Norway bear.” “Passion,” answered Damian, “might give me strength for a moment; but, dearest uncle, ask anything of me rather than this. Methinks, if I have been faulty, some other punishment might suffice.” “I tell thee,” said the Constable, “thy presence is necessary—indispensably necessary. Strange reports have been abroad, which thy absence on this occasion would go far to confirm. Eveline’s character is concerned in this.” “If so,” said Damian, “if it be indeed so, no task will be too hard for me. But I trust, when the ceremony is over, you will not refuse me your consent to take the cross, unless you should prefer my joining the troops destined, as I heard, for the conquest of Ireland.” “Ay, ay,” said the Constable; “if Eveline grant you permission, I will not withhold mine.” “Uncle,” said Damian, somewhat sternly, “you do not know the feelings which you jest with.” “Nay,” said the Constable, “I compel nothing; for if thou goest to the church, and likest not the match, thou mayst put a stop to it if thou wilt—the sacrament cannot proceed without the bridegroom’s consent.” “I understand you not, uncle,” said Damian; “you have already consented.” “Yes, Damian,” he said, “I have—to withdraw my claim, and to relinquish it in thy favour; for if Eveline Berenger is wedded to-day, thou art her bridegroom—the Church has given her sanction—the King his approbation—the lady says not nay—and the question only now remains, whether the bridegroom will say yes.” The nature of the answer may be easily conceived; nor is it necessary to dwell upon the splendour of the ceremonial, which, to atone for his late unmerited severity, Henry honoured with his own presence. Amelot and Rose were shortly afterwards united, old Flammock having been previously created a gentleman of coat armour, that the

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gentle Norman blood might, without utter derogation, mingle with the meaner stream which coloured the cheek and meandered in azure over the lovely neck and bosom of the fair Fleming. There was nothing in the manner of the Constable towards his nephew and his bride, which could infer a regret of the generous self-denial which he had exercised in favour of their youthful passion. But he soon after accepted a high command in the troops destined to invade Ireland; and his name is found among the highest in the roll of the chivalrous Normans who first united that fair island to the English crown. Eveline, restored to her own fair castle and domains, failed not to provide for her confessor, as well as for her old soldiers, servants, and retainers, forgetting their errors, and remembering their fidelity. The Confessor was restored to the flesh-pots of Egypt, more congenial to his habits than the meagre fare of his convent. Even Gillian had the means of subsistence, since to punish her would have been to distress the faithful Raoul. They quarrelled for the future part of their lives in plenty, just as they had formerly quarrelled in poverty; for wrangling curs will fight over a banquet as fiercely as over a bare bone. The only serious cause of vexation which I can trace the Lady Eveline having been tried with, arose from a visit of her Saxon relative, made with much form, but, unfortunately, at the same time which the Lady Abbess had selected for that purpose. The discord which arose between these honoured personages was of a double character, for they were Norman and Saxon, and, moreover, differed in opinion concerning the time of holding Easter. This, however, was but a slight gale to disturb the general serenity of Eveline; for with her unhopedfor union with Damian, ended the trials and sorrows of T  B        .    .

ESSAY ON THE TEXT

1.    T H E B E T R O T H E D 2.    T H E B E T R O T H E D : the Timetable; the Manuscript; Manuscript Conclusion; from Manuscript to Print; the Proofs; Changes between Proofs and First Edition 3.    : octavo Tales and Romances (1827); duodecimo Tales and Romances (1827); 18mo Tales and Romances (1827 and 1828); the Interleaved Copy and the Magnum 4.    : Emendations from Manuscript and Proofs; Emendations from Manuscript; a Conflict between the Manuscript and First Edition; Emendations from Octavo, Interleaved Set and Magnum; Editorial Emendations; Proper Names; Conclusion. The following conventions are used in transcriptions from Scott’s manuscript and proofs: deletions are enclosed 〈thus〉 and insertions mthuso; superscript letters are lowered without comment. The same conventions are used as appropriate for indicating variants between the printed editions.

1.    THE BETROTHED The first intimation of Tales of the Crusaders was at the end of 1823. Saint Ronan’s Well was published in three volumes on 27 December 1823, and included an advertisement (written on 11 December 1823),1 for ‘An Account of the Siege of Ptolemais’ by The Rev. Josiah Cargill, ‘Minister of the Gospel at Saint Ronan’s’,2 who, in the novel, had been engaged in compiling a historical work on a crusading subject.3 Robert Cadell, one of the partners in Archibald Constable and Co., the firm that was at this point Scott’s established publisher, recorded in the notes prepared for Scott’s biographer J. G. Lockhart around 1833: I was in Ballantynes Printing office one forenoon in this month [December 1823] when Sir Walter came in, St Ronans Well was just then out of his hands & the conversation turned on the subject of the next, for there were at the time four works contracted for. he said in the moment, “give me a pen I shall make Josiah Cargill speak” & wrote the following Memorandum to be appended to the Novel of St Ronan’s Well, as an advertisement which was done. . . . Sir Walter intended this in no other light at the moment but as a Jeu d’esprit—some however took it up as a grave announcement among these Mr Constable.4 Of course Scott would have regarded the advertisement for ‘The Siege of Ptolemais’ as a joke, but the fictional Rev. Josiah Cargill, and thus Scott, is thinking about crusading. The subject is imprecise—on which 279

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siege of Acre was Cargill supposedly writing?—but it is clear that Scott had begun his mental preparation for Tales of the Crusaders. The public announcement brought its absurdities. Cadell wrote in his diary for 13 January 1824: ‘Sir W Scott called, shewed him a parcel addressed to the Revd. Jos: Cargill of St Ronans’.5 But it is what Cadell adds that is more important for an account of the genesis of the collection: ‘he mentioned his intention of making the book after St Ronans in two Vols: & another tale in the 3d Vol: or perhaps 2 stories in 4 Vols’. Cadell has forgotten about Redgauntlet; on 8 January he had already received proofs of the first four sheets of what he calls the ‘“New” (Heries)’6 (the eventual title was chosen later), but the slip does not matter: Scott was writing Redgauntlet, and planning Tales of the Crusaders. Cadell says that at the time the mock advertisement was penned there were ‘four works contracted for’. In fact, there were outstanding contracts for only three novels, each unspecified, but which turned out to be Redgauntlet, Tales of the Crusaders, and a third one which was never written.7 The agreement which covered Tales of the Crusaders was probably signed on or about 8 October 1822, and Scott received an advance of £2500.8 This document has not been located, but if it were like its predecessors it would have offered Archibald Constable and Co. a licence to sell 10,000 copies of a threevolume novel, to be manufactured by James Ballantyne and Co., with half the ‘profits’ going to the author.9 (The ‘profits’ were the incoming monies less the direct costs of paper, printing and binding, and advertising.) Robert Cadell was later to write in the notes he produced for Lockhart: About this period, or rather prior to this period, what with purchasing land—building Abbotsford & the cost of living W Scott had got into the lamentably pernicious practice of asking his Publishers to engage for Novels two three & sometimes four deep.10 Cadell never said as much directly to Walter Scott; and as co-partner in the publishing business it was he who was responsible, with Constable, for advancing money for which the business had neither the capital nor the cash flow, and which simply added to bank debts. Archibald Constable and Co. had twice before ‘lost’ Scott (after their publication of Marmion in 1808 when Scott set up his own publishing company and again in 1816 when, following Constable’s publication of The Antiquary, Scott sold the licence to publish Tales of My Landlord to William Blackwood) and they were not going to do so again. In the early twenties Scott’s contracts were not specific documents which spurred him on to complete specific titles: they were rolling agreements which committed him to continue writing for Archibald Constable and Co., while providing him with a steady income stream. Having had the idea, Scott’s creative planning continued, even

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although he was simultaneously writing Redgauntlet. On 5 February he wrote to the theatrical manager Daniel Terry: ‘My present labours . . . comprehend two narratives in about two volumes each; they may perhaps intrude on vol. 3rd. I intend you shall have this, which I think will be highly dramatic, as soon as printed’.11 On 26 March 1824 in a letter to Scott, thanking him for her copy of Saint Ronan’s, Lady Louisa Stuart, who was an intimate and knew of his authorship of the novels, asked: Is the Siege of Ptolemais really on the anvil, or announced to carry on Josiah Cargill’s history? I heartily hope the former, for I should have high expectations from it, the Crusades being a subject worthy of such a pen; and in this respect my appetite grows by what it feeds on, perhaps wanting more & more something to steal my thoughts away from painful contemplation.12 Scott replied with a long letter on 4 April, in which he confides: ‘I think the next will consist of two tales one of which will be an extract from the crusade history’.13 Commenting on this letter, James C. Corson thinks that ‘Scott had in mind a different subject for the second’,14 but in fact the two works that were eventually produced fit Scott’s description exactly, with one of the Tales, The Talisman, being ‘an extract from crusade history’. Thus it is clear that from the outset Scott was considering two companion novels. Scott’s ideas may have been still quite sketchy, since what eventually appeared in Crusaders can hardly be called ‘highly dramatic’, nor easily imagined on the stage, although a version of The Talisman was indeed performed at the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh, in the same week as the novel was published.15 However, as Scott’s idea of what constituted good drama was never very sound, and as he was referring to The Betrothed (he informed Terry ‘nothing can come out till the other vols. are both written and printed’),16 he may merely have been indicating that he thought The Betrothed was exciting. A later entry in Cadell’s diary (13 May), where he says he ‘wrote to Sir Walter about a Crusader story’,17 suggests that Scott was continuing to discuss the subject of the one-after-next with his business associates. He completed Redgauntlet on about 1 June for in his diary entry for 2 June Cadell records ‘Ballantyne got “Finis” of Redgauntlet this day’,18 and was still correcting proofs on the 3rd.19 Redgauntlet was published on 14 June.20 Then on 16 June, in a letter to Ballantyne, Scott wrote: I go to Abbotsford on Saturday [19 June] and shall send from thence or bring on my return on Tuesday the commencement of Crusading tales. A good deal is already written but I want to consult books which I have there.21 Ballantyne evidently reported this to Cadell, who records on 18 June: ‘Ballantyne looked in, and mentioned that Sir W S had begun “Tales

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of the Crusaders” ’.22 The nature of the beginning of the manuscript of The Betrothed will be examined under ‘Composition’ below, but it accords with what Scott wrote in this letter and thus confirms that he had already written a substantial amount of it before the publication of Redgauntlet. While the idea, and the imaginative pre-shaping, of a pair of novels, seem to belong to the period between December 1823 and June 1824, the intellectual preparation came decades earlier. As a boy, Scott devoured ‘the usual, or rather ten times the usual quantity of fairy tales, eastern stories, romances, &c.’ as he tells us in his ‘Memoirs’.23 At school and university he had read the Classical literature that included material on the Celts, particularly the Annals of Tacitus. His own work on the ballad tradition which resulted in Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1802) led him to read widely in early literature, and to investigate those medieval literary narratives that were in print. He produced the first modern edition of Sir Tristrem (1804) from a manuscript in the Advocates’ Library in Edinburgh. He had read Malory’s Morte Darthur, and, in the first decade of the nineteenth century, he extended his expertise24 as modern texts of older literature were produced by friends and contacts such as Joseph Ritson (Ancient English Metrical Romanceës),25 George Ellis (Specimens of Early English Metrical Romances),26 and Henry Weber (Metrical Romances of the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth Centuries).27 Scott also read with great interest Froissart’s Chronicles from the late fourteenth century, in the new translation by Thomas Johnes.28 He knew such legendary histories of Britain as Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia regum Britanniae (History of the Kings of Britain),29 and Caradoc of Lhancarvan’s The History of Wales.30 He corresponded with scholars such as William Owen (later William Owen Pughe) and George Ellis on early Welsh literature. However, intellectual preparedness and a literary joke do not explain why Scott began in 1824 to think of a pair of novels set in the time of the Third Crusade. One biographical factor may have a bearing on the development of The Betrothed. Beginning in March 1824, Scott was trying to arrange that his elder son, Walter, would meet and (Scott hoped) decide to marry Jane Jobson, a niece of his close friend, Sir Adam Ferguson. Jane’s father had died in 1822, and she was the heiress to a valuable estate at Lochore in Fife. Scott had for some time thought of his elder son, whose career in the army he was regularly financing, in a chivalric role. In October 1823 he had written to his friend Richard Heber praising young Walter’s military qualities and added that he was ‘a fine person and just the stuff out of which would have been made in former days [new line] A verie parfite gentil knight’.31 He had also written to John Richardson in similar terms: ‘Walter is really what you call un beau Cavalier’.32 Scott had entertained Sir Adam and Lady Ferguson and their niece

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to dinner in his Edinburgh home in Castle Street early in March, and wrote about it to his son at Sandhurst on 9 March,33 recommending him to read the opening scene of The Merry Wives of Windsor, and going on to cast his son as Slender, himself as Shallow, Sir Adam as Evans, and Jane as ‘Sweet Mistress Page’ in the play. Scott goes on explicitly to suggest that his son should plan to be at Abbotsford in the summer in order to woo the lady. The literary conceit is continued in further letters in the succeeding months, as Scott continues to urge Walter to meet the young heiress.34 Thus when the author chooses to write in The Betrothed about two young people, one an orphaned heiress and the other a knight errant cautious about approaching the lady, and when a similar situation is at the centre of the companion novel, with the focus on the young man rather than the vulnerable young woman, it is possible to speculate that the pair of novels may have owed their origin to Scott’s perception of a potential romance in the family. Of course the commentary provided on arranged marriages in The Betrothed does imply a critical view of his own motives and actions, but Scott was more than capable of reflecting obliquely within his fiction on current concerns. It is tempting to press the connection. In the second of the letters to young Walter about Jane, Scott had referred to her mother as ‘a Tartar’;35 later in a letter to James Ballantyne he called her ‘an hyaena’ and (following Mrs Malaprop) ‘a perfect allegory on the banks of the Nile’.36 When writing to Lady Davy on 24 January he perceptively said that Mrs Jobson was ‘a person whose exorbitant affection made her unreasonable and violent’.37 It is difficult not to think that the various strained interviews between Eveline and the Abbess, and more especially Sir Hugo and the Abbess in Volume 1, Chapter 16, and in Volume 2, Chapters 3 and 5, did not owe something to his impression of the mother of his hoped-for daughter-in-law. This is speculation, and in any case the material Scott borrowed from ‘life’ was never adopted ‘raw’, but transformed so as to work within its artistic context. But what is undoubted is that at the same time as he was considering an arranged marriage for his son he was writing The Betrothed in which he presents a young woman as the victim of patriarchal authority. 2.    THE BETROTHED The Timetable. As indicated above, Scott went to Abbotsford on Saturday 19 June 1824 to check some books; in the following week he probably sent Ballantyne the first batch of manuscript leaves. As was customary, Ballantyne would have had this material copied, the copy would have gone to the compositors, and then proofs would have gone to Ballantyne, to Scott, back to Ballantyne who oversaw the business of incorporating revisions and corrections. There would have

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been final in-house proof-reading and checking, and then the material was printed. It is thus quite probable that the early gatherings of Volume 1 had been printed by August, while Scott was still writing later bits of the first volume and correcting proofs of intervening portions. However, progress was not smooth. In the summer of 1824, Abbotsford had been recently completed, and many visitors came to see the place in August and September, and many friends came to stay in it. With these various non-literary matters to contend with, it is not surprising that progress with The Crusaders was interrupted. In addition, Ballantyne had already made it clear that he did not like the tale. On 27 July, Scott wrote: I send some copy. I am a little down hearted about it but am getting on. When I do not please you or myself how can I please other folks. However I will get on.38 This is the earliest mention of what was to become a somewhat vexed issue later in the year, when Ballantyne’s criticism of the novel and Scott’s own dissatisfaction with it led to its abandonment for a considerable period. But to others he was brightly optimistic. On 1 August, in a letter to Lady Abercorn, who had only just received Redgauntlet but was already asking for the next novel,39 he wrote: ‘As to the book you inquire about I greatly doubt its seeing the light till November— it is going on but interrupted by various amusements and occupations’.40 In spite of the distractions, normal exchanges with the printing house continued throughout this period. For instance, in the proofs Ballantyne remonstrated against Damian’s extreme youth and the phrase ‘only the down on the upper lip announced decisively the approach to manhood’ (78.36–37): Suffer me to remonstrate ag[ains]t a second hero (Quentin Durward being the first) who only approaches to manhood. Let him be as young as you please, so he be but a grown man. As young as Lieut. Walter Scott, but not so young as Mr. Charles—for whom a good time is coming. The very misses thought Durward but a boy, though a mettled boy. Scott replies on the proof: ‘I do not mean him for a heroe’. On 15 August Scott wrote to Ballantyne: In answer to your objurgations I beg to tell you 1st Damian Lacy is not meant for my heroe 2ndly that the story requires he should be engaged in matters for which youth only is an apology—3rdly & to conclude that he shall tarry at Jericho till his beard grow.41 As this matches the words on the proof it is clear that by this date more than half of Volume 1 was in proof, and so it is likely that Scott had written around two-thirds of it. On 20 August he again wrote to Ballantyne: ‘I am delighted I am begun to interest you . . . I return proofs and send copy’.42 Cadell notes on 8 September that ‘Mr Auchie sent out in the evening a packet from Sir W Scott returned it to the

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Printer’.43 Writing to Constable from Abbotsford on 19 September, Scott again alludes to the distractions of the summer: ‘such has been the curiosity of tourists that I am obliged to shut my doors against all but friends otherwise we should not have a moments quiet’.44 The following morning, 20 September, he wrote to James: ‘I send proofs & copy—the last written by driblets as I can catch a moment—but all our friends are now off today & tomorrow & I shall work hard’.45 In the same letter, Scott writes: About November I shall want to pay off John Usher now reduced to about £1000 from £16000. I trusted to the 4th. volume of Crusades for this & still think I will get it forward by the end of that month or beginning of December. I have however been dreadfully interrupted these seven weeks past. The general contract for the novel would have specified three volumes; as Tales of the Crusaders was in four volumes Scott was expecting extra money which would enable him to pay off the remaining £1000 due to John Usher for the purchase of Toftfield (renamed Huntlyburn by Scott) in 1817. And though ‘dreadfully interrupted’ he still seemed to think that in spite of not having yet completed the first volume of The Betrothed he would be able to complete the whole Tales of the Crusaders, both The Betrothed and The Talisman, by early December. Scott was perpetually optimistic about completion dates. In another letter to Ballantyne, dated ‘23 September’ and which Corson locates in 1824,46 Scott wrote: ‘I return all the sheets hitherto sent and a trifle more copy. I am determined not to let these untoward circumstances vex me more than can be helpd.’47 Then, on 29 September, he wrote to Ballantyne again, telling him that ‘I am working hard here & will have a volume ready next week’.48 And in a letter which can be dated Thursday 7 October he wrote again: ‘Inclosed is the termination of the Betrothed all but one page’.49 This of course was not the end of The Betrothed—it was the end of Volume 1. There is no news at all of his progress in October: something was wrong. In early November, there are two illuminating letters to Ballantyne. In the first, which Corson convincingly dates 8 November,50 Scott confesses: I did not write because contrary to my wont I had destroyd some manuscript which I had finishd and wanted to try back a little. I do not think I shall send anything this week—next week I will be in town and We ll try again—I dinna ken— We ll aiblins happen better.51

But he is still hoping to conclude the Crusaders in 1824: ‘I must make a rally to get the Crusrs out by the new year’.52 Ballantyne must have made use of this confession to express his disapprobation of the whole work (his letter does not appear to be extant), for Scott’s next letter

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to Ballantyne on 11 November is endorsed by Cadell: ‘The Annexed letter is the reply to one written to Sir Walter condemning the Tales of the Crusaders (the Betrothed)’.53 In reply Scott wrote to James: I am not very apprehensive of [not] finding some remedy for the failure which you very justly announce but I greatly doubt your recipe. Whatever has happend may happen again under the same circumstances. Constable I fear had mor[e] shrewdness than either of us when he recommended a fallow . . . I never fail to consider your opinion as completely authoritative upon general results especially when as in the present case it completely coincides with my own for you must not think thus as Dorax says to Sebastian Thou hast dared To tell me what I durst not tell myself.

I have been often slow to see merits which others have discoverd—never so to acknowlege defects.54 This moment in the composition of the Crusaders is very significant, as all the parties recognised. Scott had never before suppressed anything, and this exceptional experience marked the production of the two novels for the next eight months. However, the manuscript at Volume 2, f. 50,55 itself bears witness to Scott’s own crisis of confidence, for the paper quality suddenly changes, as does the handwriting, with the number of lines per page reduced from an average up to this point of 112 to a mere 87 for the remaining 24 leaves, on which the hand itself is larger. It follows that the end was written at a different time. The manuscript provides no evidence of what Scott had torn up: there are no deletions of any magnitude in the manuscript as we have it. Scott just says that he was finding problems in writing this part of the novel, which takes in Chapter 12 of the second volume, or gathering P in the first edition. But it is not the contents of the leaves leading up to f. 49 that Ballantyne was objecting to as he had not seen them. As the letter that Ballantyne had written probably on 9 or 10 November is not known to be extant, his objections can only be surmised, but he was probably objecting to an earlier part of the novel which he may well have been reading for the first time as he corrected proofs. It seems likely, from the extent of subsequent revision, that the objections of Ballantyne and Cadell were to the material on ff. 33–34 of the second volume of the manuscript, which is in gathering L of Volume 2 of the first edition, and which covers the abduction of Eveline and her imprisonment under a cauldron in Chapter 8. The surviving proofs of gathering L are substantially different from what Scott had written in manuscript (as described below, 313); as Scott seldom recast material it does look as though the revisions could have been enforced, as were the changes at the end of Saint Ronan’s Well the previous year. It is possible that

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Scott carried through these revisions in November before the decision was taken on 17 December to discontinue work; but it is also possible that they were effected when it was decided in the following February that the novel should be finished. Nonetheless, in October and November, Constable and Co. continued to be in negotiation with Hurst, Robinson about the size of their order for Crusaders and the price they would have to pay for it.56 Cadell (who conducted the business in Edinburgh while Constable was indisposed at Polton House, his home 10 km south of Edinburgh) seems to have relished the hard-driven discussions; in a letter to Constable on 30 November, he quoted his most recent letter to Hurst, Robinson: ‘We must decline your offer for the Crusaders—arguments are amusing in such matters’.57 On 15 December Constable wrote to Hurst, Robinson in London about the stock of Scott novels in Edinburgh, giving advice about how to shift stock, hoping that they would change their mind and order a supply of the new Novels and Tales of the Author of Waverley,58 and referring to the Crusaders which ‘will be out we hope early in the approaching year’.59 This may have been a brave front, in view of the meeting described in the next paragraph. It seems that Scott had begun writing The Talisman at some point in the autumn (either before or after the exchange of letters in November), and by mid-December some of it was ready for the printer. Cadell records in his diary for 17 December: Called at Ballantynes, . . . heard a part of the Talisman read . . . spoke with Mr Constable about the course to be pursued about the Talisman—went to Ballantyne again on the subject . . . met James Ballantyne at ½ p 3 & went to Sir Walters, missed him but called back & arranged that the “Betrothed” is to be laid aside.60 He reported this visit to Constable the same evening: James Ballantyne thought it was better to go hotfoot to Sir Walter, & wished me to accompany him, we met with a most welcome reception, the same thing occurred to himself, and he is most happy to adopt the plan—but wishes some sheets of the “Talisman” set up. We must get the sheets of the “Betrothed” tied up and sealed up.61 This is clearly a crucial point in the progress of both novels: The Betrothed had already been put aside in favour of the composition of The Talisman, some of which was indeed in type by the end of December. As to The Betrothed, it is probable that all of the first volume and a good bit of the second would already have been printed (it would be these sheets which were to be ‘tied up’), and that, as argued above, the middle of the novel, certainly up to the end of gathering L and possibly as far as P, had been set up in type.

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But Scott was now severely distracted by other events. There was a huge house-party at Abbotsford over New Year 1825, culminating in a ball on 9 January.62 The acquaintance of young Walter and Jane Jobson was finally beginning to blossom, and at some time between 11 and 21 January the acquiescence of Mrs Jobson to their marriage was obtained.63 Some of Scott’s accounts of the event to the outside world conceal the difficulties he had in achieving his goal. For instance, an undated letter to Maria Edgeworth but belonging probably to 23–25 January puts it thus: ‘In short Cupid mingled with our Christmas gambols and we learned with some surprise one fine morning that the lady had agreed to carry the young hussars knapsack’.64 It is clear from other letters that there were very difficult negotiations with Jane’s mother in the early part of the month, which preoccupied Scott and involved some of his intimates, too. Then, on 19 January, Lady Alvanley, an old friend, died while on a visit to Edinburgh; Scott had to make arrangements for her funeral, which took place on 24 January, and deal with sundry distraught members of her family. Charles Erskine, his Sheriff Substitute who carried out much of the routine business for him as Sheriff of Selkirkshire, died on 26 January, causing him a major problem, and much work. Then the wedding of the young couple took place in Edinburgh (at Jane’s mother’s house) on 3 February. It is probable that Scott wrote little at this time other than the flow of letters both happy and sad which he had had to produce. However, it appears that Cadell was rethinking his position on The Betrothed. In the entry in his diary for 15 February 1825 he records that he was busy ‘all forenoon with Mr C[onstable] & Ballantyne about the Crusaders, fixed to bring out the Betrothed & the Talisman in consequence of Reports being abroad about 2 Vols being cancelled & a Volume being printed in Germany—Ballantyne wrote to Sir Walter on the subject’.65 That letter is not extant, but the considerations in the minds of Cadell and Constable can be reconstructed. Archibald Constable was extraordinarily sensitive to suggestions that they might in some manner edit Scott for political purposes: there had been a great fuss in the Morning Chronicle on the publication of Marmion in 1808 because in some early copies a cancel with an additional couplet in praise of the Whig statesman Charles James Fox (1749–1806) was missing. Hazlitt’s The Spirit of the Age with its accusations of Scott writing with a consistent political purpose had been published on 11 January 1825; Scott was aware of it, for he refers to it in the Introduction (see 7.12 and note). The publishers were also very conscious of the need to protect the reputation of their star author: so when a novel in three volumes called Walladmor, purporting to be by Friedrich August Herbig, freely translated from the English of Walter Scott (‘Frei nach dem Englischen des Walter Scott’) had been pub-

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lished in 1824,66 they had no legal means of protecting Scott’s name other than by denial that he was the author and proving as much by publishing another genuine work immediately. On the following day, Scott called on Cadell and ‘agreed to go on with Talisman & make 4 Vols of it along with the Betrothed’.67 In other words, Scott’s original scheme had been reinstated. Cadell was in London in March and April, principally to attend the parliamentary debate on the private Leith Docks Bill, but also to conduct business on behalf of the firm, such as negotiating over bills, the purchase of paper, and the sale of books. Correspondence between the two partners provides some glimpses of Scott’s progress with Crusaders. On 5 March, Constable told Cadell: ‘The Crusaders proceed. I have just had a call from the Author who is not to Visit London this Spring as he at one time intended and is to labour hard in the Country at least such is his present resolve’.68 On 15 March he wrote: The first Tale of the Crusaders is finished but the author proposes not casting off the last sheets of it till near the conclusion of the second—which is a very good plan I think.69 It is not clear why delaying typesetting is a ‘very good plan’, but the other evidence is hard, for on 23 March Constable again writes to Cadell: I presume the third Vol is well advanced—& as I mentioned formerly—the 2d is all written. I saw the Author the day before he left Town when he assured me he would proceed to the Conclusion without loss of time.70 Scott left Edinburgh on 13 March, following the end of the legal term on 11 March, and was at Abbotsford (probably continuously) from then until 11 May, the Court of Session resuming on 12 May. We have to conclude that in Scott’s mind The Betrothed was finished when he left: Constable has said it twice. Of course we know that an Introduction was still to be written, but it is not part of the first tale, and ‘the Conclusion’ applies to concluding the complete work, Tales of the Crusaders. But it is certain that Scott had revised gathering L in Volume 2, and had written the conclusion. When he did this is not known: he might have worked on it in November unbeknown to Ballantyne and Cadell; he might have done it over Christmas which he always spent with Hugh and Diana Scott at Mertoun House (the different paper used for the last 25 leaves suggests that he may not have been in his usual writing spots in Abbotsford or Edinburgh); January seems unlikely, but he might have concluded the work when the original plan was resumed on 16 February. From London, Cadell reported on several occasions the expectations aroused there for the new work, and requested some specimens, so as to increase the advance subscription: ‘The last clean sheet of

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the Crusaders V III will do—& the farther on the better’.71 Constable wrote on 30 March, sending specimens of some new books ‘as far as ready’ and ‘a memd of expectations as to future progress—the most important of all, the Crusaders, by no means so far advanced as I expected—but there are some additional sheets in hand. I have written to him on the subject of the general feeling of anxiety for the work.’72 Meanwhile, Constable were in correspondence with other booksellers about it: ‘We do not expect that “Tales of the Crusaders,” will be ready for publication earlier than in May next’,73 they told John Kempston of Dublin on 31 March. In his diary entry for 5 April, Cadell notes that he ‘had a crack’ with Mr Black ‘about Copyright in Germany &c & the sheets of the Crusaders’.74 On 6 April he reported to Constable that Black and Co., who were preparing a French translation of The Betrothed, were ‘very anxious for the remaining sheets of the Betrothed after what they have got. I told them the conclusion of the Tale was impossible, this they do not care for, so much as the prior sheets in order to bring their translation on as far as possible.’75 As it had been agreed that printing would be delayed it is likely that there were no sheets to give Black and Co., but another possible interpretation is that the publishers already knew that the very end of the novel was unsatisfactory and would have to be rewritten, although there is no evidence as to whether Scott himself was contemplating its re-writing at this date. In the same letter, Cadell says that he had informed Ballantyne that the subscription (i. e. advance orders from booksellers) for Crusaders ‘has increased considerably’ and ‘pressed the completion of the book most urgently’. He gave the current subscription as 4724 sets (and in a letter of 14 April, this had become 6500). Several letters in April indicate that Cadell was continuing to drive a hard bargain with Robinson over terms for Crusaders, and relishing the battle. Better news went south on 15 April: ‘There will be fully 460 Reams wanted for the Crusaders, I expect to be able to send you the 3d. volume Complete early next week. McCorquodale told me yesterday Copy was in hands for the Conclusion of it’, but Constable still had problems with lack of text a week later, on 22 April: I was anxious to hand you the 3d Vol of the Crusaders, & also Vol 2 but Ballantyne has not yet sent me them there are some sheets of Vol 2. to Hand over till towards the end, but I was promised the third complete two days ago.76 The outside world was also being kept abreast of the expected date of publication. In a letter to each of two booksellers in Belfast on 19 April, Constable & Co. drew their attention to problems in the carriage of parcels between Edinburgh and Belfast, and suggested that they provide against the chance of their copies of Tales of the Crusaders being later in arrival than those of their neighbours; they went on to

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say ‘It will be late in May ere the Tales are ready’.77 On 26 April, still in London, Cadell ‘called at Black & Co having recd a Coach parcel with Vols II & III of Crusaders’.78 This appears to suggest that these two volumes were now finished: but there is no knowing what they consisted of. Such volumes could have been made up specifically for trade purposes, in this case to get a small fee from a translator who was purchasing an advance copy in order to get ahead of rival translators. It is likely that sheets Y and Z were not present, as the ending of the novel in the first edition is different from that in the surviving manuscript, and no printed proof of the manuscript version is known. The printers and publishers next faced a major crisis because paper supplied by Key and sent from London was of an inferior quality. Constable wrote to Cadell on 25 April: ‘there are half a dozen of Sheets ready for Press & only 50 Reams to go on with . . . The Author & Printer are ready to go on—& we have no Paper’.79 Constable was so agitated about the potentially disastrous delay (‘If the Crusaders cannot be published with[in] a month or six weeks, the Season is lost’) that he devoted his whole letter to this one subject. Cadell returned to the fray with John Robinson on 30 April and ‘tried to bargain with JOR [J. O. Robinson] about Crusaders without success’, but concluded a deal on 7 May.80 Scott was now wholly occupied with finishing The Talisman. May and June saw a flow of new copy and seem to have been fraught with last-minute changes to the text and crises in the printing of it: for instance on 15 May Scott sent Ballantyne ‘a lot of copy and proof ’, added a bit to page 171 in the fourth volume of Crusaders, just before the sheet was printed, but also told him that the ‘work now approaches its end’.81 On Monday 30 May he sent more proof and copy and promised ‘you will certainly have the last on Wednesday at furthest’.82 The Betrothed itself was, in fact, still unfinished, however. In an undated letter to Ballantyne now bound in with the proofs in the Berg Collection, but dateable as Friday 3 June by its contents,83 Scott writes: When I would not eat porridge to break fast in the days of yore they were served up to me at dinner and truly the fragments of The Betrothed have not a more inviting aspect I forget what was to be done with them but will call today I hope it does not involve my reading the whole story—I shall go tomorrow to Abbotsford to return on Wednesday. If proofs occur best send them by post for a day or two I will send you the preliminary matter either tomorrow or by Mondays Blucher.84 The ‘preliminary matter’ consists of the title pages and the Introduction; these were always written last, and printed last, and Scott’s ‘introductions’ normally constitute his first reflections on the work he has

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just completed. He seems to have been in a particularly good mood in the composition of the Introduction to Tales of the Crusaders, which positively fizzes with invention. It is clear, though, that he had no relish for revisiting the text of The Betrothed, but he had to do it, since the version in the original manuscript leaves Damian still in prison. He buckled to and it would have been a day or two later when he wrote to James: I send you as I proposed 〈?〉 copy of the conclusion as alterd It may require your attentive perusal for I have not the running copy here feeling unconquerable reluctance to read it over.85 These seem to be the very last alterations that Scott made to either novel, and the printer and publisher were then left under three weeks in which to complete production, and to distribute complimentary copies as well as 10,000 to the trade. Constable wrote to Basil Hall on 13 June (part of an ongoing correspondence): ‘I will be very anxious to know where you will be staying this day week that we may have the please of forwarding a Copy of the Crusaders for Mr Hall’s accept—I have some Idea you will like this Work and not less the Introductory Chapt but I must not tell Secrets’.86 Constable and Co. wrote to Hurst, Robinson on Friday 17 June to say that the Crusaders had been shipped by steamer the same day, and should arrive on Monday or Tuesday;87 on the following day John Cumming of Dublin was told that his copies should arrive about Wednesday or Thursday.88 The date of publication was Thursday 23 June, but of course Lockhart was sent an advance copy, Scott writing on 21 June: ‘I send you the inclosed which looks very well’.89 The Manuscript. The manuscript of Tales of the Crusaders was given by Scott to Cadell on 9 April 1831, as Cadell recorded on the flyleaf. When it came up for sale in 1868 the two tales were separated, as the great Russian collector Count Orloff-Davidoff, who at the age of 16 had visited Abbotsford for the first time in November 182590 as Scott began writing The Talisman, wished to purchase the manuscript of only that novel. It seems that The Betrothed passed to the Rev. John Lander, Cadell’s son-in-law.91 When sold at Sotheby’s in 1919 it went to the United States, later becoming part of the collection of Carl H. Pforzheimer. The Pforzheimer Library sold the manuscript of The Betrothed to the National Library of Scotland in 1986.92 The leaves of Volume 1 were numbered by Scott from 1 to 64. There is a second leaf numbered 21, and f. 38 is missing. An extra sheet f. 18a is blank on the recto, and was presumably introduced so that corrections could be made to the facing leaf (f. 19r). The leaves of Volume 2 are numbered from 1 to 74, with, in the appropriate places, an extra f. 6[2], f. 48a (not numbered by Scott, but clearly

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belonging here), and f. 66a (also not numbered by Scott). The greater number of leaves in the second volume is partly to be explained by greater length, and partly by the larger handwriting on the final 25 of them. No manuscript survives for most of the final chapter of the novel as printed: the text of the last chapter up to 270.7 is contained on ff. 72 and 73, but f. 74 contains a different ending to that in the first edition, and is transcribed below (296–97). As indicated in the previous section (see above, 291–92) it was recognised that there was something wrong with the original ending which leaves Damian in prison, and it is probable that Scott wrote the revised conclusion after 3 June 1825: the extra text will have filled five leaves if it was written in the same size of hand as its immediate predecessors, so it was not a minor task for the author in the final stages of the production of the edition. No manuscript of the Introduction has been traced. It was evidently composed after 3 June in the days immediately preceding publication of Crusaders (see above, 291–92). Scott’s choice of 1 June as the supposed date of the meeting reported in the Introduction confirms this, and he seems to have wanted the discussion of the authorship and copyright of the Waverley Novels to be thought of as part of the publication details of the two new tales. The manuscript starts confidently with ‘Tales of the Crusaders / vol. I. / Tale I / The Betrothed / Chapt. I’ set out on five separate lines before the text begins. This contrasts with The Talisman, the text of which begins near the top of the sheet with no preliminaries. In The Betrothed Scott continues his established practice of filling his manuscript pages as fully as he can. He leaves a narrow margin at the left-hand side of each sheet, but generally writes up to the end of the line on the right-hand side. Often he even saves space by breaking a word at the end of the line and then writing the remainder of it at the start of the next. He begins each sentence with a capital letter and normally indicates the end of the sentence with a short dash or a full stop. Apart from inverted commas for speech, there is little other punctuation in the narrative sections, although from time to time he does use commas, question marks and exclamation marks. Within speech he often punctuates with dashes. Paragraphs are sometimes indented, but far more often they are indicated by ‘NL’ (New Line) between sentences. The start of a chapter is indicated by ‘Ch’ written alone on a new line generally with a space above and below, but the chapters are only rarely numbered. However, he did write ‘vol. II.’ at the start of the second volume. At the end of a leaf in the bottom right-hand corner, he generally writes the first word of the next leaf as the catch-word to enable the leaves to be properly co-ordinated. The concentrated nature of the written text means that, when Scott wished to make alterations, there was little room for them to be made

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on the same sheet. If he had mis-spelled a word or chosen the wrong one, he sometimes immediately deleted it and replaced it. Mostly, however, he seems to have made changes as a result of later rereading, perhaps in preparation for the writing of the next section, or before sending off a batch of copy to the copyist. Such later changes, especially small ones, may be made above the deleted word (for instance, at 25.3 he wrote ‘Prince’ above ‘〈King〉’, and at 31.29 ‘my’ above ‘〈the〉’). Far more commonly, he wrote the changes or additions, especially if they comprised more than one or two words, on the verso of the preceding leaf and inserted a caret in the appropriate place in the text. This was a very efficient procedure, except when corrections were written on the wrong verso, as in the case of the emendations to 34.36 and 34.41 in this edition, which were written on f. 10v rather than f. 11v. Subsequently, the intermediaries tried to fit them into the wrong place in the text; this particular mistake does not seem to have been caused by the absence of the leaf at the copyist. However, the versos of about 35% of the leaves are completely blank, and many of these are grubby and have evidently been folded, probably because they were the outside sheet in a packet sent to be copied. When the previous leaf was absent, Scott had to resort to making his changes between the lines or in the cramped margin at the left of the leaf he was working on. In general, these blank versos are distributed evenly throughout the manuscript, suggesting a regular pattern of packets of copy, but it is noteworthy that in Volume 2, ff. 13, 14, 16, 17, 18, 19, and 21, are all blank on the verso. The implication is that either the later part of Chapters 3 and 4, and the first half of Chapter 5 (168–82) needed little correction, or that smaller batches were being sent to the copyist at this stage. Because of the speed of writing, a variety of slips and errors are present in the original text, not all of them corrected there by Scott, though most were removed either by the copyist or the compositors. At 165.6, he mistakenly wrote ‘reconcile the good lady to’ twice, but deleted the second instance. Elsewhere, however, it remained for others to remove the repetitions, as at 189.32 ‘as if a good and evil a good and evil power’, at 29.267 ‘I had been far better been silent’, and at 25.19 ‘hound hound’. Speed of composition no doubt also led to such mistakes as transpositions such as ‘unaminous’ (25.33), or the omission of part of a word such as ‘to teract’ (59.16), where ‘to’ is at the end of a line and the beginning of the next word was missed at the start of the new line. Scott’s brain was often working so rapidly that he wrote a related word for the one he needed (‘bound’ for ‘bounty’ at 107.9; ‘natural’ for ‘nature’ at 184.26; and even ‘NB’ for ‘NL’ at 39.7). Similarly, such errors as the hasty use of a homophone for the word intended (‘formerly’ for ‘formally’ at 184.27) also occur.

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In addition Scott’s spelling was both variable (shew/show), and idiosyncratic, with forms such as ‘freind’, ‘comerade’, and ‘distrest’. His use of capitals was inconsistent. He generally wrote an abbreviated form of the past tense of verbs when the final syllable was not pronounced (‘playd’, ‘broild’, ‘murderd’, etc.), which, although standard in eighteenth-century hand-written documents, he nonetheless expected to be expanded when in print (or at least he tolerated the expansion). All of the above were usually tidied up later by the combination of copyist, compositors, in-house proof-readers, and James Ballantyne. Some parts of the manuscript provide evidence of extensive revision before the sheets left Scott’s hands. Reference has already been made to his desire to consult books at Abbotsford before handing over copy to James Ballantyne (see 281 above). He may well have been wanting to check the names, especially the Welsh ones, on ff. 6–8 (14.29–15.25) for some of which he had left blank spaces in the manuscript. When he returned to the manuscript he filled in some of the blanks, but at least one (31.13) was overlooked, so the saint has had to remain nameless in all editions. He seems to have decided to change the name of his Welsh protagonist from Griffith(s) Conan to Gwenwyn. After consulting his books, he must have realised that Griffith was not alive at the time he had set the novel, and so settled on Gwenwyn instead, but without altering all the earlier instances of the other name, which led to inconsistency on the proofs (see 315 below). He had probably written most of the first two chapters before revising the names, because ‘Gwenwyn’ does not appear in the body of the text until 24.42. At the same time as Scott was revising names, he felt the need for a much more extensive set of improvements to the early part of the text: the first five folios (as far as 23.10) have a large number of alterations on them. Further, he wrote the whole passage from 13.17 to 14.30 on the facing verso, in order to provide greater detail about warfare on the border as well as about the Welsh princes and the Norman families that were engaged in it. The timing of the addition is suggested by its using the new name ‘Gwenwyn’ instead of Griffith. The process of adjustment does not stop here: he had initially left blanks for the name of Berenger’s castle, and at the time of revising supplied versions of ‘Castle Clune’. It was only in Chapter 3 that he used this name as he wrote the main body of the text, but he changed his mind again by the beginning of Chapter 4, when he wrote ‘Garde Doloureuse’ in the main text, and maintained it (in a variety of spellings) for the rest of the novel. Another part of the narrative that was subject to thorough (though minor) revision at the time of composition was the account of Vanda at 127.17–129.31. For instance, between 127.42 and 128.32 (the top

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half of a leaf) there are no less than 13 deletions and the same number of insertions. They are of various sorts, some expanding ideas, some correcting pronouns, some changing the construction, but all tending towards the clarification of an intense piece of writing. Names of people and places seem to have remained fluid and changeable in Scott’s mind throughout the composition of the manuscript text. A minor example is the early change from ‘Chester’ to ‘Shrewsbury’ at 17.26. Raymond himself appeared originally as ‘Rudolph’ at 14.42, and as ‘Ranalph’ or ‘Ranulph’ at other times, and there are parts of Volume 2 where Wilkin Flammock is called ‘Nic(h)olas’ in error (particularly between 245.14 and 249.13). Scott had made this same mistake twice in Volume 1, but had corrected it himself. The name of Ermengarde’s house began as Astringham, but was changed to Baldringham from 125.38, although not all of the earlier instances were corrected either on the manuscript or the proofs, and one later example survived into the first edition (see the emendation to 268.4). Some of these confusions in the later parts of the manuscript may perhaps be accounted for by the interruptions and hesitations of the writing process, which we know to have occurred, and the complete break in composition that occurred in November 1824, which can be related to the changed nature of the manuscript from Volume 2, f. 50, onwards (from 233.30 in the present edition) may well have contributed to the inconsistencies that exist. When he resumed (whenever that was) he may well not have reread very carefully, if at all. The surviving manuscript after Volume 2, f. 50, is written in a larger hand than what precedes it, with fewer lines to the page. Whatever the nature of the discussions between the partners that led to the break in composition, Scott said that he had destroyed some of his text.93 This may have comprised the ending of Volume 2, Chapter 12, as well, perhaps, as other material not now known. Manuscript Conclusion. As mentioned above, the manuscript has a final page that was not included in the first edition, but was replaced by a longer passage of which the manuscript does not survive. An unedited transcript of f. 74 is given below, so that comparison can be made with what became the final ending of the novel. Given that the opening sentence was incorporated into the final text, it may be speculated that the original had been set up in type before the revision was entered into. The passage ‘to . . . wonder’ comprised the first two lines (in a slightly different form) of 2.334 of the first edition; the opening words appear in the present edition at 270.6–7. Heaven and to Our Lady—For a little while the extacy of delight soberd down into a sort of tranquil wonder untill at 〈legt〉 length Eveline sprung up in haste—“This is she said this must be a dream hastily donning her mantle as she spoke she thrust her feet

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into her fairy slippers—“Amelot—where is Amelot—call him hither—I will see him instantly”—“Not I trust till your kirtle is dond dearest lady” said Rose half smiling “Thou hast seen him thyself I warrant me said Eveline reddening & smiling as she sate down to a more regular toilette “and yet methinks you might have taken time to draw a pair of hose over those pretty ancles” Rose blushd redder than her namesake the flower and exclaimd mpeevishly while Eveline continued to smileo “Can you clever lady laugh when you 〈think〉 remind me I have been so unmaidenly careless—to him too mthis 〈th〉 comes of thinking of other people more than 〈m〉 oneselfo”—And putting her hands before her eyes the tears fared [?forced] their way between her fingers”—“come” said Eveline laughing “grudge not my young freind Amelot this grace which fortune has afforded—you know you have not bestowd many on him of your own accord”—“Grace on him”—said Rose smiling through her April tears—on a proud Norman and from the daughter of a Flemish weaver”—“such boon will be askd and granted though” said Eveline “or I am no true 〈port〉 prophetess—I saw something between you in the Garde Douloureuse—more than you knew yourself—But here comes our aunt to congratulate us on our restoration to the favour of fortune”— It is unnecessary to repeat these congratulations in which the Abbess dwelt much upon the opportune means by which Providence had done justice to the innocent and confounded the guilty. She then apprized her that she was to prepare speedily to receive the visits of Damian de Lacy as a suitor graced with his uncles full consent and 〈not〉 endowd with an ample appanage of his lands. The Constable himself did not intend to be present at the nuptials having agreed to accept the command of a strong body of troops dispatched to assist in the subjugation of Ireland Thus ended the trials and the sorrows of the B        . As can be seen from the text in the first and of this edition the revised ending is more satisfactory because it pays more attention to the imprisoned Damian, and in providing further tests, both moral and physical, of the young man’s worth, that lead to his release from prison; it reaches a much more elevated conclusion than the rather hurried one represented in the two paragraphs above, which seem to have forgotten about Damian almost entirely. From Manuscript to Print. As Scott’s authorship of the Waverley Novels was still not publicly acknowledged in 1824–25, the practice was maintained of passing the manuscript to a copyist before it was sent to the printer. This was done in batches, since the novel was set up in type as the writing of the manuscript progressed. The copy itself is not known to survive. There is no evidence about the identity of the copyist of most of the manuscript of The Betrothed, and there

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are no marks on it that might provide a clue. However, there is some slight evidence about who copied the last twenty-five folios. At 2.225 in the proofs (227.4–20 in this edition) which is the first page of gathering P in Volume 2, there is written at the foot of the page: ‘Began to copy ms: here. AB’. ‘AB’ is Alexander Ballantyne, James’s brother. How this relates to the processes of production is not clear, but it does imply that someone else copied the earlier part of the novel. And one may speculate that when Scott broke off writing at the end of f. 49 in November 1824 (the division comes after ‘answered’ at 233.30 in this edition), other processes, copying and typesetting, may have reached the end of gathering O on p. 224. But why would Alexander write this on the proofs? The question cannot be answered with any certainty, but as other copyists were paid for the work done, not the time spent on it, it is possible that Alexander was reminding his brother, whom he knew would read the proofs, that he was due to be paid for this piece-work. An unusual and unique reference to the original manuscript appears at 136.42 (the end of gathering U of the proof of Volume 1), which terminates abruptly in mid-page at ‘demeanour’ (which is also at the end of f. 62 of the manuscript). Ballantyne wrote a note to Scott: ‘Page 63 has not been sent, and is probably lying at Abbotsford. It leaves a hiatus which tantalizes me much.’ Scott responded: ‘Page 63 was sent three days since under cover to you’. The missing passage, ‘seemed . . . have’ on 136.42–137.8 of this edition, does indeed appear on f. 63 of the manuscript. This raises interesting speculations about the movement of the manuscript within the printing house and whether it was Ballantyne and the copyist alone who had access to it. The Proofs. The proofs of The Betrothed were preserved by Ballantyne, and bound up as a book, together with some other papers (letters, papers apart) that derive from the proof-reading process. The volume was purchased by Charles George Milnes Gaskell at the Christie’s sale of a number of Scott manuscripts and proofs on 9 July 1868. When Gaskell’s library was sold in 1924 the volume of proofs was purchased by Maggs who sold it to Owen D. Young. His collection is now in the Berg Collection in the New York Public Library.94 Included in the volume are a full set of proofs of the whole of the novel, as well as some second and third proofs of various parts of it. There are extra copies of part of gathering X in Volume 1 on pp. 325–27 (138.35–139.29 in this edition), and gathering M in Volume 2 on pp. 177–92 (208.30–214.31), part of gathering X on pp. 329–36 (268.5–271.16), and another part of gathering X on pp. 321–28 (265.3–268.5). These extra sheets have been bound into the volume, but not in the order that they were created or used. Of course the surviving proofs were not the only ones: there had been in-house

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proofs that had been corrected by the compositor and proof-readers, before James Ballantyne began his work, and post-authorial proofs were pulled to make sure that previous work had been incorporated, but which Ballantyne and his foreman Daniel McCorkindale may have used for further tidying processes of their own. What Ballantyne kept were proofs that contained Scott’s own alterations and corrections. Scott’s handwriting is easily identifiable on the proofs, as is Ballantyne’s, but there are also corrections in another hand or hands which use different forms of printer’s marks from those used by Ballantyne and Scott, and which seem to precede those of the two major participants. Since these interventions mostly relate to technical aspects of the printing, they can, perhaps, be attributed to Daniel McCorkindale, or even to Alexander Ballantyne, who acted as a proof-reader in the printing business, and whose hand in identifiable at one point on the proofs (see above, 298). Where letters are insufficiently registered or have dropped out of line, they are marked for correction. Where fillers between words have registered, they are similarly marked. And instructions to close up or open up a space are given. The numbering of chapters sometimes went awry, as at Volume 1, Chapter 6, which appeared as ‘V’, Volume 2, Chapter 6 which appeared as ‘X’, and Volume 2, Chapters 7 and 8 which appeared as ‘VI’ and ‘VII’. These mistakes were corrected on the proofs. There are several instances of the correction of the spelling of names which imply that whoever was doing it had a text to compare with and was copy-editing. For instance, between 130.26 and 131.11 ‘Guarim’ appears seven times instead of Guarine, and is corrected but not by Ballantyne or Scott. Similarly, at 36.5 the proof printed ‘knight’ which was corrected to ‘knights’, the manuscript form, again not by Ballantyne or Scott. Another instance, at 45.25, also points to a correct copy being at hand, when ‘wilt thou’ was repeated a second time instead of the ‘thou wilt’ of the manuscript. However, some of the corrections by this person or persons were clearly in error and were ignored in the first edition, such as the request at 29.6 for a hyphen in ‘two hundred’. James Ballantyne was evidently the next to read through the proofs, and as he did so he seems to have had available to him both the original manuscript and the copy. At 75.41 the proof reads ‘eventual night’, but Ballantyne was able to check this puzzling reading and to write on the proof ‘the eventful night, in copy’, which led Scott back to his original word. In contrast, either the copyist or the printer produced ‘Marry, guess’ at 79.30, but Ballantyne wrote ‘Marry quep,’ beside it, thus returning to the manuscript expression: he must have had the original to hand. It is strange, given these references, that Ballantyne did not more often make use of the original or the copy as he read through the proofs, which would have removed some of the inadvertent changes made by Scott when he was asked to fill a gap.

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Ballantyne wrote ‘Please to read this’ at the top of the first sheet of each gathering (he initialled this message at the top of gathering R in Volume 2, a page represented by 239.17–34 in the present text), and went through marking with an ‘X’ those passages that he thought were in need of Scott’s attention, for example when a word or words were missing in the manuscript, where there were uncomfortable repetitions, or where he detected a flaw or inconsistency in the narrative. In addition, he sometimes improved the punctuation ‘to bring out the meaning (as I understand it)’, as he says at one point (Proofs, 2.247). In all, there are 91 interventions from Ballantyne in Volume 1 (only one chapter is free of them), and 57 in Volume 2. Where there are several sets of the same pages (as for Volume 2, Chapter 15), there are comments from Ballantyne on only one. Ballantyne’s interventions had an important role in the production of the final text of the novel, and they are of varying kinds. For example at 4.12 he wrote ‘Incomplete’ beside the line. The proof makes no sense, since there is a full stop after ‘know’ and no object to the verb. Scott added the passage ‘that . . . success’ (4.12–14) which completes the sentence satisfactorily. As we do not have the manuscript of the Introduction it cannot be determined which of three people, Scott, the copyist, or the compositor had omitted the necessary material. Similarly, at 6.43–7.3, Ballantyne wrote ‘Incomplete’ because the sentence finished at ‘prose and verse’ (7.3), and Scott provided the completion of the clause, ‘we . . . Parliament’ (7.3–4). On the same page, at 7.5, Ballantyne marked the puzzling Latin that appears on the proof (‘Vissuntia futior’) and wrote ‘We cannot read this’. Scott provided the correct phrase ‘Vis unita fortior’, and Ballantyne copied it again clearly for the printer. At 191.34–36, he wrote ‘Incompleat’ beside what was a near-perfect reproduction of the manuscript text: ‘but which yet served to fix her attention upon the circumstances by [proof: to] which it related, though in themselves but of petty importance’. Scott deleted ‘but which’ and ‘circumstances . . . importance.’ and added ‘connection . . . memory’ (191.35–36). A smaller omission in the manuscript made its way on to the proofs at 197.38, where the sentence stopped at ‘which way’; Ballantyne wrote ‘Incomplete’ and Scott provided the necessary ‘to run’. Sometimes, Ballantyne made simple corrections and improvements, which were accepted by Scott, as at 145.13 where Scott’s mistake in writing ‘Hubert’ for ‘Raoul’ reached the proofs and was noticed by Ballantyne (the same error had been missed at 144.16). Similarly, at 182.30, his suggestion of replacing ‘his nephew’ with ‘Damian de Lacy’ was accepted in order to avoid a repetition. At 184.43, he commented that ‘Three is stated elsewhere as the term’ (175.7), and Scott deleted ‘Two’ (which is the manuscript reading) and wrote ‘Three’. At 157.30, Ballantyne wrote ‘Resignation hardly seems the right word’

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and Scott changed it to ‘courage’. On other occasions, Ballantyne raised queries by marking with a question mark passages that he thought were not clear enough. One such, beside ‘naker’ (44.39) generated the footnote glossing the word, but at 148.9 (‘sumifuges’) Scott evidently did not see the need for explanation. At 32.39, Ballantyne wrote ‘wiser, or wise?’ to which Scott responded ‘stet’, thus retaining ‘wiser’. At 43.21 where the manuscript and proof read ‘slaughtered family’, he asked ‘Was there any of her “family”, (in the restricted sense understood) but her father?’, and Scott deleted ‘family’, substituting ‘parent’. Again, keeping his eye on the family relationships, at 114.4 Ballantyne marked ‘mother’ in the text and commented ‘I thought it was through her father that Eveline was connected with this old Lady’; Scott added ‘grand’, going on to replace ‘daughter’ with ‘descendant’ in the next sentence. Ballantyne had drawn attention to the same oversight at 109.20, and Scott had made the same correction. In a similar vein (but raising the larger issue of the overall plausibility of the narrative), Ballantyne marked the concluding clause of the sentence at 31.3–6 and wrote at the foot: If the siege was expected to be raised, or relieved, why should Eveline be sent to her aunt? or is it, that he, Raymond, knows he is to fall, but still that the castle will hold out, till the lady, after his death, is removed to her aunt? It may be dulness, but it is not clear to me. Scott patiently replied: I think it is quite obvious that Raymond went with almost a certainty of death to battle & that he left a garrison which he concluded would be sufficient to defend till relief I cannot make it clearer You surely have not read the passage with attention. A curious example that sheds light on both Ballantyne and Scott occurs at 135.43, where Ballantyne put his X beside ‘betrothed’, asked whether ‘their being betrothed’ meant the same thing as ‘their being married’, and requested an explanation if it were needed. Scott patiently responded: ‘Betrothed merely signifies affianced or having plighted troth to marry at a future time’ and goes on to cite Deuteronomy and to quote A Midsummer Night’s Dream (4.1.169–70): To her, my lord, was I betrothed ere I Hermia saw.

Nonetheless Scott supplied the final, rather pedestrian, sentence of the paragraph, ‘This . . . parties’ (136.1–4), to make all quite clear. For once, Ballantyne seems to have missed the whole point of the novel. Ballantyne’s concern for the detail of the narrative and its characters quite often led him to ask focused questions and to point out inconsistencies. Very late on in the novel, he marked ‘a tall man’ (271.8) and

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wrote: ‘The Constable’s height is only once before attended to, and then as “the shorter of the two,”—that is, of Cadwallon himself; so I should think he was not tall.—Nay, in Vol. 1. it is said, “In height, the Constable scarce obtained the middle size.” ’ Scott replaced ‘tall’ with ‘stout’. Sometimes, Ballantyne’s careful reading led to a succession of improvements and corrections. At 14.31 and 14.34 he marked ‘Griffiths’ and ‘Conan’, names which Scott had overlooked during his revision of them (see above, 395) and which had appeared in the proofs: who was Griffiths? who was Conan? They are here mentioned, as if they had been mentioned before. Or, are Gwenwyn, Griffiths, and Conan, (like Cerberus) one gentleman? If so, it is oddly stated. Scott replied ‘Only a change of name Griffith—Conan being rather too old for my purpose I substituted Gwenwyn’, and he went on to make appropriate corrections. A contrasting example, where Ballantyne drew on his extensive knowledge of all the preceding novels to comment on the age of the hero, has already been mentioned (see above, 284). Another example of this is at 243.16, where Ballantyne comments: ‘This is so like the very words used in stating the similar impression of Waverley’s adherents, that I could wish it were rather understood than expressed’. This led to Scott’s deleting a complete sentence after ‘temporary triumph’. The present edition has restored the passage, ‘Many . . . aristocracy’ (243.16–21), because although there are similar sentiments in Waverley the loss of the sentence created a narrative lacuna which Scott did not fill. Another example of Ballantyne’s attention to detail led him to comment on the apparent brevity of Hugo’s absence in Palestine (214.35). The manuscript and proof read ‘more than two years’, and Ballantyne wrote: ‘This is startling. The effect left on the mind of the reader, come how it may, certainly is, that he has not been absent two weeks, at most, two months.’ Scott replied: ‘It may be made less abrupt by throwing into p. 135 at the end of the chapter some explanation like that on p.a.’. However, the passage, now to be found at 193.1–7, was never incorporated; it is not known why, but it is possible that this interchange took place just before the crisis in November 1824, and that the paper apart was simply forgotten. Alongside his interest in the consistency of the narrative, Ballantyne paid attention to the presentational symmetry of the text. He seems to have been concerned if there was no motto at the head of a chapter. At Volume 1, Chapter 1, Ballantyne asks: ‘Is there to be a motto?’, and Scott supplied one. Volume 1, Chapter 6, had no motto, and Ballantyne wrote beside the start of the chapter ‘Motto wanted’. At the foot of the page he added ‘Sometimes the sheets are returned without mottoes which always occasions considerable delay by the

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necessity of returning them’, to which Scott replied: ‘There is no absolute reason for having mottoes to each chapter’. When in Chapter 7 Scott had given no source for the motto, Ballantyne wrote in a question mark, and Scott supplied ‘Old ballad’. Prompted by Ballantyne, Scott found a motto for Chapter 15, but Ballantyne did not seem to feel the need for one for Chapter 16, although the printer had left a space for it. The distribution of lines between this and the next page was adjusted before publication. This sort of intervention continues in the second volume, in which mottoes were created or located by Scott on Ballantyne’s prompting for Chapters 1, 3, 5, and 12. In addition to these examples which led to improvements in the first-edition text, there are occasional jousts between the two friends which reveal something of both the men and their relationship, such as when, at 144.7–8, Ballantyne comments: ‘Though concord has been described here, nothing but jarring has been exhibited’, and Scott responds ‘Surely there is concord for an old man’. A similar instance is at 85.1, where Ballantyne comments beside the ‘thirtyfive’, which was Gillian’s age in manuscript and proof: At five-and-thirty! By’r lady, they could have lost few, if any. Give her 5 more, I pray. Humbly, I think the lads, in these works, are brought too soon on, and the ladies sent too soon off. Scott replied drily: ‘No help for taste’, but he did add five years to Gillian’s age. It is clear that Ballantyne’s attention to detail greatly helped to produce an intelligible and self-consistent narrative; without his assistance, there would have been many more slips and flaws. Quite apart from those passages to which Ballantyne drew attention, Scott seems to have read every page with care, and made copious alterations and improvements on the proofs, with relatively few pages being without authorial changes. Perhaps one in ten of the pages in Volume 1 and one in eight in Volume 2 have no evidence of intervention from the author, but the figure for the second volume is affected by the number of duplicate sheets that have been preserved, since, on the whole, Scott’s corrections appeared on only one set of proofs, were incorporated but then received no further attention from him. The alterations and improvements that Scott made on the proofs follow the pattern of those outlined above: many corrected errors introduced by the copyist or compositors, such as ‘in’ for ‘on’ at 30.16, or ‘Kammerer’ for ‘Hammerer’ at 33.26. He also filled a space if there had been a lacuna in the manuscript or copy, as when he supplied ‘distemper’ in 147.21. He was attentive to the flow of a sentence, and often added even a single word, so that it ran better (‘however’ at 66.15; ‘sometimes’ at 46.26; ‘to break’ at 130.14; ‘of our friends’ at 73.20, which helps to clarify what Rose is saying). Equally, he deleted

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a word or two that had been correctly reproduced from the manuscript if the rhythm was improved by the deletion (‘them 〈even〉 some’ at 248.34; ‘that 〈some of〉 those’ at 70.9). One type of change that he seems to have paid especial attention to was to move from pronoun to noun or personal name (‘the garrison’ for ‘them’ at 65.3; ‘These detachments’ for ‘They’ at 68.18; ‘Damian’ for ‘he’ at 88.10, closely following ‘his uncle’ for ‘the Constable’s’ in the same line; and ‘Ermengarde’s’ for ‘Her’ at 108.1). Clarification was also achieved by using ‘my heart’ for ‘it’ at 111.16; and, even more effectively, ‘The crypt in which it was placed’ for ‘It’ at 53.9. He also tidied up the word order, as at 73.16 where he transposed ‘even’ from before ‘among’ in order to make for better emphasis and flow. And he improved the paragraphing, writing ‘NL’ on the proof (41.38, 80.28, and many others) to divide longer passages of narrative; particularly noteworthy is the break up of a single very long paragraph into three parts, at 185.23 and 185.42. There are also many passages where the author set to work (unprompted by Ballantyne) to improve the clarity and flow of the prose. One example will suffice, at 66.17–28, where he introduced seven changes in two sentences. The proof reads: her father . . . was . . . displaying great skill, as well as immense personal strength, in directing and assisting at the establishment of a large mangonel . . . upon a station which commanded an exposed postern-gate . . . and upon which a severe assault was naturally to be expected . . . his armour lay beside him . . . covered with a mantle to screen it . . . and a huge sledge-hammer in his hand . . . under his direction. Scott re-composed this as he went, changing ‘immense’ to ‘wonderful’, deleting ‘at’, and altering the construction by deleting ‘which’ and changing ‘commanded’ to ‘commanding’. He then simplified ‘upon which’ to ‘where’, and exchanged ‘his cassock’ for ‘a mantle’ and ‘axe’ for ‘sledge-hammer’. This sort of close reading and revision of his own text demonstrates that he saw the writing of the manuscript and its correction in print as a continuous creative process: the text remained alive in his mind, and he continued to improve it. But it is not just relatively minor polishing that goes on in the proofs. Scott also introduced longer passages, such as the addition of ‘in jerkin of white cloth and having only a knife by his side’ to the description of Wilkin’s appearance at 178.19. There are also one or two even more substantial passages, such as 188.21–27 (‘In truth . . . soldiers’), which was written on to the proofs, and 98.25–34, which was written on a ‘paper apart’. Both of these help to fill out the detail of the narrative and the relationships between characters, and once more show Scott alert to the overall effect he was trying to produce. Finally, there is one much larger set of changes on the proofs that

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must be mentioned here, although they will be dealt with in greater detail in The Present Text and in the Emendation List. Major alterations were made to the passages in Volume 2 dealing with Eveline’s place of concealment following her kidnapping, especially in gathering M (pp. 177–92 in the proofs and first edition; 208.27–214.31 in the present text), but there were also consequential changes both before and after this passage. (The surviving set of gathering L may be an already-corrected version of the text, since it is relatively free of proof corrections.) Originally, in the manuscript and the proofs, she was imprisoned under a huge metal cauldron, but in correcting and revising Scott made the place of imprisonment an already existing underground burial chamber. There is no external surviving evidence as to the reason for this major change. It is probable that Ballantyne made unfavourable comments on the original version, and it is possible that this gathering precipitated the November crisis, but his reasons are not known to us because any correspondence that there may have been on the subject has not been preserved. It is, of course, possible that they discussed the problem without committing themselves to paper, in spite of Cadell’s docket on Scott’s letter of 11 November (see above, 286): ‘The Annexed letter is the reply to one written to Sir Walter condemning the Tales of the Crusaders (the Betrothed)’.95 There is no sign of any dissension between the two on the proofs, as there is at times in The Talisman. We can only guess at the reasons that caused so much extra work. Changes between Proofs and First Edition. There is a scattering of differences between what appears on the surviving proofs and what was printed in the first edition, which indicate that there were other interventions subsequent to those that Ballantyne chose to preserve. It is probable that James Ballantyne continued the process of checking for various kinds of slip as he transferred Scott’s holograph corrections on to a clean set of proofs, no doubt normalising spelling and adding punctuation as he did so. However, as the pagination of the surviving proofs is not always exactly the same as that of the first edition, the make-up of several gatherings was changed at a stage later than that represented by the surviving proofs, which certainly implies that further proofs were pulled, on which further corrections might have been made. The changes mainly affect punctuation: commas and dashes were both added and deleted. There are also examples of changes in wording, as, for instance, at 184.9, where the proofs read ‘pressed’ (manuscript ‘pressd’), but the first edition has ‘drew’, a change made to avoid the repetition with ‘pressed’ just below. Later on, at 238.42, the proofs read ‘Ranulph’ (following the manuscript), but the first edition

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has ‘Hugo de’. So Ballantyne’s watchfulness continued to improve the text, even although he was at times mistaken in his perception of problems, as we shall see in the discussion of the present text. 3.    There was no ‘second edition’ of Tales of the Crusaders, but they appeared in the three editions of Tales and Romances of the Author of Waverley (a collection which consisted of St Ronan’s Well, Redgauntlet, Tales of the Crusaders and Woodstock), as well as in the Magnum Opus. When Scott became insolvent in January 1826, he handed over all his property to trustees (with the exception of Abbotsford and the surrounding estate which was entailed on his elder son Walter), and promised to commit all his literary earnings to repaying the creditors. The minutes of Scott’s trustees for 8 June 1826 record that they considered an offer from Robert Cadell to publish Saint Ronan’s Well, Redgauntlet, Tales of the Crusaders and Woodstock in the collected series (the previous novels had all been republished in groups, each of these collected editions appearing in octavo, duodecimo and 18mo formats). Cadell offered to print 1500 copies of each, he ‘paying the Trustees a sum of £1500. for the privilege, by two equal instalments at four and six months, from the completion of the last edition’,96 and with his meeting all the costs. The trustees decided to see if either of the big London publishers, Longmans or Murrays, was prepared to offer. One of the problems, although the minutes do not record this, must have been the fact that Cadell was an undischarged bankrupt, who could not legally continue to trade. However, the minutes of a meeting of 13 July 1826 record: From a state which had been prepared by Mr. Ballantyne of the probable expence and proceeds of the proposed three editions of the four last Novels, each edition consisting of 1500 Copies, it appeared that there would be a clear profit to the Trustees, supposing all the impressions sold, of £5,064. 4. 7½, while Mr. Cadell’s offer for the right of publishing these three editions to the same extent was only £1,500.97 As the trustees had kept James Ballantyne and Co. as a running concern, they decided to undertake the preparation and manufacture of the books themselves, but, on Scott’s suggestion, to limit the impressions of each edition to 1000. The minutes record that in March John Gibson, secretary to Scott’s trustees, wrote letters soliciting offers from publishers for the right to sell these editions to the retail trade,98 and on 6 April 1827 Gibson accepted Cadell’s offer: ‘On the part of the trustees of Sir Walter Scott, I hereby accept of the offer for the continued series of the four

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last Waverley Novels . . . contained in your letter of the 30th March last’, the offer being for £4000.99 It was further agreed that twothirds of the imprint of each edition would go to Longmans, which was confirmed by their acceptance on 9 April.100 The collection was entitled Tales and Romances of the Author of Waverley: the octavo edition appeared in seven volumes in Edinburgh on 17 May 1827, the duodecimo in nine on 28 July, and the 18mo in seven on 27 October, although the dating of the engravings suggests that it may in fact have appeared in 1828.101 The textual relationship of the different editions to each other can be seen in the following stemma: First Edition (1826) o bb8vo Tales and Romances (1827)dd o o [marked-up 8vo Tales and Romances] o o o o 18mo Tales and Romances (1827) 12mo Tales and Romances (1827) o o o 18mo Tales and Romances (1828) o [Interleaved Set] o Magnum (1832)

The octavo Tales and Romances (1827). The Betrothed occupies Volume 4, and the beginning of Volume 5. It closely follows the text of the first edition. The most conspicuous change is that ‘Welch’ is consistently regularised to ‘Welsh’, and there are a few other changes of the same sort, ‘shew’, for example, becoming ‘show’. There are very few verbal alterations. For example, in the first two chapters of the second volume (where there are more changes than elsewhere in the novel) it corrects a couple of errors in the first edition including giving ‘fiançailles’ (141.11) a cedilla instead of using an inserted ‘i’ to soften the ‘c’. In addition, ‘admitting only within the hallowed precinct the few who’ (142.18–19) becomes ‘admitting within the hallowed precinct the few only who’; ‘a full dark eye’ (143.6) becomes ‘a full black eye’; ‘Our Lady assoil him’ (143.35) becomes ‘assoilzie him’ to make it agree with Raoul’s use of the term two lines below; ‘bandish’ (146.38) becomes ‘bandage’; ‘a legate a latere’ (150.16) is correctly represented as ‘a legate a latere’, thus reverting to the manuscript reading; ‘doubted’ (153.30) is changed into the more obvious ‘questioned’; ‘rich embroidery’ (154.8) becomes ‘costly embroidery’, an emendation adopted for the present text because of a particularly nasty repetition; ‘moderately’ (157.32) becomes ‘deliberately’ and ‘purposed’ is changed to ‘meant’, another emendation adopted here because of repetition. The octavo also makes three mistakes in these two chapters: ‘abbess’ is spelt with only one ‘s’ at 141.12; ‘bend the minds of men’ (153.37–38) is printed as ‘bind the minds of men’,

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and ‘He that desires to catch larks’ (160.42) is turned into the nonsense of ‘He that declares to catch larks’. Most unusually there are very few changes in punctuation. The duodecimo Tales and Romances (1827). The Betrothed in the duodecimo edition occupies Volume 5 and part of Volume 6 of Tales and Romances. It was set from the octavo, but possibly a marked-up version (see under 18mo below): every verbal change in the two chapters analysed above (with the exception of the wrongly-spelt ‘abbess’) is followed in the duodecimo. It makes three innovations in these chapters: ‘more inner’ (142.4) sensibly becomes just ‘inner’; ‘Medicine’ (146.37) is given an initial capital letter thus reverting to the manuscript reading which is followed in this edition; and ‘anti-room’ (153.27) becomes the modern ‘anteroom’ (even although the older spelling is etymologically correct). There are only half a dozen or so changes in punctuation. The 18mo Tales and Romances (1827 and 1828). The Betrothed occupies Volume 5 and part of Volume 6. The 1827 edition was set from the octavo, but possibly from a marked-up version of the octavo, for it shares certain variants with the duodecimo. In the two chapters previously examined the 18mo contains all the new readings introduced by the octavo, and it shares new readings with the duodecimo: ‘more inner’ (142.4) becomes ‘inner’; ‘Medicine’ (146.37) is given an initial capital; ‘anti-room’ (153.27) becomes ‘anteroom’. However, unlike those who set and proof-read the octavo and the duodecimo, those who worked on the 18mo dealt intelligently with their copy text. At 144.15–16 in this edition, the first edition and the octavo read: ‘ “By Saint Hubert, a proper horseman, and a destrier for an earl,” said Hubert;’ but it is Raoul who speaks and the 18mo makes the correction. The 18mo also changes Scott’s neologism ‘sumifuges’ into the known ‘febrifuges’ (148.9; see note), and it removes the first instance of a repeated ‘that’ at 158.36 (this edition reverts to the manuscript reading which does not have the second ‘that’). But its most intelligent change is to recover ‘bend the minds of men’ (153.37–38) which the octavo had turned into ‘bind’. On the other hand, in these two chapters it makes two bad mistakes of its own: the worst is to change ‘cloister’ into ‘castle’: marriage is not a state which the inmates of a castle have renounced forever, but ‘the inmates of the cloister’ (141.16). Later Randal suggests that respect for Eveline required that Damian attend her betrothal ‘if his limbs were able to bear him’ (147.33); in the 18mo this nonsensically becomes ‘if his limbs were not able to bear him’. It also introduces some twenty new marks of punctuation, a few to replace those already there, and twice changes a singular noun, ‘service’ at 147.39, and

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‘command’ at 153.1–2, into a plural. In his Journal entry for 8 January 1828 Scott says that ‘Longman and Coy . . . suddenly inform Mr. Gibson that they desire 1000 of the 8vo. edition of Saint Ronan’s Well and the subsequent series of novels thereunto belonging for that they have only seven remaining, and wish it to be sent to three printers and pushd out in three months’.102 It is probable that Scott was mistaken about it being the octavo that was in demand, for no second edition of the octavo has been identified or located, but there was a second edition of the 18mo, and it was printed by four Edinburgh printers. Only one set of the second edition of the 18mo Tales and Romances has been located; it is in the British Library. Collation indicates it was set from the 1827 18mo. Scott is unlikely to have prepared copy or to have corrected proofs; as he says in the same Journal entry: ‘I will make neither alteration nor addition till our grande opus the Improved Edition goes to press’.103 The set was issued on 5 May 1828.104 The Interleaved Copy and the Magnum. The full story of the making of the Magnum Opus is to be found in Jane Millgate’s Scott’s Last Edition: a Study in Publishing History.105 In brief, when on 10 March 1823 Scott gave the manuscripts of the novels to date to Archibald Constable,106 Constable in his letter of thanks suggested that Scott should annotate his own fiction—‘in my opinion it is the Author only who could do anything at all acceptable in the way of genuine illustration’.107 Scott demurred.108 The idea was resurrected in 1825; in his Journal entry for 19 December Scott noted Constable’s plan for a collected edition,109 and on 19 January 1826 he recorded ‘Even yesterday I went about making notes on Waverley according to Constable’s plan’.110 But work was interrupted by the crash. Constable had purchased the copyright of all the novels from Waverley to Quentin Durward, but at the time of the crash £7800 of the purchase money was still outstanding. Who owned the copyrights was one of the matters referred to Lord Newton. The missives for the sale of the first copyrights, in February 1819, had stipulated that ownership remained with Scott until the full price had been paid, but this clause had not appeared when Scott sold further copyrights in 1821 and 1823,111 and because of this Lord Newton determined that the copyrights belonged to Archibald Constable and Co. Constable’s trustees moved rapidly towards a sale, and in an auction on 19 December 1827 they were bought by Scott’s trustees conjointly with Robert Cadell, paying £8500. They were thus able to add the copyrights of the novels of the first fifteen novels to the four they still owned, and the new edition could therefore proceed. Preparations continued right through 1828, and the first volume of the Magnum

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Opus was published on 1 June 1829; 48 volumes appeared, one a month, until 3 May 1833. Scott does not say much about preparing Tales of the Crusaders for the Magnum. There is only one relevant entry in his Journal: on 21 February 1831 he says that the next day he is going to send off the second volume of material for the Magnum Redgauntlet, and that the ‘Tales of the Crusades come next’.112 On 24 February he told Cadell ‘I am getting ready the first volume of Crusaders’;113 on 29 March he wrote: ‘I send you the next volume of Magnum being the 1st of the Crusades’.114 For The Betrothed he wrote 19 notes (of which 17 were published), and effected about two hundred textual revisions.115 Many of these are trivial: the addition of speech markers is one of the most common. He corrects occasional errors (‘Dehenbarth’ is correctly changed to ‘Deheubarth’),116 and he provides clarifications: ‘the whistle of the stout mariner’ becomes ‘the silver whistle of the stout boatswain’,117 thus making the reference to The Tempest more clear (see note to 38.21). For the most part he amplifies. For instance at the end we are told more about the future life of Raoul and Gillian, as Scott adds: ‘Raoul died first and Gillian having lost her whetstone found that as her youthful looks decayd her wit turnd somewhat blunt She therefore prudently commenced devotee & spent hours in long panegiricks on her deceasd husband’.118 Cadell’s diary entries say that he ‘revised part of the Crusaders’, or ‘revised part of Crusaders’, on 3, 9, 11 and 21 May.119 What ‘revised’ indicates is not certain, but it probably means that he edited Scott’s textual revisions, normalising spelling and punctuation, and went through the existing text imposing consistency. The collation of the Magnum text of The Betrothed against the octavo edition of Tales and Romances shows as usual a fairly high level of ‘tidying’. On 16 May Cadell told Scott: ‘I shall before long have to ask you for Woodstock as the Printer will require the Crusaders in a few days’;120 on 20 May he reported that ‘the Printer had got the Crusaders from me’.121 On 2 June he ‘revised Introduction to the Betrothed’.122 The Betrothed appeared as Volume 37 of the Magnum Opus, and was published on 1 June 1832. 4.     THE BETROTHED As is explained in the headnote to the Emendation List, a particular copy of the first edition has been used as the base text. Not all copies of the first edition are absolutely identical, but comparisons with other copies show no substantial differences; nothing more noteworthy than some minor differences in the registration of a few letters and punctuation marks has been found. However, the text of the first edition is

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not without flaw, as even a casual examination will show. It was the purpose of the present edition, therefore, to produce an ideal first edition such as might have been issued if the processes of production had been undertaken at greater leisure and more thoroughly than in fact they were in 1824 and 1825. Comparison of the chosen copy of the first edition with the manuscript itself, together with the corrected proofs and later editions produced in Scott’s lifetime, has led to a systematic process of recovering materials lost in transmission, thus leading to what aims to be an ideal first edition that represents as closely as possible both what Scott wrote, and how he expected to see it in print. One preliminary point worth making is that at the time of Scott’s education in the late eighteenth century, English spelling had not settled into an agreed standardised form, so that his texts contain many variant spellings living side by side. Although Ballantyne and the printing house tried to impose some standardisation, some words escaped their net or were not yet generally considered to have invariable forms. For instance, the distinction between ‘sang’ and ‘sprang’ (the Modern English past tense) and ‘sung’ and ‘sprung’ (the Modern English past participle) was not recognised for another fifty or more years in the educational and the publishing systems. Very nearly 1300 emendations are proposed to the text of the first edition. The vast majority (95%) are derived from Scott himself in a variety of ways. The manuscript provides most of them, along with the printed proofs and Scott’s corrections on proof, as well as a few changes proposed in the printing house but not adopted in the first edition. Emendations from Manuscript and Proofs. There are quite a few instances where the printed proofs reproduced the form of words or punctuation from the manuscript, but this was not printed in the first edition. In the Emendation List, such cases are categorised as ‘  and proof s’. Given that Scott not only devised these readings in the first place and can be presumed to have approved them in his checking of the proofs, it is strange that they were further revised before publication. Mention was made above, in discussion of the proofs, of Ballantyne’s role in the final version of the text, and it may be that such discrepancies should be laid at his door. Emendations that follow manuscript and proofs concern choice of words (e.g. 17.16, 20.26, 21.19, 30.2), some spellings (e.g. 14.15, 24.18, 33.8, 39.12), and a lot of punctuation, especially where commas were added (e.g. 26.31) or punctuation was changed post-proof (e.g. 19.19, 31.3, 44.6). Emendations from Manuscript. Many emendations direct from

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the manuscript adopt readings that had been misread or misunderstood by the intermediaries. Although the manuscript is not particularly difficult to read, it is not surprising that mistakes were made: Scott was writing at speed, and he often fails to distinguish clearly between vowels. It is therefore easy to see how minor examples such as ‘in’ for ‘on’ (30.14) came about, or the recurrent exchange between ‘farther’ and ‘further’ (examples in both directions, such as 33.24 and 58.5) and between ‘proposed’ and ‘purposed’ (104.14). Inadvertent improvements by the copyist were frequent, such as ‘on’ for ‘along’ (13.12) and ‘Amongst’ for ‘Among’ (14.13); other examples of word-changes are at 20.43, 25.16, 35.36, and strikingly at 250.17. Sometimes words were transposed (49.1), or a pair of words reversed (‘fame and fortune’ at 240.20), or a word completely missed out (‘imposed’ at 20.35; ‘unnecessary’ at 146.40). More egregiously, the intermediaries added words (59.2, 99.6), or even re-wrote a passage (43.21). One widespread feature of the first edition is that it is more heavily punctuated than the proofs, and much more than the manuscript, and the decision has been taken to move in this edition towards Scott’s less emphatic manner. This is especially true of his tendency to use dashes within speech, rather than commas (e.g. 31.2–3, 235.16). A small group of emendations from the manuscript concerns the name of Sir Hugo. It is clear from the manuscript that Scott had adopted a formal name for him (Hugo), as well as a less formal one (Hugh) when he is speaking of himself or being spoken to by intimates. The first edition in general reproduces this accurately, but several times an editorial hand has obscured this useful distinction (e.g. 154.38, 251.1) which has been restored here, although no attempt has been made to intervene against the evidence of the manuscript when Scott himself forgot his pattern. More significant, though, and more interesting, were the misreadings of rare and difficult words (for instance 102.30 ‘samite’; 112.16 ‘tressells’; 148.18 ‘brabbles’; and 254.36 ‘woon’). In the first case, the copyist or compositor had reproduced a word that he knew (‘sarsnet’) rather than one he did not; in the second he miscopied, producing ‘tresses’, which may have been what he was thinking of, but it was not what Scott wrote and does not fit the context; in the third, the correct word had reached the proof but disappeared before publication (perhaps because Ballantyne did not recognise ‘brabbles’ and deleted the ‘r’, thinking that an error in printing had been made); and the fourth had not been copied at all, perhaps because ‘woon’ was both illegible and an unfamiliar word. For the first three this edition returns to what Scott wrote in manuscript, while in the fourth instance, ‘woon’, the word it replaces, ‘rover’, had been supplied by Scott to fill a blank left in the proofs. The restoration of these words, and others

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like them, enhances Scott’s text by expanding once again our knowledge of the breadth of his vocabulary. These four words were used with precision and care, and their loss to all editions before the present one is to be regretted. Another class of manuscript emendation relates to the spelling of the present tense, especially the second person singular. Scott generally wrote without apostrophes, so he wrote ‘thinkst’ (32.13) and ‘wouldst’ (32.14), but these became ‘think’st’ and ‘would’st’ in print. There is no way of being sure whether or not Scott approved of the alteration, but these words always appear in speech and the changes affect its sound and the rhythm. In parallel, other verbs such as ‘knowst’ (32.27) and ‘mayst’ (49.4) are commonly spelled thus in the manuscript, but were printed as ‘knowest’ and ‘mayest’. This makes the reader hear a dissyllabic word when Scott probably intended a monosyllable. In contrast, Scott commonly wrote ‘doest’ (46.14), but the first edition printed it as ‘dost’. Manuscript readings have been adopted for all such forms when they are available, so as to remain close to what Scott wrote (the examples above are only the first occurrences of these words in the text). Similarly, the manuscript ‘prithee’ (79.30 and elsewhere) appeared as the rather over-informed ‘pr’ythee’ in the first edition. A Conflict between the Manuscript and First Edition. A much larger departure from the first-edition text is the decision to reject several passages in Volume 2, Chapters 8 and 9, in favour of the manuscript text (203.8–209.36 in this edition). In the proofs and the first edition Eveline’s place of imprisonment is a subterranean passage, perhaps in a burial mound, whereas the version in the manuscript (which is adopted here) has her concealed beneath a huge cauldron. The surviving proofs of gathering L (202.29–207.28 in this edition) are surprisingly free of corrections, suggesting that there was a set that had been substantially revised, but which was not preserved. There are two sets of proofs of gathering M (207.28–214.31), on one of which the manuscript text was printed, but there are quite extensive alterations to it by Scott, changing references to the cauldron and its context to those that refer to the subterranean chamber. The second set of M is a revise which contains Scott’s corrections in the earlier proof. Given the evidence provided by the proofs of gathering M, and given that it is unthinkable that changes so extensive were made by anyone other than Scott, there can be no doubt that the main changes were his, and any that were the work of others were sanctioned by what he had done. What is not clear is how this came about. It is possible that Scott himself, when he saw the proofs, was dissatisfied with what had been written; he might have been unhappy with the

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place of concealment, or doubtful if such a cauldron could have existed. Alternatively, Ballantyne (with Cadell’s support) may have questioned either of these things; he may have suggested that Scott had already used the idea of a girl imprisoned under a cauldron in A Legend of the Wars of Montrose (see note to 203.14); he may even have suggested that there was some impropriety in the hiding-place of the heroine. As has been suggested earlier in this Essay, this may have been the catalyst that turned the partners against this novel, and led to Scott’s interrupting the writing of the later part of the volume. It is against the normal practice of this series to reject a substantial part of the first edition. However, it has been decided on this occasion to return to Scott’s first concept of this passage as set out in the manuscript. The principal reason for this is that the manuscript is the only wholly authorial version of the text, and it is possible, perhaps probable, that the changes at this point were not entered into freely, but were effected as a result of the external pressure of Ballantyne and Cadell. The first edition version may therefore manifest less of what the author wanted than does the manuscript. There is the further bonus of making available an interesting passage of text that would not otherwise appear in the novel. There is no need to examine the particular alterations closely, since they can be seen in detail in the entries in the Emendation List. There it is plain that the transition from one text to the other was effected with great care. Each phrase was transformed into the appropriate one for the new context with scarcely an oversight. The only flaw is at the point where Eveline is made to enter the earthen chamber (equivalent to 203.12 here), when she was told ‘to creep on hands and knees into this narrow aperture’ although her hands had been tied (as they are in the present text at 200.38). Emendations from Octavo, Interleaved Set and Magnum. The present edition has adopted about twenty readings from the octavo edition (1827). These are not likely to have been Scott’s work, but all of them would have been required, even without the existence of the octavo. More than a third of them correct the spelling of ‘fiançailles’, and the others are minor alterations to words (e.g. 68.30, 185.2), tenses (76.39), and punctuation (e.g. 87.6, 235.36, 273.16). Another small group of emendations derives from Scott’s alterations on the Interleaved Set. Several of these were substitutions of words (33.23, 72.39, 154.8) or minor additions (259.27, 269.32), and in a few cases he altered the punctuation. Such changes have been adopted because they constitute essential clarification, as well as being undoubtedly authorial. The special case of the change of name of the priest used between 17.20 and 25.40 is discussed below. Finally five readings found in the Magnum have been adopted, two

  

315

of punctuation (30.8, 185.12), and three that adjust names (4.25, 144.16, 224.24). Editorial Emendations. About twenty local editorial emendations have been adopted; all make similar corrections to those listed above, and thus carry on the authorial process that has been outlined. Some attend to capitalisation (54.43, 105.38, 110.41, 108.27), some correct spellings (7.43, 178.42), some follow Ballantyne in avoiding truly bad repetition (103.2), some attend to minor defects in the presentation of the text (173.25, 191.11), and two sort out errors introduced by intermediaries (123.39, 260.25). Only two could be called substantial: at 160.25 Scott had forgotten that the speaker was an Archbishop, and at 240.31 he had confused ‘creditor’ and ‘debtor’. Proper Names. A much larger set of editorial interventions relates to the spelling of some of the proper names. Several standardisations have been listed in the headnote to the Emendation List, but others need examination and explanation. In particular, the spelling of Welsh names has raised some interesting issues. The first-edition version of several of them misleads the reader about both the form and the sound of what Scott wrote in the manuscript. It should be made clear that Scott himself may not have been fully informed about Welsh spelling conventions, and so some of the confusions may originate with the author. The principal Welsh opponent of the Normans was variously spelled ‘Gwenwyn’ and ‘Guenwyn’ in the manuscript. The name first chosen for this character had been ‘Griffith’ or ‘Griffith Con(n)an’, but once Scott had had the chance to consult his books at Abbotsford (see 281 above), he decided to change it. When he was writing the later part of Chapter 2, from 24.28 and a further 19 times until Chapter 10, it was ‘Guenwyn’ in the main text in the manuscript. However, as part of going back to alter the earlier name on the manuscript and also in proof changes, the form ‘Gwenwyn’ was used about twenty times in alterations to Chapters 1 and 2. This no doubt influenced the printers in the subsequent setting up of text, with the result that the ‘w’ spelling was adopted in the first edition. In fact, Guenwyn is rarely mentioned after his death in Chapter 10, so the revised spelling displaced Scott’s preferred form. Furthermore, as explained below (366), the spelling ‘Gwenwyn’ carries an unacceptable meaning in Welsh, and so it has been decided to adopt the spelling ‘Guenwyn’ in this edition, which has, in any case, the authority of two-fifths of the occurrences in the manuscript. Iorworth (first edition ‘Jorworth’) and Ieuan (‘Jevan’) also misrepresent the forms of the Welsh names. Scott’s sketchy knowledge of Welsh may have played a part, but there is also a generic confusion

316

   

relating to I and J. Scott did not clearly distinguish capital I and capital J in the manuscript. In Jerusalem (134.13) and Jericho (46.23), the J descends below the line, but in Judges (188.36), Judas (188.37) and Judaea (238.3) it does not (and is written indistinguishably from the first person pronoun I). All of these proper names are pronounced in English with the consonantal j before the vowel, and it is not surprising that all were recognised by the copyist and the printer, and thus spelled (correctly) with a J in the first edition. ‘Iorworth’, however, caused the intermediaries a problem. It was unfamiliar to them and spelled with an I (very few examples in the manuscript even venture towards a long J), but Scott did not give them unequivocal instructions. In any case, since in English very few words start with I followed by a vowel, the intermediaries may also have been influenced by the spelling conventions of Latin, where such a combination is common. For instance, ‘Julius’ was regularly so spelled, and sometimes pronounced with the consonantal j, even though it would be more properly ‘Iulius’ and pronounced with the semi-vocalic y as its initial sound. It may well be, therefore, that the intermediaries thought that to use J was appropriate in these Welsh names also. Unfortunately, Scott did not demur from this spelling on the proofs, even though he seems to have got it generally right in the manuscript, so J survived into the first and all subsequent editions. This has no doubt misled readers of the novel into ‘hearing’ consonantal J as the initial sound of the name. In the light of these factors, and of the fact that J is not a letter used in Welsh, it has been decided that this edition should return to a spelling closer to the Welsh one (and sanctioned by Scott’s spelling in the manuscript). Modern Welsh would prefer ‘Iorwerth’ but there did not seem to be sufficient reason to interfere any further in Scott’s spelling, because he usually wrote an ‘o’ in the second syllable. Readers should try to ‘hear’ it with an initial y, and not to ‘hear’ the w at all. The same arguments apply to Ieuan (‘Jevan’), which was also spelled with an I in the manuscript, but with a J in the first edition. Further, Scott’s written u and v are not always readily distinguishable. It may be partly his fault, therefore, that the intermediaries used v between the vowels (as looks better in English), instead of u (which is the correct Welsh). It is possible that differing spelling and pronunciation of Latin u and v between vowels (as in auis/avis, uua/uva) may have influenced the spelling here, too. The I and the u in the spelling adopted here, therefore, should both ‘sound’ as semi-vowels similar to ‘y’. A further piece of evidence that supports the argument can be found in the name of the Dutchman invented by Wilkin as a suitor for Rose’s hand (between 60.28 and 61.23). Scott spells him unequivocally with an I, but the intermediaries used J, presumably in the



317

confident knowledge that that is how a Dutchman should be spelled (and probably pronounced); they knew that he was not an ‘Ian’. However, they applied the same transformation erroneously in the case of Iorworth ap Ieuan. Finally, it has been decided to adopt the spelling of Guenwyn’s father used at 47.22, Cyvelioc, rather than the more ‘gothick’ one, Cyverliock (25.29), that appeared in the first edition. One other name change has been adopted from the Interleaved Set. Early in the novel, Scott had chosen ‘Hugo’ as the name of the priest who deals between the Normans and the Welsh (17.20, 22.38, 24.25, 25.40). However, he had used the same name for the Constable of Chester at 15.43, and unfortunately referred to him again by name at 24.13 in the midst of the references to the priest. Although Constable Hugo continues to be mentioned intermittently, he does not actually appear in the novel (and even then only at a distance) until Chapter 9, nor speak until Chapter 11. By then the priest is long forgotten. In 1824 neither author nor intermediaries seem to have noticed the double use of the name, but in 1831 Scott did see the need for a change of name when he revised the text for the Magnum, and replaced ‘Hugo’ with ‘Einion’ in the Interleaved Set in these four instances, which has been followed here. Conclusion. The text of The Betrothed presented here presents for the first time the novel originally written by Scott. It is not realistic history: it is a moral tale about the costs of the Crusades, and the new text enhances the symbolic representation of a cruelly exploitative society in which Eveline becomes the unprotected victim of a patriarchal system, and Hugo de Lacy is made to pay for fulfilling his vows.   743, f. 147r;   854, ff. 233–34. Saint Ronan’s Well, ed. Mark Weinstein,     16, 373. Saint Ronan’s Well, 361; see also 155–60, 205.  854, ff. 233–34.  21014, f. 3v.  21014, f. 3r. This was determined by Lord Newton in the long arbitration process on the ownership of works in progress following Scott’s insolvency in January 1826: see Woodstock, ed. Tony Inglis with others,     19, 424–26. 8  683, f. 35r. Scott had contracts to write five novels following Kenilworth (  323, f. 204r); in the undated memorandum at   683, f. 35r the number has risen to eight, which covers the seven titles from The Pirate to Tales of the Crusaders, plus the eighth which was not written. 9 However, the contract for the eighth novel which was not written specifies that ‘the author is to receive Three thousand seven hundred and

1 2 3 4 5 6 7

318

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

    fifty pounds for his share of the profits’ ( 21053, ff. 48v–49v; see also Woodstock, ed. Tony Inglis with others,     19, 424). Although this is the only known Scott contract to specify an actual sum of money rather than ‘half the profits’, it is possible that the contract for Tales of the Crusaders followed the new rather than the normal model.  854, f. 226. The Letters of Sir Walter Scott, ed. H. J. C. Grierson and others, 12 vols (London 1832–37), 8.168. Letters, 8.241n. Letters, 8.244. James C. Corson, Notes and Index to Sir Herbert Grierson’s Edition of the Letters of Sir Walter Scott (Oxford, 1979), 232, note to 244b. H. Philip Bolton, Scott Dramatized (London, 1992), 464. Letters, 8.168.  21014, f. 21r.  21014, f. 23v. Letters, 8.290.  21014, f. 25v. Letters, 8.310.  21014, f. 26r. ‘Memoirs’, in Scott on Himself, ed. David Hewitt (Edinburgh, 1981), 26. For a complete list of the romances known to Scott see Jerome Mitchell, Scott, Chaucer, and Medieval Romance (Lexington, Kentucky, 1987), 12–30. Ancient English Metrical Romanceës, ed Joseph Ritson, 3 vols (London, 1802): see [J. G. Cochrane], Catalogue of the Library at Abbotsford (Edinburgh, 1838), 174; henceforward CLA. Specimens of Early English Metrical Romances, ed. George Ellis, 3 vols (London, 1805): CLA, 105. Metrical Romances of the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth Centuries, ed. Henry Weber, 2 vols (Edinburgh, 1810): CLA, 105. Sir J. Froissart’s Chronicles of England, France, and the Adjoining Countries, trans. Thomas Johnes, 5 vols (Hafod,1803–10): CLA, 28. The British History, Translated into English from the Latin of Jeffrey of Monmouth, trans. Aaron Thompson (London, 1718): CLA, 244. Caradoc of Lhancarvan, The History of Wales, trans. [David] Powel, ed. [William] Wynne (London, 1697): CLA, 237. Letters, 8.109. Letters, 8.129. Letters, 8.209–10. See e.g. Letters, 8.238–39, 248–49, 250, 268, etc. Letters, 8.239.  5317, f. 67r. Letters, 8.499. Letters, 8.336. Letters, 8.337n. Letters, 8.339.  21059, f. 158r.

 42 43 44 45

46 47 48 49

50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61

62

319

Letters, 8.348–49.  21014, f. 37v.  743, f. 224r. Letters, 8.405. The letter is dated 20 October; but Grierson shows from internal evidence that 20 September is probable. In the letter Scott talks of ‘25th next Saturday’; 25 September 1824 was a Saturday, but not 25 October. Corson, 225, note to 92c. Letters, 8.93.  743, f. 230r. Proofs of The Betrothed, in the Berg Collection, New York Public Library, bound between 1.320–21. In the letter of 20 September to Ballantyne, Scott mentioned only to reject the possibility of raising money by signing a contract for a new novel: ‘I should at another time have proposed to Mr Cadell to contract for a new affair’ (Letters, 8.405). He adds ‘I think as I am rather behind with my pen I had better ease these affairs by borrowing perhaps for two or three years the sum of £5000 or £6000 as proposed by Hogarth’, and suggests that Ballantyne and Hogarth visit him on Saturday 25 September. (George Hogarth was Ballantyne’s brother-in-law, and was later father-in-law to Charles Dickens.) Hogarth wrote to Scott on Tuesday 5 October agreeing to lend Scott £5000 at 4½% (Letters, 8.406n), and in the letter announcing the completion of the first volume bound between 1.320–21 of the proofs Scott invited Ballantyne and Hogarth to dinner the next day when ‘we will execute the deed’. Thus a letter dated ‘Thursday’ was probably written on 7 October. Corson, 243, note to 467e. Letters, 8.467. Letters, 8.468. Letters, 8.417, n2. Letters, 8.416–17. This comes at 233.30 in the text, with ‘Eveline’ the catch-word.  792, f. 197r; 29 October 1824.  323, ff. 503v–504r. This is probably the 1825 12mo edition which appeared in May 1825. Hurst, Robinson agreed to buy 1000 copies on 29 March.  792, f. 211r.  21014, f. 52r.  323, f. 507r: 17 December 1824. On 24 January Cadell records in his diary: ‘gave Mr Rob [?] instruction to board up the Crusaders’ ( 21015, f. 6v). This cannot mean that the Tales, or any volume of them, were to be bound, as no volume was complete (e.g. the Introduction is dated 1 June 1825), although it is possible that Cadell wanted a few sample copies for trade purposes; it is also possible that the decision of 17 December to pack up the printed leaves of The Betrothed had not been carried out, and he was now attending to this. See the extracts from ‘Captain Hall’s Journal’, in J. G. Lockhart, Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., 7 vols (Edinburgh 1837–38), 5.374–418. See also Lockhart, 6.1–2.

320 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104

    Letters, 8.472–78, and   3900, ff. 19r, 21r. Letters, 8.495.  21015, f. 9v. See note to 6.3.  21015, f. 9v.  320, f. 208v.  320, f. 212v.  320, f. 217v.  323, f. 518v: 22 March 1825.  320, f. 220r.  792, f. 227v.  21015, f. 16v.  323, f. 536r–v.  320, f. 232r.  792, f. 230r.  21015, f. 19v.  320, ff. 234v–235r.  21015, ff. 20r, 21r. Letters, 9.113.  744, f. 11r. In the letter Scott refers to a newspaper report of 2 June 1825 of his son rescuing a woman from a Dublin canal: see Letters, 9.132. Proofs, bound between 2.224–25. ‘Blucher’ was the mail coach that ran from Jedburgh to Edinburgh via Melrose three times a week. Proofs, bound between 2.352–53.  792, f. 239v.  792, f. 240v.  792, f. 241r. Letters, 9.148. Journal, 11: 24 November 1825. See also E. H. Harvey-Wood, ‘Scott’s Foreign Contacts’, in Scott Bicentenary Essays, ed. Alan Bell (Edinburgh, 1973), 251–55. Gillian Dyson, ‘The Manuscripts and Proof Sheets of Scott’s Waverley Novels’, Edinburgh Bibliographical Society Transactions, 4 (1960), 22.  23047. Letters, 8.467: for the date (8 November 1824) see Corson, 243, note to 467e. Dyson, 22. Letters, 8.417, n2.  112, p. 95.  112, p. 109.  112, pp. 186, 198–208.  112, p. 205.  112, p. 207. See William B. Todd and Ann Bowden, Sir Walter Scott: A Bibliographical History 1796–1832 (New Castle, Delaware, 1998), 819–22. Journal, 412. Journal, 412. Todd and Bowden, 822.

 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122

Jane Millgate, Scott’s Last Edition: a Study in Publishing History (Edinburgh, 1987). Letters, 7.353. Letters, 7.354n. Letters, 7.360. Journal, 48. Journal, 62.  112, p. 336. Journal, 634.  15980, f. 35r.  15980, f. 54r. See  23029 and 23030.  23029, p. 81.  23029, p. 80.  23030, p. 90.  21021, ff. 20v, 21v, 21v, 23r.  3918, f. 45v.  3918, f. 63r.  21021, f. 29r.

321

EMENDATION LIST

The base-text for this edition of The Betrothed is a specific copy of the first edition, owned by the Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels. All emendations to this base-text, whether verbal, orthographic, or punctuational, are listed below, with the exception of certain general categories of emendation described in the next paragraph, and of those errors which result from accidents of printing such as a letter dropping out, provided always that evidence for the ‘correct’ reading has been found in at least one other copy of the first edition. The proper names Garde Douloureuse, Margery, and Powis have been standardised throughout on the authority of Scott’s preferred usage as deduced from the manuscript: the forms of the Welsh names Cyvelioc, Guenwyn, Ieuan, and Iorworth have been derived from Scott’s manuscript practice, and standardised (see Essay on the Text, 315–17). Inverted commas are sometimes found in the first edition for displayed verse quotations, sometimes not; the present text has standardised the inconsistent practices of the base-text by eliminating such inverted commas, except when they occur at the beginning or end of direct speech. The typographic presentation of volume and chapter headings, of the opening words of volumes and chapters, of letters quoted in the primary text, has been standardised. Ambiguous endof-line hyphens in the base-text have been interpreted in accordance with the following authorities (in descending order of priority): predominant first-edition usage; octavo Tales and Romances (1827); Magnum; . Each entry in the list below is keyed to the text by page and line number; the reference is followed by the new,  reading, then in brackets the reason for the emendation, and after the slash the base-text reading that has been replaced. Occasionally, some explanation of the editorial thinking behind an emendation is required, and this is provided in a brief note. The great majority of emendations are derived from the manuscript. Most merely involve the replacement of one reading by another, and these are listed with the simple explanation ‘()’. The spelling and punctuation of some emendations from the manuscript have been normalised in accordance with the prevailing conventions of the basetext. And although as far as possible emendations have been fitted into the existing base-text punctuation, at times it has been necessary to provide emendations with a base-text style of punctuation. Where the manuscript reading adopted by the  has required editorial intervention to normalise spelling or punctuation, the exact manuscript reading is given in the form: ‘( actual reading)’. Where the 322

  323 new reading has required editorial interpretation of the manuscript, e.g. when interpreting a homophone, or supplying a missing word, or distinguishing between Scott’s hand and those who marked-up Scott’s manuscript, the explanation is given in the form ‘( derived: actual reading)’. In transcriptions from Scott’s holograph, deletions are enclosed 〈thus〉 and insertions mthuso; superscript letters are lowered without comment. Readings from the proofs are indicated by ‘proofs’ if from the print, and ‘proof correction’ if in Scott’s holograph, while ‘ISet’ indicates a correction or revision in Scott’s holograph in the interleaved copy of the novel. In spite of the care taken by the intermediaries, some local confusions in the manuscript persisted into the first edition. When straightening these, the editors have studied the manuscript context so as to determine Scott’s original intention, but sometimes problems cannot be rectified in this way. In these circumstances, Scott’s own corrections and revisions in the Interleaved Set have more authority than the proposals of other editions, but if the autograph portions of the Interleaved Set have nothing to offer, the reading from the earliest edition to offer a satisfactory solution is adopted as the neatest means of rectifying a fault. The later editions, the Interleaved Set, and the Magnum are indicated by ‘(8vo 1827)’, etc., ‘(ISet)’ or ‘(Magnum)’. Emendations which have not been anticipated by a contemporaneous edition are indicated by ‘(Editorial)’. 4.3 4.25 5.33 7.3 7.43 8.8 9.8 13.10 13.12 14.13 14.15 15.18 15.20 15.37

16.32 16.36

16.39 17.12

question, the Eidolon (ISet) / question, Eidolon Pomaragrains (Magnum) / Pomaragaires narration (proofs) / narrative incorporated if possible by (proof correction) / incorporated by dipped (Editorial) / dipt Scott’s spelling elsewhere in the   is ‘dipd’. Company, of which he is himself a member. Every (ISet Company mof which he is himself a membero. Every) / Company. Every incorporating (proof correction) / Incorporating year —— was (proof correction year [new line] was) / year 1187 was The date ‘1187’ was supplied by someone in post-authorial proofs. along ( ) / on Among ( ) / Amongst Powis-land (  and proofs) / Powys-Land his ( and proofs) / this antiquaries (proof correction Antiquaries) / antiquarians protecting it (  derived: connecting it) / connecting them Scott’s  reading does not make sense; he must have been reading the proofs superficially for he changed ‘it’ to ‘them’ (i.e. the ‘towers and battlements’), which is also a reading which does not make sense. wait a () / wait for a castle (derived from proof correction) / Castle In  Scott wrote ‘Castle of Clune’; in proof he deleted ‘Clune’ and substituted ‘Berenger’. But ‘Castle of Berenger’ is wrong in that it appears to be the name of the castle. knighthood, as equal (  and proofs) / knighthood, equal in (proof correction) / into

324 17.16 17.19 17.20 17.27 18.6 18.12 18.13

18.40 19.19 19.26 20.1

20.3 20.7 20.16 20.16

20.17 20.17 20.21 20.26

20.29 20.35 20.39 20.41 20.43 21.19 21.34 21.36 21.37 21.38 22.16 22.17 22.27

  commenced ( and proofs) / prosecuted life ever () / life, ever Einion (ISet) / Hugo See Essay on the Text, 317. would ( and proofs) / might holy-tide (proof correction) / Holy-tide palace was (  and proofs) / palace, at the period we speak of, was palisade, in . . . situation, were its (  palisade were in . . . situation were its) / palisade were, in . . . situation, its Scott wrote the verb ‘were’, then added another item to the list, and wrote ‘were’ again. The intermediaries chose to retain the wrong ‘were’. hand?” [new paragraph] ( ) / hand?’ [new paragraph] Saxons. Nor ( and proofs) / Saxons; nor amongst () / among with Guenwyn’s dark hair—for (proof derived) / with Gwenwyn’s hair—for The   reads ‘with his dark hair’. In proof Scott deleted ‘dark’ and added ‘Gwenwyn’s’, an addition which shows that it was ‘his’ which should have been cut. For Guenwyn see Essay on the Text, 315. princes of Wales, and () / princes, and chafing them and ( ) / chafing and store ( ) / stores weapons; besides ( derived: weapons for 〈besides〉) / weapons; for The phrase that follows ‘weapons’ is in  properly introduced by ‘besides’; as Scott wrote ‘for 〈besides〉’ it looks as though he deleted the wrong word. sword, another (  sword another) / sword was another Romans, most ( Romans Most) / Romans. Most mischief with. ( ) / mischief. elegant (  and proof derived) / exalted The   reads ‘highest and most elegant’, but the proofs ‘highest and most eminent’. Scott deleted ‘highest and’ presumably because of the repetition with ‘higher’ seven words later, but failed to notice that ‘eminent’ was also repetitious. The intermediaries noticed and substituted ‘exalted’ post proof. This edition returns to the  reading, but accepts Scott’s deletion of ‘highest and’. music. But ( ) / music; but censure imposed upon ( ) / censure upon depressed (  depressd; and proofs) / sunk Druids under ( ) / druids, under over ( ) / with Cadwallon ( and proofs) / the bard under the feigned name of ——, he ( under the feignd name of he) / under a feigned name, he Scott omitted to specify the ‘feigned name’. and all () / and while all resemblance, and the ( ) / resemblance, the admiration for ( ) / admiration of It () / it harp which () / harp, which Ieuan, and ( Ievan and) / Jevan; and For Ieuan see Essay on the Text, 315–16.

  22.28 22.34 22.37 22.38 22.43 23.8 23.12 23.14 23.17 23.33 23.37 23.41 23.43 24.7 24.18 24.18 24.25 25.4 25.12

25.16 25.18 25.24 25.27 25.27 25.28 25.29 25.29 25.40 26.4 26.6 26.7 26.16 26.29 26.31 26.39 27.18 27.22 27.26 28.5 28.15

325

reverence, delivered () / reverence, he delivered Latin—ill (proofs) / Latin. Ill glance. “Where (  glance “Where) / glance. [new paragraph] “Where Einion (ISet) / Hugo See Essay on the Text, 317. Chief’s (  Chiefs) / chief subject. [new paragraph] “And (  subject. “And) / subject.” [new paragraph] “And flowers—What ( ) / flowers? What delayst ( ) / delayest instance () / instant dared”—— ( ) / dared——” A long dash following the speech markers is one of the ways in which in the  Scott indicates interrupted speech. read aloud the () / read the Peace . . . Health. [new paragraph] () / peace . . . health [new paragraph] Berenger to wife, was ( Berenger to wife was) / Berenger, was ourselves and our ( ) / ourselves, and of our Magdalen ( ) / Magdalene witness, to ( witness to) / witness; to Einion (ISet) / Hugo See Essay on the Text, 317. speak. But ( speak But) / speak; but thus flowed the song which burst from the lips of the poet like the living waters from the gushing stream. “We wed not with the stranger. Vortigern (  thus flowd the song which burst from the lips of the poet like the living waters from the gushing stream “We wed not with the stranger. Vortigern) / thus burst the song from the lips of the poet. “Vortigern his ( ) / her has ( ) / hath bosom ( ) / bosoms crosses, but ( ) / crosses it, but its ( ) / his flood—Men ( ) / flood. Men winter—Guenwyn (ISet) / winter Gwenwyn For Guenwyn see Essay on the Text, 315. Cyvelioc, may (  derived: Cyverliock. may) / Cyverliock!—may For Cyvelioc, see Essay on the Text, 317. Einion (ISet) / Hugo See Essay on the Text, 317. amongst () / among occasion ( ) / occasions country, for ( country for) / country,—for missive ( ) / mission so ( ) / to be secret as (  and proofs) / secret, as backwards ( ) / backward on ( ) / in fulling-miln (  and proofs fulling miln) / fulling-mill with ( ) / against Wilkin Flammock. ( ) / Wilkin. murther ( ) / murder

326 28.29 28.34 28.39 29.6 29.12 29.24 29.25 29.37 30.2 30.8 30.13 30.14 30.19 30.35 30.37 30.38 30.40 30.41 30.42 31.2 31.3 31.7 31.9 31.10 31.24 31.34 31.34 31.42 32.12 32.13 32.13 32.14 32.16 32.24 32.26 32.27 32.30 32.33 33.8 33.13 33.23 33.24 33.29

33.29 33.39 34.20 34.23

  rascaille ( ) / rascaille remark (proof correction) / mark said Raymond Berenger () / said Berenger thousands— ( ) / thousands?— be. We ( ) / be—we that ( ) / which which () / that Not so (  and proofs) / It was otherwise with which ( and proofs) / that shame?” (Magnum) / shame!” yonder ( ) / that on ( ) / in forever ( ) / for ever it, and (  it and) / it; and then”—— ( derived: then [end of line] —) / then——” This is interrupted speech for which Scott’s usual sign is a dash after the speech marks. death— ( ) / death?— said Raymond Berenger () / said Berenger vent?” ( ) / vent.” lady—your () / lady, your them—In ( ) / them. In garrison—Then ( and proofs) / garrison. Then pinch? ( ) / pinch! battles?— (  derived: battleso—) / battles!— The additional punctuation here and in the next emendation should be determined by Scott’s initial question mark. shield?— (  derived: shield—) / shield!— the ( and proofs) / that the () / my Eveline”—— ( ) / Eveline——” ready to do my best. But ( ) / ready. But behind, and ( behind and) / behind; and thinkst ( ) / think’st thou?—Thou () / thou? Thou wouldst ( ) / would’st hands.” (  hands”—) / hands?” Thou, Dennis Morolt, thou ( thou Dennis Morolto thou) / Then, Dennis, thou thee in the ( ) / thee the knowst ( ) / knowest composition, no ( ) / composition—no have your ( ) / have put your superintendence () / superintendance station betwixt ( ) / station, betwixt Roschen (ISet) / Rosichen farther ( ) / further proper ( ) / English Scott changed ‘proper’ to ‘English’ in proof, but given that he generally uses ‘English’ in this novel to refer to the pre-Norman inhabitants his correction was a mistake. Butler () / butler Butler () / butler Keller-master ( ) / Kellermaster tasted.—You (proofs) / tasted! You

  34.25 34.29 34.36

34.38 34.39 34.41 35.1 35.6 35.8 35.9 35.15 35.20 35.35 35.36 36.6 36.10 36.16 36.19 36.25 36.30 37.11 37.11 37.16 37.27 37.40 38.36 39.12 39.21 40.18

40.34 40.39

41.10

42.10

327

blood hold ( ) / blood, hold Methought but () / Methought, but get me presently four stout varlets (  get me mpresently four stout varletso) / get the quart-pot of Christian measure Scott’s addition was made on f. 10v of the  , rather than f. 11v, and was missed, but another correction on f. 11v was inserted in the wrong position. now ( ) / here done much ( ) / done me much full quart-pot of Christian measure. Men (  full mquart-pot of Christian measureo. Men) / full quart-pot—men bethink ( be [end of line] think) / I pray remember The proofs read ‘but think’; Scott corrected ‘think’ to ‘I pray remember’, but was, of course, correcting a misreading of the  . list. Only () / list—only there are right ( derived: there a right) / there are a right Here is () / There will be ale—an () / ale, an twenty () / thirty management both of ( ) / management of contemned ( contemnd) / contrived Rymour ( ) / Rymer interval of suspense in ( interval of suspenc in) / interval in said he () / he said purposes—I ( ) / purposes. I Alas! lady,” said (  Alas Lady said) / Alas! my lady,” said is, curves ( is curves) / is situated, curves Berenger with () / Berenger, with cavalry were ( ) / cavalry, were and while the (proof correction) / and the George, they (proof correction: George they) / George! they ‘Saint George’ is a vocative, not an oath. concluded accordingly that (proof correction) / concluded, that minute () / moment The change was made by Scott in proof, but he did not notice the momentum/moment jingle he generated. Deheubarth () / Dehenbarth twentyfold ( twentifold) / twenty-fold standard, and Guenwyn (Editorial) / standard, he and Gwenwyn The phrase ‘having . . . standard he’ was added in proof, but Scott seems to have overlooked the fact that ‘Berenger’ was already in place, and that ‘he’ was superfluous. For Guenwyn see Essay on the Text, 315. him—the ( ) / him; the dead with his mace. () / down with his mace while in the act of rising. Although the addition was Scott’s in proof, he had forgotten the details of his narrative. slain. The . . . complete. [new paragraph] Upon (  derived: slain. N.L. The . . . complete. Upono N.L. Upon the) / slain. [new paragraph] The . . . complete. Upon Because of the long verso insert Scott indicated a new paragraph twice, in different places. The change in subject indicates the intermediaries chose the wrong break. than submit () / than to submit

328 42.16 42.41 43.1 43.1 43.1 43.7 43.12 43.21

43.25 43.32 43.39 43.39 43.40 44.2 44.6 44.10 44.18 44.33 44.40 44.41 44.41 44.42 45.2 45.4 45.10 45.20 45.21 46.3 46.4 46.14 46.17 46.41 47.3 47.15 47.20 47.26 47.27 47.29 47.31 47.33 47.37 47.38 47.39 48.10 48.11 48.18

  speedilie;— [stanza break] The ( and Percy) / speedilie;— [new line] The upon—Warlike ( ) / upon. Warlike ground—Come ( ) / ground.—Come maidens—there ( ) / maidens, there look upon () / see The repetition reads as though it were deliberately rhetorical. refrain ( ) / restrain mighty—To the chapel, to ( mighty—To the chapel to) / mighty. To the chapel—to Among the mourners who imitated their lady’s devotional posture and shared in the distractions of her thoughts, the (  derived: Among the mourners who imitated their ladys devotional posture and shard in the distractions of her thoughts. The) / The rest of the mourners imitated their young lady in her devotional posture, and in the absence of her thoughts. The cruelties too (proof correction) / cruelties which were too enquiry ( ) / inquiring overdo () / exceed knowst ( ) / knowest yet () / but were I (  and proofs) / indeed, if I were cared for.” (  and proofs) / cared for?” holped (  holpd) / helped his () / the shoot if ( ) / shoot him if any—if ( ) / any; if noise—And ( ) / noise. And one or two ( ) / four or five mail—our ( ) / mail; our ye ( ) / you amongst () / among and those of ( ) / and of gibes ( ) / jibes think Flemings ( ) / think that Flemings be (  and proofs) / are thy Flemish ( ) / the Flemish doest ( ) / dost man—and ( ) / man, and bystanders, and so speaking, left (  bystanders and so speaking left) / bystanders; and so speaking, he left two or three ( ) / half-a-dozen the () / their bore () / bare thou, a ( thou a) / thou!—a impossible—low ( ) / impossible. Low these () / These Schelm () / schelm attended. “Are () / attended; “are mechanic—Or ( mechanic—m—Or) / mechanic. Or well . . . woe ( ) / Well . . . Woe Answer ( ) / answer will to () / will, to how if () / how, if Saxons! () / Saxons.

  48.21 48.23 48.30 48.43 49.1 49.3 49.4 49.7

49.12 49.13 49.17 49.18 49.20 49.22 49.26 49.43 50.3 50.9 50.12 50.13 50.16 50.27 50.36 51.7 51.21 51.28 52.11 52.11 53.34 53.42 54.43 54.43

55.8 55.9 55.10 55.11 55.30 56.1 56.9 56.13

329

safety which ( and proofs) / safety, which arblast—we ( ) / arblast. We knowst ( ) / knowest Crag (proof correction) / Craig thyself not () / not thyself effort ( ) / efforts mayst ( ) / mayest portcullis——” ( ) / portcullis, bring such vantage to Fleming as they may to thee, if thou wilt.” James Ballantyne indicated to Scott that the sentence was incomplete, but seems not to have recognised that a deliberately incomplete sentence may in some circumstances be eloquent. burned (  burnd) / burnt earth.” () / earth——” forayed and twenty . . . off.” () / forayed, twenty . . . off, and——” answered ( answerd) / interrupted Eveline,” said ( Eveline” said) / Eveline”—said and”—— ( ) / and—” The usual sign for interrupted speech has a long dash following speech marks. Cymry—for () / Cymry. For rood of ”—— (Editorial) / of——” redeeming—some ( ) / redeeming. Some what ( ) / What the () / thy thinkst ( ) / thinkest waters ( ) / water “Lo you, there now!” (  “Lo you there now!” and proofs) / “I may not gainsay that,” cumber () / trouble fitly disposed ( ) / fully dispersed thy ( ) / the so-seeming (  mso seemingo) / seeming sometimes ( ) / something humane () / human this flattering hope might insinuate, (proof correction) / (this flattering hope might insinuate,) adoration eyes ( ) / adoration, eyes haste. “Daughter (  and proofs) / haste, “Daughter betrayed!” And (Editorial) / betrayed!” and In the proofs there is a comma after ‘betrayed’; although an exclamation mark is often followed by a word beginning with a lower-case letter, the punctuational logic of this context demands a capital letter for ‘and’. donned (  derived: donnd) / donn’d The intermediaries ought to have used the standard print version of the word when expanding the manuscript form. daughter, we ( daughter we) / daughter—we within—the ( ) / within! The rendition ( ) / surrender passion—the ( ) / passion; the my father ( ) / Wilkin Flammock parent—fear ( ) / parent. Fear reverent (  and proofs) / reverend The change was made by James Ballantyne.

330 56.16 56.18 56.20 56.23 56.25 56.26 56.31 56.39 57.4 57.7 57.11 57.17 57.18 57.28 57.35 57.36 57.42 58.1 58.5 58.7 58.11 58.24 58.25 58.27 58.30 58.31 58.42 59.2 59.14 59.36 59.37 59.39 60.2 60.3 60.5 60.43 61.1 61.4 61.6

61.14 61.26

  with ( and proofs) / after The change was made by James Ballantyne. Wilkin, and ( Wilkin and) / Wilkin; and tower or keep, which (  tower or Keep which) / tower; a keep which hands of an () / hand of the extremity, but ( extremity but) / extremity; but ill ( ) / evil shall ( ) / should House ( ) / house forwards ( ) / forward upwards toward ( ) / upward towards gives this ( ) / grieves thee treason who ( ) / treason, who them (proof correction) / those mummer—the (proof correction) / mummer! The The printed proof has ‘the’; Scott’s proof addition (‘indignant Rose “strike the disguised mummer—’) ends in a dash. dropped ( dropd) / dropt that ( ) / which this—What—on () / this. What! on murtherers (proof correction) / murderers further ( ) / farther “Yes!—yes—yes—” () / “Yes—yes—yes!” forwards ( ) / forward in doubting for a moment (  derived: in 〈believing〉 mdoubt for ao for a moment) / for a moment to doubt lady—he ( ) / lady; he worse—for () / worse! for monk, “who (  monk “who) / monk—“Who lady—bows () / lady—Bows honest”—— (proof correction) / honest——” The normal indication of interrupted speech involves a long dash following the inverted commas. eagerly kissing ( ) / eagerly interrupting her, and kissing devotion—the ( ) / devotion; the cattle. And ( and proof correction) / cattle; and In the  and printed proof the phrase reads ‘cattle. But’; James Ballantyne changed this to ‘cattle. And’. empty. ( ) / empty! butcher ( ) / butchers provender! who ( ) / provender!—who de ( ) / De score.—But ( ) / score; but poverty—the ( ) / poverty. The substance, and (  derived) / substance; and The   reads ‘substance saving [end of line] and’. Scott deleted ‘saving’ in proof. thy forfeit () / the forfeit said ( ) / answered Although the change was made by Scott in proof he seems to have made it mechanically: ‘said’ is correct, for what is said does not contradict what precedes. feared—we ( and proofs) / feared! We but ( ) / But

  61.32

61.37

61.39 61.42 61.43 62.16 62.16 62.32 62.33 62.42 63.5 63.26 63.35 63.39 63.40 63.41 64.25 64.26 64.30 65.39 66.15 66.35 66.37 66.38 66.43 66.43 67.15 67.16 67.17 67.30 68.7 68.7 68.9

68.10 68.30 68.32 68.42 69.3 69.4 69.5 69.5 69.7 69.8 69.17

331

lord”—— ( derived) / lord——” In the  the normal indication of interrupted speech involves speech marks followed by a long dash. Their relative positioning in the   is ambiguous in this instance. now——” continued the Fleming. (  derived: now” continued the Fleming——”) / now,” continued the Fleming. Scott’s indication of incomplete speech comes after ‘continued the Fleming’, but clearly ought to come at the end of the speech. knowst ( ) / knowest Fleming—the ( ) / Fleming, the rubric (  rubrick) / Rubric Prithee () / Pr’ythee straightway () / straight way amongst ( and proofs) / among villain?—doest ( ) / villain! Dost answers ( ) / answer tricksters () / traitors run-aways—perhaps () / run-aways. Perhaps Aldrovand. “We (  Aldrovand “We) / Aldrovand; “and we Eveline—she ( ) / Eveline—She battlements. She () / battlements—She of, and (  of and) / of; and her, and ( her and) / her; and forwards (  and proofs) / forward command, now . . . protection, now (  command now . . . protection now) / command—now . . . protection—now habit and sentiment ( ) / habits and sentiments little () / youthful glanced ( glancd) / gleamed treachery.” ( ) / treachery?” reproach, and (  reproach and) / reproach; and upon ( ) / on Rose, for (  Rose for) / Rose; for purpose—yonder () / purpose—Yonder mantles—would ( ) / mantles. Would nature, a ( nature a) / nature—a Ye ( ) / ye dispersing ( ) / dispersed taking ( ) / took shelter, then began ( derived) / shelter; and then began Scott’s intended construction is clear from both the grammar (see the two preceding emendations) and the sense, and to effect that intention the intermediaries ought to have deleted this intrusive ‘and’. loopholes ( and Magnum) / loop-holes which (8vo) / who numbers, their boldness and the multiplicity ( ) / numbers, and the boldness and multiplicity thinkst ( ) / thinkest help the () / help thee the names—but () / names. But labour—there ( ) / labour; there there be () / there can be nor in seeing (  derived: nor seeing) / nor see I thus—or () / thus, or knowst ( ) / knowest

332 69.20 69.27

69.29 69.30 69.31 69.41 70.4 70.22 70.25 70.34 70.35 70.37 70.41 70.42 71.2 71.4 71.16 71.23 71.29 71.39 72.30 72.32 72.34

72.39 73.7 73.26 74.21 74.31 74.32 74.35 74.35 74.41 75.13 75.14 75.14 75.20 75.22 75.26 75.35 76.39 77.8 77.9 77.23 77.24 77.27

  thinkst ( ) / think’st sunset, alarming (  sunset alarming) / sunset; for alarming This and the next two emendations were instigated by James Ballantyne who marked the passage ‘Incorrect, I think’; Scott revised the sentence, but nothing was wrong except for the omission of ‘that’. besides two ( ) / besides making two points that left (  derived: points left) / points, they left temerity, for (proofs) / temerity; for siege, and (proofs) / siege; and pale () / paler spuckt (ISet) / spuct enemy, but ( enemy but) / enemy; but monk (8vo) / Monk armed?—and (  and proofs armd—and) / armed? and he be (Editorial) / he not be Voorst ( ) / Vorst his () / this hard and bled much through () / hard through taste ( ) / take look ye, and see (proofs and proof correction: look ye, mand seeo) / look ye, varlet, and see lady?—my ( lady—my; proofs lady?—My) / lady? My could.” [new paragraph] “Thanks ( could. — “Thanks) / could. [new paragraph] “Thanks alone, good father ( ) / alone, father note ( ) / notes it was () / they were sound (proofs) / sounds James Ballantyne made the word plural in the proofs; although the occasional step and the hooting of owls comes to more than one sound the change was pedantic, and led to the more awkward ‘sounds . . . was’. mind (ISet) / bosom Rose—their (  and proofs) / Rose; their memory—But this ( ) / memory. But, this poplar, Rose (  poplar Rose; proof correction poplar, Rose) / poplar,—Rose what ( ) / What you ( ) / You but ( ) / But hark—I hear ( ) / hark!—I hear awake ( ) / Awake Saint ( ) / St ever— (proofs) / ever!— it is the tramp ( ) / It is the tramp We ( ) / we was () / Was We ( ) / we a different (  and proofs) / a very different was (8vo) / were currents. Others ( currents—Others) / currents; others fords. Many ( ) / fords; many ha, Saint Dennis () / Ha, Saint Dennis strike ( ) / Strike sheaves ( ) / sheafs

  77.32 77.39 77.42 78.12 78.14 78.24 78.43 79.22

79.31 79.33 79.37 79.38 79.41 79.42 80.1

80.25 80.32 80.37 81.6 81.13 81.15 81.16 81.23 81.23 81.36 82.3 82.4 82.13 82.16 82.23 83.13 83.25 83.29 83.33 84.17 84.19 84.25 85.4 85.9 85.13 85.21 85.21 85.26

333

this ( ) / that lead () / led driven ( ) / drawn any . . . who far (  and proofs) / such . . . as, far fight ( ) / flight morning (Editorial) / evening This mistake persists in all editions. saying (  and proofs) / crying an old huntsman ( derived: the old huntsman) / a menial The change to ‘a menial’ was made by Scott in proof, but he did not remember that ‘the old huntsman’ reappears at 80.1 as a character already introduced. However, his change of ‘the’ to ‘a’ is correct, as the huntsman has not previously appeared. Butterfirken?—you ( Butterfirken—You) / Butterfirken? You weaver!—and (  weaver—and) / weaver! And men ( Men) / they prithee () / pr’ythee is ( ) / Is let () / Let housewife, home (  housewife home) / housewife—home The   reads: ‘ “Home housewife home” ’. Ed1 reads: ‘“Home, housewife—home” ’. Given the absence of punctuation in the   there is no reason to use differing internal marks of punctuation. attendants, of whom ( attendants of whom) / attendants; of whom as for the first time she ( and proofs) / as she as limits ( ) / as our limits embarks ( ) / embark fallen,” said ( fallen” said) / fallen?” said blood, “the (  blood “the) / blood,—“The more.” (  more”—) / more!” sir—my (  and proofs) / sir. My remains?——” ( ) / remains—” brave——” () / brave.” victory, everywhere (  victory everywhere) / victory everywhere triumph, had (  triumph had) / triumph, and had The intermediaries misunderstood the grammatical structure, mispunctuated, and added an unnecessary word. captors, and (  captors &) / captors; and ransom, whilst ( ) / ransom; whilst march, and ( march and) / march; and as supporters of ( derived: as 〈mourners beside〉 mand supporters ofo) / as mourners and supporters of In  Scott deleted ‘mourners’, but failed to delete ‘and’. various ( ) / varied rose—Father ( ) / rose—and Father her household () / the household gain. Can (  gain Can) / gain—can Stranger. You () / Stranger—you East ( ) / east secrecy—then ( ) / secrecy; then I heard ( ) / I have heard dame—and () / dame, and lost—and ( ) / lost!—And account ( and proofs) / ac [end of line] count are sorry ( ) / are so sorry

334 85.29 85.30 85.32 86.5 86.12 86.25 86.28 87.6 87.18 87.19 88.38 89.1 89.32 89.39 89.40 90.6 90.10 90.30 90.33 90.34 91.19 92.4 92.26 92.35 93.7 93.25 93.31 93.43 93.43 94.9 94.12 94.15 94.16 94.37 95.9 96.14 96.36 97.3 97.13 97.14 97.28 97.33 97.37 97.39 97.40 98.3 98.4 98.5 98.9 98.10 98.12 98.13 98.17 98.20

  it ( ) / It Lacys (proof correction) / Lacy’s chargers—the () / chargers. The beside. But ( ) / beside.—But but . . . well-a-day ( ) / But . . . Well-a-day if any of our () / if our Normans—but () / Normans;—but another; otherwise (8vo) / another, otherwise deceased. But (proof correction) / deceased; but vigil, discipline, and (proofs) / vigil discipline and this (  and proofs) / a at arms () / in arms vanity. But () / vanity; but her father () / a father fate—if ( ) / fate, if was () / were interview (  and proofs) / meeting gorgeous (8vo) / celebrated Albemarle. But ( ) / Albemarle; but De ( ) / de unexperienced ( ) / inexperienced ornament ( ) / ornaments the hand () / her hand thoughts—I ( ) / thoughts; I deserves. But () / deserves; but speak, for (  speak for) / speak; for arms—Yet (proof correction) / arms; yet ear—but ( ) / ear; but Hugh Lacy ( ) / Hugh de Lacy and () / And heart—this ( ) / heart. This princess—his ( ) / princess; his dowry ( ) / dowery expedition and ( ) / expedition; and lady. “Pretty () / lady:—“Pretty demands—yet ( ) / demands; yet lord (may . . . him) the ( ) / lord—(may . . . him!)—the prayer—go () / prayer. Go Yet methinks () / Yet, methinks others may ( ) / others, may sorrow—unhappy () / sorrow. Unhappy unhappy—O () / unhappy. O murmured ( murmurd) / muttered let () / Let stay—the ( ) / stay, the part in delaying () / part, in delaying part to press ( ) / part, to press part to marry ( ) / part, to marry the little maiden’s (  the little maidens and proofs) / her youthful attendant’s for it? ( ) / for it! not—I follow ( ) / not. I follow not—I could (  and proofs) / not. I could forsooth () / Forsooth pure and unmixed () / pure unmixed

  98.21 98.21 98.41 99.2 99.3 99.3 99.7 99.10 99.16 99.29 99.30 99.39 100.13 100.26 100.32 101.2 101.5 101.14 101.16 101.20 101.21 101.21 101.38

102.30 102.32 102.39 102.43 103.2

103.31 104.2 104.2 104.9 104.10 104.10 104.14 105.8 105.15 105.28 105.35 105.38 105.38

335

Norman, and ( derived: Norman 〈—and his other kinsman〉 and) / Norman; and this Eveline ( ) / this, Lady Eveline curtsy ( ) / curtsey fire—thy (  and proofs) / fire. Thy her, for (  her for) / her; for father—nay—nay—never ( and proofs) / father—nay, nay, never will—but ( ) / will; but value—sound () / value. Sound That Gillian woman hath ( ) / That Gillian, the tire-woman, hath Although Scott adds ‘the tire-’ on the proof sheet, he seems not to have noticed the immediate repetition generated by the expansion. truly—but () / truly; but maiden—and () / maiden; and of her youth (  and proofs) / of youth tower and battlement ( ) / towers and battlements followed next () / followed, mixed household, the (  household the) / household; the these () / those her () / the his () / the Wilkin, but ( Wilkin but) / Wilkin; but Roschen—thou (  and proofs) / Roschen! Thou make ( ) / made home—the (  and proofs) / home. The when the (Editorial) / when as the It appears that Scott has started the clause twice. As an ‘as if ’ clause follows, and as the next sentence begins with ‘As’, ‘when’ has been preferred here. samite ( ) / sarsnet around ( ) / round in that hour ( ) / at that time at a distance ( ) / in the background laughter announced (Editorial) / laughter at a distance announced In the  the word ‘distance’ appears four times within one sentence. The intermediaries disposed of two of the four, but made laughter ‘at a distance’ suggest that the guard was ‘in their vicinity’. A simple deletion improves the sense, and permits the restoration of the  reading in the emendation above. pleased, for (proofs) / pleased; for himself still remained () / himself remained instructive, but (  instructive but) / instructive; but one not ( ) / one who is not society as ( ) / society, as it might be capable () / it capable proposed ( and proofs) / purposed attendance—you ( ) / attendance;—you In the proofs Scott indicated that a dash should be inserted. De ( ) / de night. Yet () / night; yet opportunity. In (ISet) / opportunity; and in castle ( ) / Castle Sir William (Editorial) / Amelot ‘Amelot Herbert’ would appear to be a personal name, not a place name, but the Constable’s host is later called ‘Sir William Herbert’

336 106.8 106.11 106.22 106.37 107.2 107.7 107.13 107.16 107.20 107.22 107.25 107.34 107.34 107.38 107.39 107.40 108.24 108.26 108.27 108.27 108.32 109.15 109.21 109.26 109.38 109.39 109.41 110.18 110.22 110.41 111.1 111.4 111.8 111.14 111.15 111.21 111.22 111.23 111.23 111.26 111.40 111.41 112.16 112.20 112.36 112.42

  (131.32–33). As there is another character called ‘Amelot’, the name ‘Sir William’ has been preferred. around, and (  around and) / around; and such a sight (proof correction) / such a scene of rural quiet buffalo’s (8vo) / buffaloe’s walls thick ( ) / walls, thick saint () / Saint platform or dais at the upper end, at which ( platform or dais at the upper end 〈by〉 mato which) / platform, or dais, at the upper end of which silence, a gesture (proofs) / silence; a gesture gratified, for (  gratified for) / gratified; for eye ( ) / eyes leaves. Her () / leaves; her ransom. Her ( ) / ransom; her House ( ) / house its (Editorial) / their foot ( ) / feet Freya, so (  Freya so) / Freya; so paganism ( ) / Paganism England. And ( ) / England! and wot—and ( ) / wot; and a-mumming (Editorial) / a mumming Doest (  and proofs) / dost condition—For () / condition. For authority—they (  and proofs) / authority. They flutterer—but () / flutterer! But age. And () / age.—And nearer () / near not. And ( and proofs) / not.—And strongest—let (  and proofs) / strongest. Let attendance. But ( ) / attendance; but point ( ) / points House (Editorial) / house Eveline—and ( ) / Eveline; and thinkst ( ) / thinkest lodging—do () / lodging. Do me—it ( ) / me. It tried—but ( ) / tried; but consider ( ) / regard having reason (Editorial) / having considerable reason her family () / the family times. (  and proofs) / times, in which Eveline herself was devout. Thin ( ) / Then The reading in Dryden is also ‘Thin’. amusements ( ) / amusement grim (proof correction) / grave tressells ( ) / tresses divided into (  derived: dividing into) / dividing it into an old glee-man Gerdic sung ( an old glee mano An old glee man Gerdic sung) / and old glee-man sung and so used words (  and msoo use〈d〉 words) / and used words The proof reads: ‘and to use words’; Scott deleted the ‘to’, and added a terminal ‘d’ to the ‘use’, but the   is preferred as he was correcting a misreading.

  114.4 114.6 114.12 114.13 114.19 114.36 114.37 115.1 115.3 115.3 115.5 115.9 115.22 115.24 115.40 116.2 116.37

117.11 117.21 117.23 117.34

117.35 118.5 118.24 119.18 119.31 119.31 119.32 120.32 121.6 121.7 121.34 121.36 122.3 122.7 123.1 123.1 123.33 123.39

337

grandmother—and ( mother—and) / grandmother; and house?—lo (  house—olo) / house? Lo knowst ( ) / knowest again—farewell ( ) / again. Farewell flared () / glared wardrope ( ) / wardrobe wardrope ( ) / wardrobe you—if ( you—if) / you? If service. You ( and proofs) / service.—You aspen—do (  and proofs) / aspen! Do preparation—bid () / preparation; bid must (  and proofs) / must on—there ( ) / on. There victim—better ( ) / victim,—better apartment ( ) / aparment devotion. But () / devotion; but entered. The ( derived) / entered. From the level plain beyond, the In   Scott wrote: ‘enterd. Of [overwritten to become on] the level plain beyond 〈a short〉 the space . . .’. Having deleted ‘〈a short〉’ he seems to have begun the sentence again. wrapped ( wrapd) / wrapt crossed (  crossd) / folded In   ‘crossd’ was altered, and appears as ‘clasped’ in the proof, a reading which Scott changed to ‘folded’. consciousness that ( ) / consciousness, that it, with (  derived: it so as with) / it so as, with The   repeats ‘so as’ (see next emendation), but, as ‘with the assistance . . . apartment’ is clearly an amplification of his idea, the intermediaries would have been better to delete the first rather than the second ‘so as’. apartment, so as to ( apartment so as to) / apartment, to blood. ( ) / blood? locked fast, both ( derived: lockd—fast both) / secured with both senses ( ) / sense time—go () / time. Go begone—yet ( and proofs) / begone!—yet need—begone () / need. Begone go call (  and proof correction) / go and call urge ( ) / Urge To-morrow ( Tomorrow) / to-morrow franklin’s (  franklins) / Franklin’s in ( ) / on agitation. Rose ( ) / agitation. [new paragraph] Rose I was ( and proofs) / was I pagans ( ) / Pagans Christianity (proofs) / christianity Although this is the only instance of ‘Christianity’ in the novel, ‘Christian’ and ‘Christendom’ always have an initial capital in Ed1. suppressing () / repressing apartment (Editorial) / chamber A word was omitted in the  , and the intermediaries supplied ‘chamber’, thus creating a repetition, which Scott resolved by substituting ‘apartment’ for the second ‘chamber’—but he would not have

338 123.41 124.3 124.4 124.20 124.22 124.24 124.35 124.40 124.43 125.1 125.2 125.9 125.26 126.8 126.34 126.37

127.6 127.13 127.26 128.2

128.7 128.17 128.24 128.25 128.25 128.38 129.7 129.17

129.27 129.28 130.4 130.18 130.22 130.23 130.39 131.9 131.12 131.13 131.19 131.22 131.43

  made this substitution had the intermediaries not made their mistake first. chamber ( ) / apartment said the Lady Ermengarde ( ) / said Ermengarde at Eveline () / at the Lady Eveline I, with () / I will, with trust,” (proofs) / trust?” disgrace.” (  and proofs) / disgrace?” extreme age ( ) / extreme old age and an offended ( ) / and offended fathers ( ) / forefathers her—She (  and proofs) / her! She age—She (  and proofs) / age! She forest, old (proofs) / forest; old horseman, while ( horseman while) / horseman; while of the battle ( ) / of battle speakst ( ) / speakest bridle-rein, must form the fittest time ( and proof correction) / bridle-rein, I ought to feel this a fitting time The printed proof reads: ‘bridle-rein is the fitting time’. The proof correction reads: ‘bridle-rein 〈is〉 mmust formo the fitting time’ from such ( ) / from some such subjected ( ) / subject doing (  and proofs) / putting Yet the blessed saint, in requital of Baldrick’s crime, imposed (  Yet the blessed Saint in requital mof Baldricks crimeo imposed) / Yea, the blessed saint, when he had succeeded in his exorcism, did, in requital of Baldrick’s crime, impose murtherers (  derived: murthers) / murderer house ( ) / House house ( ) / House son, and (  son and) / son on the one part, and family, who laid ( family who laid) / family on the other. They laid affectionate (  and proofs) / cruel-hearted murtherer ( ) / murderer maiden () / matron The change to ‘matron’ was made in proof by someone other than Scott; even though Vanda was married her probable age justifies ‘maiden’ rather than ‘matron’. it had deprived ( ) / it deprived noise and () / noise—and into (  and proofs) / to features, had ( ) / features, even had thy ( ) / thine phantasy has had ( ) / phantasy had place, discipline (8vo) / place discipline besides ( ) / Besides this next () / the next gone, Maiden, thou ( gone Maiden thou) / gone,—Maiden, thou There is no punctuation in the , which indicates that ‘now he is gone’ is a subordinate rather than a principal clause. doest (  and proofs) / dost betray’d. (  betrayer.) / betray’d? that the Constable’s countenance, though deficient in grace and

 

132.13 132.23 132.31

133.40 134.9 134.14 134.31

135.10 135.19 135.38 136.1 136.2 136.2 136.7 137.7 137.17 137.17 137.28 138.12 139.6 139.24 141.11 141.21

142.11 142.18 142.23 142.30 142.34 142.42 143.24 143.41 143.43 144.7 144.7 144.16 144.16 144.18 145.14 145.16 145.24

339

beauty, was (proofs) / that, though always deficient in grace and beauty, the Constable’s countenance was The printed proofs follow the  ; James Ballantyne inserted ‘always’ as a proof correction; the word order was changed post-proof. in ( ) / on her own reach (proof correction) / her reach aversion ( ) / dislike Although a proof-correction substitutes ‘dislike’ for ‘aversion’, it is neither Scott’s nor Ballantyne’s, and probably will not have been seen by Scott. youth and beauty (  and proofs) / youth, rank, and beauty at a proposal which she never permitted to (  and proofs) / at the proposal, and never permitted it to at () / to expedition and to surrender (proof correction) / expedition, to surrender Scott indicated that ‘to’ should be inserted, but while doing so the intermediaries removed ‘and’ (which is required in the context). Church (proof correction) / church with ( and proofs) / in The nephew () / His nephew fiançailles (8vo) / fiançialles marriage, for (Editorial) / marriage for less according (proof correction) / less, according suffering under it—and () / suffering—and House—and ( ) / house; and this ( ) / his retire. But ( ) / retire; but condition—and ( ) / condition; and family ( ) / house fiançailles (8vo) / fianciailles fiançailles (8vo) / fianciailles fiançailles (8vo) / fianciailles flowers, now ( flowers to) / flowers—now In the   Scott does not punctuate the passage at all, but the same system of punctuation should be followed throughout. The ‘now’ was inserted by Scott in proof. upon ( ) / on admitting within . . . the few only who (8vo) / admitting only within . . . the few who kind, and ( kind and) / kind; and eagerly ( ) / equally cloudy, had (8vo) / cloudy’ had unison ( ) / union slight () / small has ( ) / hast wouldst ( ) / would’st told ( ) / tell thy . . . thy ( ) / the . . . the Raoul (18mo) / Hubert withal. Yet ( ) / withal—yet de ( ) / De him, and (proofs) / him; and muttered ( mutterd) / mutrered Damian, for (  Damian for) / Damian; for

340 145.32 146.12 146.13 146.14 146.15 146.37 146.40 147.14 147.41 147.42 148.5 148.16 148.18 148.19 148.38 148.39 149.16 150.16

150.43 151.35 152.1 152.11 152.26 153.2 153.5 153.12 154.8 154.26

154.38 155.22 155.37 155.42 156.2 156.4 156.5 156.14 156.37 156.43 157.15 157.15 157.20 157.32 158.9 158.11 158.12 158.22

  the animal (ISet) / he words—they ( and proofs) / words! they interpreters—there ( ) / interpreters. There by () / from blood-shot—for ( ) / blood-shot; for Medicine () / medicine this unnecessary prate () / this prate coacta, which (proofs) / coacta; which mistimed—this ( and proofs) / mistimed. This becomes ( ) / become exclaimed, “Well (  exclaimd “Well) / exclaimed, [new paragraph] “Well not one of you understands ( ) / none of you understand brabbles (  and proofs) / babbles the hint () / this hint augury—for ( ) / augury. For lord!—he ( ) / lord! He recover, and (  recover and) / recover; and a legate () / a legate In the proofs James Ballantyne wrote ‘these words should be italic’, without indicating which. Latin is normally italicised, but the complete phrase ‘a legate a latere’ appeared in italic in Ed1. how () / that de ( ) / De affections. Yet ( ) / affections—Yet sickness. The ( derived: sickness—The) / sickness; the ever ( ) / even this ( ) / that presence, and ( presence and) / presence; and impulses ( ) / impulse costly (8vo) / rich Adopting this change disposes of an obtrusive repetition. stopped (8vo) / stopt The word was inserted as a sensible post-proof change, but Scott’s standard spelling in  is ‘stopd’, which in print is expanded to ‘stopped’. Hugh ( ) / Hugo manner, for (  manner for) / manner; for doest ( ) / dost past—marry ( passd—marry) / past. Marry altar—there ( ) / altar. There weapon—it ( ) / weapon; it father—be ( ) / father, be liberation—but () / liberation,—but amazement, and ( amazement and) / amazement; and spark, and (  spark and) / spark; and shoulders—but () / shoulders; but limit ( ) / limits murthered ( murtherd) / murdered I have never meant (8vo) / I have never purposed The reading of the  and Ed1 involves a very obtrusive repetition. engagement ( ) / engagements order—meanwhile ( ) / order. Meanwhile nephew”—— () / nephew——” brother—may () / brother.—May

  158.23 158.29 158.30 158.36 159.4 159.12 159.13 159.14 159.26 159.41 159.42 159.42 160.8 160.21 160.25 160.27 160.28 160.33 161.2 161.13 161.14 162.3 162.5 162.9 162.22 163.2 163.13 163.13 163.16 163.16 163.17 163.30 163.33 163.41 164.4 164.21 164.25 164.26 164.27 164.31 164.33 164.35 164.39 165.11 165.22

other. My (proofs) / other.—My deal. “Far (  and proofs) / deal,—“Far Heaven. But () / Heaven! but found it () / found that it mayst ( ) / may’st Archbishop, which ( ArchBishop which) / Archbishop; which purposed ( ) / proposed his return ( ) / he was returned recovery, or ( recovery or) / recovery; or Archbishop, “my (  ArchBishop “my) / Archbishop—“my tidings. Never () / tidings.—Never penitence—such () / penitence,—such us ( ) / we Scarce ( ) / Scarcely Archbishop (Editorial) / Bishop servants—but (  and proofs) / servants! But prayer and (  petition 〈of a〉 and) / prayer—and The dash is in fact the deletion of ‘of a’; ‘prayer’ was substituted for ‘petition’ because ‘petition’ is repeated at 160.29. heard—for () / heard. For ha? ( ) / ha! sane (proof addition derived: same) / tame Scott added the motto in proof. amid (proof correction) / among Heaven’s (  Heavens) / heaven’s me. [new paragraph] (8vo) / me.” [new paragraph] rote ( ) / rote foeman’s (8vo) / foemen’s There is no  version of this poem, but as all other nouns are in the singular the 8vo’s emendation is justified. appointment?” ( ) / appointment!” profession, for (  profession for) / profession; for the prosecution () / his profession Although Scott substituted ‘profession’ for ‘prosecution’ in the proofs, he generated a close repetition in doing so. habit, for (proofs) / habit; for were ( ) / was sternness, with an eye which (  sternness with an eye which) / sternness, which intentions were, at least, good () / intentions, at least, were good me—be ( and proofs) / me. Be gave ( ) / hath given doest ( ) / dost Morbihan, and (  Morbihan and) / Morbihan; and Master of my Household ( ) / master of my household according ( ) / acccording Doest ( ) / Dost lay ( ) / sat Scott changed ‘lay’ to ‘sate’ in proof, but subsequently deleted the passage which led to this alteration. Lo ( ) / La others ( ) / other swords ( ) / sword the Constable’s having complied (ISet) / his complying cause, for (  cause for) / cause; for

341

342

 

165.33 exerted to (proof correction) / exerted it to 165.42 material () / important The intermediaries misread ‘material’ as ‘manner’, but Scott reinstated ‘material’ in proof. Post proof they changed ‘material’ to ‘important’ to get rid of the repetition generated by Scott’s proof correction below. 165.42 fiançailles (8vo) / fianciailles 166.4 thus innovated ( ) / thus materially innovated Scott’s proof correction generated repetition. 166.19 irreverend () / irreverent 166.28 presently setting (  and proofs) / about to set James Ballantyne objected to the phrase ‘presently setting’ because he thought it was a Scoticism. Scott ignored his objection, but the substitution was made regardless. 166.30 earnest, and it were no fit business—I myself no fit person—for jesting with, methinks (proofs and proof correction) / earnest,—and it were no fit business—I myself no fit person—for jesting with,— methinks 166.31 Constable’s religious resolution () / Constable’s resolution 166.33 fiançailles (8vo) / fianciailles 166.41 operations () / operation 167.11 ask (proof correction) / demand 167.24 will ( ) / shall 167.41 Prelate—it (proof correction prelate—it) / Prelate,—it 168.13 enticed—but ( ) / enticed.—But 168.16 fiançailles (8vo) / fianciailles 168.23 tears. Yet () / tears; yet 168.43 not free (  and proofs) / nor free 169.42 who doubted ( ) / who has doubted 171.8 let () / Let 171.8 that in time my (  derived: that [illegible] my) / that my The illegible word begins in ‘l’ or ‘t’; the context makes ‘time’ the most probable word, and suggests that ‘in time’ was intended. 171.14 blame ( ) / Blame 171.17 can () / Can 172.1 solitude, but (  solitude but) / solitude. But 172.3 fitness to exercise over such a one (ISet) / fitness over such a one to exercise 172.4 quiet ( ) / grave 172.23 already and hastily ( before and hastily) / already, and hastily The ‘before’ was replaced by ‘already’ in proof. 172.24 Sir Knight () / sir knight The words have initial capitals on each of the other five occasions they are used in Ed1. 172.26 of. For (  and proofs) / of.—For 172.37 you (  and proofs) / you 172.38 relatives—While (proof correction) / relatives. While 173.9 resolution—I ( and proofs) / resolution. I 173.10 as able to protect me against . . . as against (  as able . . . against the evil fate . . . me as against) / is able to protect me against . . . as well as against The misreading of the first ‘as’ as ‘is’ led to the reconstruction of the sentence in proof. 173.25 convent. [new paragraph] (8vo) / convent [new paragraph] 173.39 De ( ) / de

  174.18 174.18 174.19 174.22 174.27 174.32 175.19 175.23 175.28 175.32 176.34 176.34 176.41 176.42 176.43 177.1 177.7 177.20 178.1 178.41 178.42 178.43 179.1 179.7 179.15 179.16 179.20 179.22 179.22 179.24 179.24 179.26 179.34 180.3 180.9 180.10 180.16 180.16 180.31 180.41 180.42 180.43 181.11 181.24 181.30 181.39 181.40 181.40 181.41 183.14 183.24 183.28 183.34

343

wife—then (  and proofs) / wife. Then me—devoted (  and proofs) / me. Devoted kinswoman—expelled ( ) / kinswoman, expelled more, the (proofs) / more; the best, but (  best but) / best!—But and by three ( ) / and three amongst () / among but remain ( and proofs) / but do thou remain largesse ( ) / largess best—thou (  and proofs) / best. Thou man . . . woman ( ) / men . . . women Doest ( ) / Dost slumber, while ( slumber while) / slumber; while lovers, the fair ( ) / lovers, fair Ysolte, and (  Ysolte and) / Ysolte; and Cornwall—to ( ) / Cornwall; to so, and (  so and) / so; and mayst ( ) / may’st meanst ( ) / meanest thinkst ( ) / think’st Chatelain (Editorial) / Chattelain forgiveness, for (  forgiveness for) / forgiveness; for hog—for () / hog. For a lady ( ) / a young lady precarious—or () / precarious; or parties—or ( ) / parties; or revel. Thee () / revel.—Thee birth—thy () / birth, thy habits will () / habits, will it be ( ) / it shall be honourable, and (  honourable &) / honourable; and perchance, that of one () / perchance, one excuses—this (  and proofs) / excuses. This bride. Think () / bride.—Think we ( ) / We Arthur—mercy on me—a ( ) / Arthur. Mercy on me! A my (  and proofs) / my be gone ( ) / begone doves—how ( ) / doves,—how lived only (8vo) / only lived In the  ‘only’ is added above the line but without a caret to indicate its position. shouldst ( ) / should’st daughter”—— () / daughter—” vassals and ( ) / vassals—and sayst ( ) / say’st save (  and proofs) / as him, but ( him but) / him; but replied with () / replied, with composure. ( ) / composure, his—for () / his; for Damian, if ( and proofs) / Damian, besides, if purposed ( ) / proposed nephew, and (  nephew and) / nephew; and communication, in (  communication in) / communication; in

344 183.36 185.2 185.12 185.27 186.3 186.14 186.15 186.22 186.26 186.28 186.42 187.5 187.9 187.17 188.12 188.27 188.37 190.5 190.19 190.20 190.30 190.38 191.8 191.11 191.15 192.15 193.1

193.24 193.24

  world—yet () / world; yet period (8vo) / term Lacys (Magnum) / Lacies name and purpose. () / name. dangerous—but () / dangerous; but restraint ( ) / constraint of Damian de ( and proofs) / of De than () / of wrapped ( wrapd) / wrapt towers ( ) / turrets the very vow (proof correction) / the vow Yet ( and Wordsworth) / yet maiden ( and Wordsworth) /maiden’s the protection (8vo) / the immediate protection feats ( ) / deeds amongst (proof correction) / among strongly () / strangely seemed as . . . was ( and proofs) / seemed to her as . . . were creditor, but satisfied (  derived: creditor but satisfied) / creditor; but, satisfied vow; and would ( derived: vow and would) / vow, would East ( ) / east Head of the Church ( ) / head of the church replied she ( ) / replied, “She them. [new paragraph] (Editorial) / them.” [new paragraph] her place () / the place sister, of () / sister—of E E W N : [new paragraph] In this monotonous course of life, Eveline gradually advanced to the full bloom of maidenhood, for month went after month, and year after year, yet the Constable of Chester returned not; and such uncertain reports as reached them from Palestine seemed to intimate that though he brought to the East his well-known courage and military talent, he had left behind the good fortune which in England had almost always crowned his banner. M S : In this monotonous course of life Eveline gradually advanced to the 〈f?〉 full bloom of maiden hood for month went after month and year after year yet the Constable of Chester returnd not and such uncertain reports as reachd them from Palestine seemd to intimate that 〈if〉 mthougho he brought to the East his well known courage and military talent he had left behind the good fortune which in England had almost always crownd his banner. E D 1: [passage omitted] On James Ballantyne expressing surprise that nearly three years had gone by (see text, 214.35), Scott thought that the addition of this paragraph (bound with the proofs between 2.134 and 135) would make Flammock’s comment at 214.35 seem ‘less abrupt’, but it was not included in the published text. The likelihood is that it had not been incorporated when work on The Betrothed stopped in November 1824 (see Essay on the Text, 285–87), and was then forgotten. wantst ( ) / want’st Raoul, “screaming (Editorial) / Raoul, screaming In the   there are no speech marks separating the speech marker from the speech, but it is clear that it is Gillian who is screaming, and that ‘screaming . . . weather’ must therefore be part of what Raoul is saying.

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345

193.25 weather. A () / weather. “A 193.31 he ( ) / him This was corrected in proof by someone other than Scott. 193.33 bluish”—— ( ) / bluish—” 193.38 may ( ) / must The   reads ‘may’; the proofs probably read ‘maun’, which Scott corrected to ‘must’. 194.13 you—go () / you. Go 194.15 has had good ( ) / has good 194.31 eyrie ( ) / eyry 194.41 sawst ( ) / sawest 194.42 be but equally () / be equally 195.4 cumbered ( cumberd; and proofs) / troubled 195.10 bodesman—nevertheless () / bodesman! nevertheless 195.16 them, for (proofs) / them; for 195.17 knives. Will () / knives.—Will 196.10 forth.” [new paragraph] (proofs) / forth. [new paragraph] 196.29 appliance () / appliances 197.1 pastime—they (  and proofs) / pastime! They 197.11 Rose, for (proofs) / Rose—for 197.13 doest ( ) / dost 197.17 named (proof correction) / names 197.17 now ( ) / nay The change was made by James Ballantyne in proof. 197.28 forwards ( ) / forward 197.29 jennet as lightly () / jennet, as light 197.29 lark, the (  and proofs) / lark; the 197.34 upwards ( ) / upward 198.1 most ( ) / more 198.1 now you ( ) / now that you 198.19 side there was () / side was 198.32 the horse-course which we have described. ( ) / this pleasant horse-course. 199.4 were ( ) / was 199.10 long thin () / length of thin 199.13 give her view ( ) / give her a view 200.29 mountaineers, for (  mountaineers for) / mountaineers; for 200.33 entreaties, but (proofs) / entreaties; but 201.1 of conflict ( ) / of a conflict 201.6 banditti. But () / banditti; but 201.15 outlaws, in the meanwhile ( ) / outlaws, meanwhile 201.41 their spirit, speed ( their spirit speed) / their speed 202.1 rapidity ( ) / celerity 202.17 the (ISet) / thy 202.17 if ( ) / If 202.18 it. But ( ) / it; but 202.30 been quite silent () / been silent 202.32 haste. [new paragraph] There (  haste—There) / haste. [new paragraph] These murmurs ceased, and there 202.37 you who are ( ) / you are 203.3 scorn ( ) / despise 203.12 you to draw your feet towards your body,” said ( ) / you,” said 203.13 leader, “that your person may be the more easily inclosed within the singular ( ) / leader, “to creep on hands and knees into this narrow aperture. Believe me, I regret the nature of the singular

346

 

203.15 it ( ) / your person 203.16 drew herself into the constrained posture which he recommended (  drew herself into the constraind posture which he recommended) / crept forwards as directed 203.19 consequence and of her own race, ( ) / consequence, 203.22 E E W N : Douloureuse. [new paragraph] There was a bustle among those around her, and there was a clanging, roaring sound like that of a distant ocean and, while, blindfolded and obedient, she continued in the posture enjoined, it suddenly seemed to Eveline that she was excluded from the external air by some large, hollow substance which rung dismal as a death-bell when it sunk on all hands, leaving her no doubt that it was of metallic substance. [new paragraph] Immediately after were heard cries M S : Douloureuse mThere was a bustle among those around her and there was a clanging roaring sound like that of a distant ocean and while, blindfolded and obedient, she continued in the posture enjoind it suddenly seemd to Evelineo 〈Suddenly it seemd to her〉 that she was excluded from the external air by some large hollow substance which rung dismal as a death-bell when it sunk on all hands of her leaving her no doubt that it was of metallic substance. Immediatly after were heard cries E D1: Douloureuse. [new paragraph] She crept then forwards through a narrow and damp passage, built on either side with rough stones, and so low that she could not have entered it in any other posture. When she had proceeded about two or three yards, the passage opened into a concavity or apartment high enough to permit her to sit at her ease, and of irregular, but narrow dimensions. At the same time she became sensible, from the noise which she heard behind her, that the ruffians were stopping up the passage by which she had been thus introduced into the bowels of the earth. She could distinctly hear the clattering of stones with which they closed the entrance, and she became sensible that the current of fresh air, which had rushed through the opening, was gradually failing, and that the atmosphere of the subterranean apartment became yet more damp, earthy, and oppressive, than at first. [new paragraph] At this moment came a distant sound from without, in which Eveline thought she could distinguish cries 203.30 steeds ( ) / horse 203.31 E E W N : combatants, while a thrilling and ringing sound produced by the hollow iron arch with which she was covered mingled the while into one general mass of sound, astounding the ears of the unfortunate captive and driving her well nigh mad at once by the acuteness and unceasing clangor of the din which affected her sensorium with inconceivable agony, the tumult without being aggravated and protracted by the echoes of the hollow mass around her ear. [new paragraph] M S : combatants while a thrilling & ringing sound produced by the hollow iron arch with which she was coverd mingled the while into one general mass of sound, astounding her 〈her〉 the ears of the unfortunate captive & driving her well nigh mad at once by the acuteness and unceasing clangor of the 〈sound〉 din which affected her ears and sensorium with inconceivable agony the tumult without being aggravated and protracted by the echoes of the hollow mass around her ear. [NL] E D1: combatants, but all deadened by the rude walls of her prison,

 

203.41 203.42 203.43 204.2

204.6 204.9 204.11 204.13 204.13 204.15

204.19 204.29 204.41 204.42

347

into a confused hollow murmur, conveying such intelligence to her ears as we may suppose the dead to hear from the world they have quitted. [new paragraph] freeing ( ) / forcing of escape ( ) / to escape wrapped ( wrapd) / wrapt E E W N : cooped up under an arch of iron with walls of the same metal completely covering her person and preventing her from changing in any considerable degree the constrained posture in which she sate, while every M S : coopd up under an arch of iron with walls of the same metal completely covering her mpersono and preventing her from changing in any considerable degree the constraind posture in which she sate while 〈any〉 meveryo E D1: cooped up in a subterranean cavern of very narrow dimensions. Her hands, which groped around, encountered only pieces of decayed metal, and a substance which, at another moment, would have made her shudder, being, in truth, the mouldering bones of the dead. At present, not even this circumstance could add to her fears, immured as she seemed to be, to perish by a strange and subterranean death, while her friends and deliverers were probably within a few yards of her. She flung her arms wildly around in search of some avenue of escape, but every circumvallation was ( ) / circumvallation, was covering under ( ) / covering of the vault under thrust ( ) / thrown extremity of complicated din lasted ( ) / extremity lasted Echoes more hollow and less acute ( ) / Sounds, more hollow, and dying away in distance, retreated. The iron concave rang to a few sharp and short sounds as those of shafts shot off at random by the fugitives and striking against its metallic boundary; and, finally, no sound continuing to awaken its echoes, they seemed to die away in a deep growling sound, like the murmurs of some huge tiger sinking to rest. At length ( retreated the iron concave rang to a few sharp & short sounds as those of shafts shot of at random by the fugitives and striking against its metallic boundary and finally no sound continuing to awaken its echoes they seemd 〈like a〉 mto die away in a deep growling sound like the murmurs of some huge tiger sinkingo tiger sinking to rest. At length) / retreated; and at length silent and Eveline was left () / silent. [new paragraph] Eveline was now left or, in the stifling and constrained situation, to die ( ) / or die with much difficulty ( ) / with difficulty E E W N : particularly where its edges rested on the ground. In one place she discerned with pleasure a glimmering of light, and by using her dagger and hands, though little accustomed to such labour, succeeded in making a hole under the edge of the huge copper or cauldron, for such she could now discover was the nature of the vessel to which she owed her safety during the combat and her present durance. From the size and massiveness of the vessel there M S : particularly where its edges rested on the ground. In one place she discernd with pleasure a glimmering of light and by using her dagger and hands though little accustomd to such labour succeeded in making a hole under the edge of the huge copper or cauldron for

348

205.7 205.15 205.15 205.16 205.17 205.17 205.22 205.29 205.33 205.34 205.38 205.42 206.2 206.9 206.20 206.21 206.21 206.21 207.4 207.9 207.16 207.21 207.22 207.26 207.27 208.15 208.16 208.22

  such she could now discover was the nature of the vessel to which she owed her safety during the combat and her present durance. From the size and massiveness of the vessel there E D1: particularly the passage by which she had entered, and by which she now attempted again to return to the light of day. She crept to the extremity, and found it, as she expected, strongly blocked up with large stones and earth, rammed together in such a manner as nearly to extinguish all hope of escape. The work, however, had been hastily performed, and life and liberty were prizes to stimulate exertions. With her poniard she cleared away the earth and sods— with her hands, little accustomed to such labour, she removed several stones, and advanced in her task so far as to obtain a glimmering of light, and, what was scarce less precious, a supply of purer air. But, at the same time, she had the misfortune to ascertain, that, from the size and massiveness of a huge stone which closed the extremity of the passage, there But ( ) / Yet Iron ( ) / Earthen doest ( ) / dost are () / Are divide me from ( and proofs) / connect me with and () / And mass of concave metal ( ) / dark vault and hope ( ) / and all hope artifice ( ) / artifices perchance have decked out with these habiliments some one of their company ( perchance have deckd out mwith these habilimentso some 〈person〉 one of their company) / may have used them me, since (proofs) / me; since service—I ( ) / service! I The proofs read ‘service. I’. rescue—may ( ) / rescue; may blew it () / sounded the instrument not you ( ) / you not danger—and ( ) / danger; and and, much (proofs) / and,—much consequence, thou (proofs) / consequence,—thou The horseman (  the horseman) / A horseman occasion, for (proofs) / occasion; for cauldron ( ) / stone them. [new paragraph] ( ) / them. Precaution was necessary to remove the stone, lest falling inwards it might do the lady injury. [new paragraph] the iron vessel was raised so that she could creep out ( the iron vessell was raised so that she could creep out) / the rocky fragment was so much displaced that she could issue forth placed, and ( placed and) / placed at the mouth of the subterranean entrance, and flashed () / crashed skirmish and deliverance ( and proofs) / skirmish had occurred, and the deliverance taken place ( and proofs) / been effected E E W N : where, in evidence of the extent of his housekeeping, he caused to be transported a vessel of enormous size which he used for the purpose of brewing ale. Many yoke of oxen, and much manual

 

208.28 208.30 208.30 208.31 208.31 208.32 208.34

208.36 208.37 208.38

209.1 209.3

209.6 209.13

349

labour, were employed to bring this enormous symbol of good living to the Prince’s woodland residence. Like every uncommon circumstance, this caught the fancy M S : where in evidence of the extent of his housekeeping he caused to be transported a vessell of enormous size which he used for the purpose of brewing ale. Many yoke of oxen and much manual labour was 〈bro〉 employd to bring this enormous symbol of good living to the Princes woodland residence—Like every uncommon circumstance this peculiarly caught the fancy P R O O F S : where he used to feast his friends and followers with a profusion unexampled in Cambria. [new paragraph] ale. Many yoke of oxen, and much manual labour was employed to bring this enormous symbol of good living to the Prince’s woodland residence. Like every uncommon circumstance, this peculiarity caught the fancy E D1: where he used to feast his friends and followers with a profusion unexampled in Cambria. [new paragraph] The fancy who always pleased with ( and proofs) / always captivated with Cauldron () / Goblets celebrated in (  and proofs) / celebrated him in odes the Mother of Crw, as they termed it, in (proofs;   odes the Mother of Crw as they termd it in) / odes in strains (  and proofs) / terms Horn. The artist, who had formed a vessel of such uncommon size, was also the (proofs) / Horn. The The proofs have a punctuated form of the   reading. which, however, he finally forfeited by stabbing Edris, in one (proofs: which, however, he finally forfeited by stabbing Edris, in some) / however, fell finally a victim to his propensities, having been stabbed to the heart in one The proofs have a punctuated form of the   reading. the banquets of Edris ( and proofs) / his renowned banquets reliques ( ) / relics and put the assassin to death upon his grave. Finally, they reversed the celebrated cauldron over the tomb of the dead, and left it as a perpetual monument of the extraordinary tale. Superstition (proofs) / within the narrow vault where Eveline had been confined, and having barricaded the entrance of the sepulchre with fragments of rock, heaped over it an immense cairn, or pile of stones, on the summit of which they put the assassin to death. Superstition The proofs have a punctuated form of the   reading. this singular memorial ( ) / this memorial decayed. It was thus undisturbed until the events of which we have just spoken, and which occasioned its final destruction. [new paragraph] When (  decayd. 〈NL〉 It was thus undisturbd untill the events of which we have just spoken and which occasiond its final destruction. NL.When) / decayed. [new paragraph] In latter years, some prowling band of Welch robbers had discovered the secret entrance, and opened it with the view of ransacking the tomb for arms and treasures, which were in ancient times often buried with the dead. These were disappointed, and obtained nothing by the violation of the grave of Edris, excepting knowledge of a secret place, which might be used for depositing their booty, or even for a retreat to an individual in a case of emergency. [new paragraph] When came to explain ( ) / explained county ( ) / country

350 209.26 209.32 209.37 211.14 211.15 211.19 211.20 212.30 212.35 213.6 213.6 213.9 213.11 213.15 213.16 213.23 213.32 213.38 214.2 214.2 214.3 214.14 214.15 214.16 214.37 214.39 214.40 214.41 214.42 215.5 215.6 215.10 215.18 215.23 215.25 215.39 216.8 216.11 216.19 216.22 216.24 216.32 216.40 216.41 216.43 216.43 217.1 217.14 217.16 217.17 217.37 218.3

  Cauldron-pass (proofs) / Pass of Edris [  cauldron pass] under the cauldron (  and proofs) / in the tomb drawn up for the () / drawn up before the tomb for the him. () / him— among ( ) / amongst Damian, on (Editorial) / Damian was placed on Scott’s proof addition created repetition. with () / and, with aloud, and as ( ) / aloud, as tooth ( ) / teeth sojourner—What ( ) / sojourner;—what this ( ) / that scape () / escape wisely—but () / wisely. But rehearsings ( ) / rehearsing methinks ( ) / Methinks favour. But () / favour; but kindness—and ( ) / kindness; and men.” ( ) / men?” without—and ( ) / without, and anxious—you ( ) / anxious;—you me, in case (proof correction) / me, unless in case Scott added ‘in case I had’ in proof without deleting ‘unless’. why— ( ) / why?— not, and (  not and) / not; and that (  and proofs) / because by the English (  derived: from the English) / from the Saracens It seems that Scott’s mind was already preparing the next clause. Saracen () / Saracens discontented—their ( ) / discontented; their know—they () / know; they stewards () / stewarts money—I (  and proofs) / money. I people, and ( people mand) / people; and as yet ( and proofs) / before had opportunities ( ) / opportunity clouded () / blenched say—let ( ) / say; let purpose—Nor () / purpose; nor possible to ( ) / possible even to with each other () / with one another it that () / it, that who () / that least, (proofs) / least? fear and () / fear; and of Garde ( and proofs) / of the Garde is Damian ( ) / is to Damian They ( ) / they it ( ) / It answer, to ( ) / answer, and to knowst ( ) / knowest danger—O () / danger. O me, and ( me and) / me; and deliverer, a (proofs) / deliverer; a as unwilling () / as if unwilling

  218.10 218.36 219.10 219.12 219.14 219.26 219.27 219.32 219.39 219.40 219.41 219.42 221.1 221.13 222.3 222.31 222.39 222.43 223.31 223.37 223.39 223.42

224.8 224.10 224.11 224.16 224.18 224.24 224.24 224.40 224.41 225.9 225.10 225.11 225.12 225.13 225.28 225.37 225.40 226.8 226.9 226.25 226.29 226.32 226.38

351

framed ( framd) / formed banner—to () / banner. To Oh no—no ( ) / O no, no all within () / all, within be—as (  and proofs) / be. As words?—if ( ) / words?—If shall ( ) / will room or wardrobe ( and proofs) / apartment expressions () / expression knowst ( ) / knowest master ( ) / lord kinsmanship—tell () / kinsmanship. Tell you (Editorial) / ye time—get ( ) / time! Get —The times, they said, were . . . heads. (  —The times, they said, were . . . heads.”) / —“The times,” they said, “were . . . heads.” every ( ) / any hoarse (  and proofs) / horse the great () / their great is . . . thus . . . shame ( ) / Is . . . Thus . . . Shame here—but ( ) / here; but commands. Trap (  derived commands Trap) / commands.—Trap caught up his sword, and unsheathing it, went (proofs) / caught up his drawn sword, and went The proofs have a punctuated form of the  reading. In proof Scott deleted ‘up his’, and ‘unsheathing it’, and substituted ‘from the ground his drawn’, but deleted that as well, and added ‘stet’. not refuse ( ) / not—refuse You cannot ( ) / you cannot You will ( ) / you will me—but ( ) / me. But earnestly, “it (  earnestly “it) / earnestly; “it daughter (Editorial) / wife At 224.24 it is the miller’s daughter who was molested. Twyford (Magnum) / Twineford morion () / head-piece by () / By mind. Look ( ) / mind.—Look Pontoys, I ( Pontoys I) / Pontoys—I wench, for ( wench for) / wench; for amours—Ah () / amours. Ah portion. They ( ) / portion!—they move. Well—-it () / move.—Well, it they had understood () / they understood their head ( ) / head of the troop Scott made the change in proof, but it is likely that he did so because the printed proof reads ‘the head’. done—you (  and proofs) / done. You but ( ) / But canst ( ) / can’st thought ( ) / belief Although the change was Scott’s in proof, the word chosen is inappropriate to the situation. either, watch ( either watch) / either? Watch this morning ( ) / the morning

352 227.14 227.21 227.25 227.33 227.35 227.40 228.1 228.4 228.4 228.23 228.31 228.38 229.5 230.5 231.8 231.9 231.13 231.23 231.29 231.30 231.32 231.40 232.11 232.14 232.16 232.17 232.18 232.38 233.10 233.21 233.33 234.22

234.25 234.26 234.37 235.12 235.16 235.24 235.26 235.30

  with () / of hands. “Shake ( ) / hands; “shake are”—— (proof correction) / are——” us? ( ) / us! Surrender? ( ) / Surrender! here . . . what ( ) / Here . . . What indeed? ( ) / indeed! multitude, and ( multitude and) / multitude; and it ( ) / It grinded.” With (  grinded” With / grinded;” and with wouldst ( ) / would’st thee—hadst ( ) / thee! Had’st opinion. I () / opinion.—I which the last (  derived: which 〈our〉 last) / which last Scott deleted the ‘our’ without offering a replacement: if ‘our’ was not wanted ‘the’ must have been intended. doest ( ) / dost passages (  and proofs) / things doest ( ) / dost pen? We (  pen. We) / pen?—We finds, as much he may, his ( finds as much [new page] he may his) / finds his these () / their trusted? Doest (  trusted. Doest) / trusted?—Dost What?—wouldst ( ) / What! wouldst lives (8vo) / lived so—permit () / so. Permit expired—why ( ) / expired, why solitude? He ( solitude. He) / solitude?—He security—let () / security. Let eleve ( ) / élevé warders ( ) / wardens arrayed (  arrayd) / arranged and with mine () / and mine unworthily. As for (  derived: unworthily. For) / unworthily; as for In proof Scott inserted ‘as’ into a construction which already had the semicolon. enemy. Drop () / enemy.—Drop warders (Editorial) / wardens They are called ‘warders’ on all other occasions. summoned and refusing (proofs and proof correction summoned mand refusingo) / summoned, refusing interpreter. The ( ) / interpreter. [new paragraph] The mine—Betrothed—woe’s me—it . . . destiny—Betrayer () / mine. Betrothed!—woe’s me! it . . . destiny. Betrayer had, as might have been expected, been (proofs) / had been In proof Scott deleted ‘which’ immediately preceding and substituted ‘& it’; he did not delete the rest. But we (proof correction) / But, as we In proof Scott deleted ‘Since’, and substituted ‘But 〈as〉’. concern. We ( and proofs) / concern, we James Ballantyne wrote on the proofs ‘To bring out the meaning, (as I understand it.) I have altered the punctuation’. Scott’s sentence structure was indeed defective, as his sentence starting at ‘Since’

  235.33 235.36 235.36 236.7 236.8

236.10 236.12 237.16 237.18 237.20 238.3 238.7 238.10 238.14 238.16 238.19 238.37 238.39 239.13 239.15 239.27 239.30 239.35

239.39 239.39

240.3 240.3 240.4 240.5 240.16 240.17 240.18 240.20 240.21 240.28 240.31

353

(see emendation above) lacked a principal clause, but Ballantyne did not undo his own revision here when Scott removed the ‘Since’. noonday (  derived: noodday) / noon slowly. Their (proof correction) / slowly, whose pilgrims’ (8vo) / pilgrims ground, and (  ground and) / ground; and reliques () / relics of such objects, were The printed proof reads ‘reliques remaining suspended’; Scott deleted ‘remaining’. His proof addition ‘of such objects’ was a direct consequence of the intermediaries’ insertion of a semicolon earlier in the sentence. Someone else supplied the verb ‘were’. executioner ( ) / executioners districts ( ) / district arrow, looked (  arrow looked) / arrow—looked callst ( ) / callest yonder ( ) / that Judaea ( ) / Judea recast ( ) / recall instead to (  derived: to instead) / to instant Italians () / pilgrims Scott changed ‘Italians’ to ‘pilgrims’ in proof, but pilgrims do not necessarily need an ‘interpreter’. secluded ( ) / precluded thou but a ( ) / thou a on ( ) / in mingled () / manifest on ( ) / o’er true ( ) / brave with his person () / with person discover ( ) / observe his keen eye, and to ascertain (  his keen eye and to ascertain) / the minstrel’s looks apparently, and was uncertain The   reading was not reproduced in the proofs, which read: ‘his keen eye, and was uncertain’. Scott deleted ‘his . . . was’, and substituted ‘in the minstrels looks, apparently’. It is likely that Scott would not have corrected in proof had the   reading been reproduced correctly. victim, and deferring (proof correction) / victim, deferring discover (ISet) / ascertain Had ‘ascertain’ (see emendation to 239.35 and text at 239.36) been reproduced in the proofs Scott would, no doubt, have acted to remove this repetition. His ISet revision is therefore adopted here. Guarine beheld () / Guarine, when he beheld curl on Vidal’s ( ) / curl Vidal’s lip. He could ( derived: lip 〈when the Constable unable to sustain the agony of expectation.〉 He could) / lip, could a”—— ( ) / a——” Yes ( ) / yes She () / she wealth, and ( wealth &) / wealth; and fame and fortune () / fortune and fame done this—but ( ) / done,—this;—but resuming his self-command ( ) / resuming self-command debtor (Editorial) / creditor Scott made a mistake (the person who receives a loan becomes a

354

 

‘debtor’, and the person who gives it a ‘creditor’). 240.31 when he forfeits () / who arrests Scott introduced ‘who arrests’ in proof, which recognises that it is the pawnbroker who arrests the forfeit, but this did not attend to the real problem which was the term ‘creditor’ (see previous emendation). 240.32 redeemed () / relieved 240.35 might (proof correction) / should 240.38 distrusted ( ) / disturbed 241.3 behind.” This () / behind.” [new paragraph] This 241.8 guess—she ( ) / guess,—she 241.9 She () / she 241.10 Damian Lacy () / Damian de Lacy 241.14 as ( ) / while 241.24 extremity. “Dog () / extremity. [new paragraph] “Dog 241.25 wire-twangler ( ) / wire-pincher 241.28 reply— ( ) / reply,— 241.32 full ( ) / whole 242.2 I loved ( ) / I have loved 242.3 world. He () / world,—he 242.4 tongue—is . . . natural?—is ( ) / tongue. Is . . . natural? Is 242.6 new ( ) / vain 242.19 Doest ( ) / Dost 242.19 bull-feast (  bull feast) / bull-fight 242.26 ear, for (  ear for) / ear; for 242.29 knowst ( ) / knowest 242.33 being conscious (proof correction) / being entirely conscious 243.1 follower ( ) / followers 243.4 with an air which ( derived: which an air which) / which even 243.12 reports () / slanders 243.16 triumph. Many of the wretches who were made prisoners declared that they had been partly driven into the rebellion by the general expectation that Damian Lacy only wanted an opportunity to stand forth as their leader; and they quoted every instance of kindness and protection which he had extended to their oppressed order, as undoubted marks of his disaffection to the aristocracy. The (  triumph. Many of the wretches who were made prisoners declared that that they had been partly driven into the rebellion by the general expectation that Damian Lacy only wanted an opportunity to stand forth as their leader and they quoted every instance of kindness and protection which he had extended to their oppressd order as undoubted marks of his disaffection to the aristocracy. The) / triumph. [new paragraph] The The punctuation of the restored passage follows the proofs. The passage was deleted by Scott in proof as a result of Ballantyne’s pointing out that it echoes the attitudes of Waverley’s followers in similar circumstances, but its omission creates a narrative lacuna. 243.43 and after Damian his heir ( ) / and, after Damian, his heir 244.5 the virtues of the time (proof correction) / the virtues then most required 244.27 distress, unloosing . . . and leaving (proof correction distress as 〈to〉 unloos〈e〉mingo . . . and leav〈e〉mingo) / distress as unlooses . . . and leaves 244.29 these () / their 244.33 Yet () / yet

  245.12 245.14 245.20 245.24 245.24 245.27 245.30 245.33 245.34

245.37 245.38 245.39 245.39 246.3 246.7 246.10 246.13 246.29 246.37 247.3 247.8 247.17 247.24 247.24 247.32 247.33 247.34 247.34 247.36 248.5 248.20 248.40 248.43 249.14 249.19 249.22 249.26 249.28 249.35 250.17 250.36 250.37 251.1 251.6

355

caitiffs even in ( ) / caitiffs in gentle ( ) / youth sling, “——yet ( ) / sling,—“yet sits with () / stirreth you, but (  you but) / you; but of Lacy ( ) / of De Lacy troubles ( ) / trouble proposal, whilst (  proposal whilst) / proposal. Whilst tone. Eveline ( tone Eveline) / tone, Eveline Although there is no full-stop here, it is clear from the fact that in the   ‘whilst’ has a lower-case ‘w’ that the sentence break should come after ‘tone’. same. “Have () / same. [new paragraph] “Have because ( ) / Because to Lacy ( ) / to De Lacy Lacy. And (  Lacy And) / Lacy; and camp, where he requested access to the sovereign. (Magnum) / camp. with different (proof correction) / with very different mayst ( ) / may’st disposal, for ( disposal for) / disposal; for yeoman—it (  and proofs) / yeoman! It life and limb, body and goods ( life & limb body and goods) / life, limb, body, and goods thyself—or () / thyself; or he left () / he had left this ( ) / the taunts ( ) / words heart—John . . . castle—for . . . charge—Fleming () / heart.— John . . . castle; for . . . charge.—Fleming might”—— () / might——” Doest ( ) / Dost wall—how ( ) / wall. How would (  and proofs) / should batten ( ) / batton cold—but () / cold; but war and peace () / war and in peace proposed () / purposed Margery (Editorial) / Alice There is no ‘Alice’ in The Betrothed; this error persisted in all editions in Scott’s lifetime. commerce, on which ( commerce on which) / commerce; on which Richard loves () / Richard lives privileges, my (  and proofs) / privileges and duties, my mayst ( ) / may’st liege? ( ) / liege! doest ( ) / dost eminent () / imminent love—dominion—high office and ( ) / love, dominion, high office, and among the nobles ( ) / among nobles Hugh ( ) / Hugo resolution is too much for mine ( ) / nobleness is too much for my resolve

356

251.11 251.20 251.26 251.30 251.30 251.33 252.9 252.26 252.27 252.28 252.30 252.31 252.31 252.32 252.33 252.36 252.36 252.39 252.43 253.18 253.22 253.38 253.43 254.4 254.12 254.16 254.16 254.25 254.30 254.36 254.40 254.42 254.43 255.2 255.3 255.8 255.10 255.12 255.13 255.13 255.15 255.21 255.26 255.27 255.28 255.30 255.31

  In the proof there is a space after ‘for’; Scott filled it with ‘my resolve’, thus recovering the sense but creating a repetition, which was removed post-proof. renounce”—— ( ) / renounce——” these () / those woeful ( ) / woful violer—and () / violer; and knave, I ( knave I) / knave—I turn (  and proofs) / tone In the proofs Ballantyne proposed ‘tone’ for ‘turn’; it looks as though this was not accepted by Scott, but was nonetheless taken in. cheeks ( ) / cheek again—I ( ) / again; I me who have () / one who has wife, Heaven help you (  wife heaven help you) / wife—Heaven help me horse, ( ) / horse— this horse ( ) / thath orse and”—— ( ) / and——” Saint ( ) / St the huntsman () / the old huntsman use ( ) / service horse—here ( ) / horse. Here Raoul; “and (  Raoul “and) / Raoul; and horse and ( ) / horse! and What? ( ) / What! in ( ) / under Indeed? ( ) / Indeed! Douloureuse when () / Doloureuse,—ay, oftener than once or twice either,—when commoved ( ) / concerned near () / more me, when ( ) / me?—When taken and () / taken, and sayst ( ) / say’st will—for ( ) / will; for woon ( ) / rover us and () / us; and us—And ( ) / us; and necessity and ( ) / necessity; and offered.” ( ) / offered.’ sayest—if () / say’st! If hallow ( ) / hollo speakest ( ) / speak’st owning ( ) / avowing Lacy, yet ( Lacy yet) / Lacy; yet gospel and ( ) / gospel; and unborn—but () / unborn.—But Umph ( ) / Humph What, Wilkin ( What Wilkin) / What!—Wilkin Rose? I () / Rose?—I they? What ( ) / they?—What the () / these husband, we . . . free—there ( husband we . . . free—there) / husband—we . . . free; there

  256.10 256.22 256.24 256.32 257.34 258.7 258.18 258.26 258.29 258.33 258.42

259.8 259.9 259.27 259.43 260.7 260.8 260.12 260.25

260.28 260.30 261.6 261.13 261.14 261.15 261.15 261.19 261.23 262.15 262.18 262.18 262.18 263.7 263.18 263.23 263.24 263.35

357

truth, and ( truth and) / truth; and is—has been—shall be its ( ) / is, has been, shall be, its accompt ( ) / account I have won () / I won suit ( ) / visit back ( ) / backs pagan ( ) / Pagan apparently this also tasted disgusting ( ) / seemingly this also turned distasteful much ( ) / apparently Journeying in () / Journeying on in brightened with the hue () / brightened to the eye, and saddened to the fancy, with the hue The strange Ed1 reading which reflects Scott’s proof correction was occasioned by Ballantyne who objected in the proofs: ‘Can we say that trees are brightened by the tints of autumn? saddened, rather,—at least from associated feelings’. wild (  wiled) / Welch only offer ( ) / offer only were dry and seared like (ISet) / were like sang ( ) / sung lonely ( ) / solitary Scott’s  ‘lonely’ appeared as ‘lovely’ in the proofs; ‘solitary’ was Scott’s proof correction of ‘lovely’. overlooked it, (8vo) / overlooked, bustle ( ) / bustling followed in battle rank the (Editorial) / followed, and in battle rank, the The   reads ‘followd armd and in battle rank the’. An intermediary removed ‘armd’ which does not appear in the proofs, probably because it is repeated a few words later, but retained ‘and’ although it had been made redundant by the omission of ‘armd’. promised ( ) / showed There is a space in the proofs, which Scott filled by ‘shewd’. characterizes () / characterized thee,” (  thee”) / thee?” have for nought what the minstrel will not earn ( have mfor noughto what the minstrel will not earn) / have what the minstrel refuses to earn Vidal; (proofs) / Vidal, not—and (  and proofs) / not;—and matter is () / matters are The singular noun appeared as a plural in the proofs, and so the verb was altered in the proofs to agree with it. Henry ( ) / Harry down hill () / down the hill other. But Vidal ( ) / other. [new paragraph] Vidal mayst ( ) / may’st win ( ) / earn largesse ( ) / largess his () / its enterprize. But ( and proofs) / enterprize; but murther ( ) / murder nations ( ) / natives no one ( ) / none

358

 

263.43 entered the room, his () / entered, his 264.3 prisoner, untamed, undaunted (  prisoner untamed undaunted) / prisoner, undaunted 264.16 this ( ) / there 264.27 alive—whom ( ) / alive, whom 264.28 and that () / and of that 264.29 blow— (  and proofs) / blow?— 264.29 me. ( ) / me! 264.42 batten ( ) / baton 265.2 upon ( ) / on 265.6 dipped ( dipd) / dipt 265.14 wouldst ( ) / would’st 265.22 owest ( ) / owed’st 265.24 when opportunity put (  and proofs) / when following opportunities put 265.32 have scarce attained to (ISet) / have attained 265.36 peculiarly, but, suddenly stopping, said () / peculiarly; but, suddenly stopping, he said 265.39 called—ever ( ) / called. Ever 265.41 didst ( ) / did’st 265.43 accomplished.” (proofs) / accomplished?” 266.11 then () / when 266.15 halls ( ) / walls 266.16 May ( ) / may 266.17 ruin. (proofs) / ruin! 266.17 seven ( ) / some 266.17 since hadst () / since—hadst 266.36 Seest () / See’st 266.40 doest ( ) / dost 267.26 taught () / brought 267.29 stripped (  stripd) / stript 267.38 clay, since even () / clay, and on the hardship that even The   ‘since’ was misread as ‘and’, and Scott added ‘on the hardship that’ in proof. In doing so he misunderstood the import of the sentence: the nun talks of clothing as a means of diverting attention from the disappearance of Rose. 268.4 Baldringham (Editorial) / Altringham 268.19 refectory, and from () / refectory, from 268.22 she was subjected, in the course of that day, to ( msheo 〈received〉 mwas subjectedo in the course of that day mtoo) / she, in the course of that day, was subjected to There is no caret in the   to indicate where the phrase ‘was subjected’ should go, but the deleted verb indicates its natural position. 268.27 after (proof correction) / often in 269.8 Vanda, but ( Vanda but) / Vanda; but 269.9 resentful; (Editorial) / resentful— There is no internal punctuation in this sentence in the  , but the intermediaries have oddly used one dash and divided the other clauses from each other by semicolons. 269.20 instant and awoke () / instant, and then awoke 269.24 waking () / awakening 269.32 are come on (ISet) / are on 269.33 master—and ( ) / master, and 269.34 more—but () / more, but 269.35 you ( ) / You

  269.36 270.2 270.19 270.25 270.28 270.29 270.30 270.41 271.10 271.28 271.30 271.41 273.16 273.24 277.29 277.43 278.20

No—no ( ) / No, no this be, really (  this be really) / this be reality guilty. [new paragraph] () / guilty. Damian bed-stead, a broken table, and a chair ( derived: bed stead a broken table and chair) / bed-stead, and a broken table and chair that which () / that, which news ( ) / noise prison, either (  prison either) / prison—no rumour, either close. His ( ) / close; his warder () / warden answered ( answerd) / replied bear () / hear speak for my freedom, and () / speak, and wouldst (8vo) / would’st mayst (8vo) /may’st mayst (8vo) / may’st of (ISet) / by tried (ISet) / visited

359

END-OF-LINE HYPHENS

All end-of-line hyphens in the present text are soft unless included in the list below. The hyphens listed are hard and should be retained when quoting. 3.4 8.39 13.23 14.16 20.9 27.6 31.40 39.35 47.2 47.26 47.32 51.28 61.23 67.17 72.36 78.39 85.15 86.12 102.29 113.29 113.39 115.2

- bell-the-cat spirit-stirring Fitz-Alans foot-bearer watch-tower man-service war-cry guard-room low-country men-at-arms men-at-arms part-payment well-spread moon-light middle-aged scarlet-hosed well-a-day rose-coloured Anglo-Saxons half-surprised quick-witted

117.20 145.8 147.12 188.3 190.24 196.31 196.36 198.40 205.33 210.40 218.23 220.39 222.8 235.16 249.14 254.17 255.1 262.25 267.11 269.10 278.26

360

oak-tree elf-stricken self-importance court-yard laurel-wreath game-pouch water-mills water-reptiles head-gear one-eyed door-communication men-at-arms castle-yard key-stone sound-headed cucking-stool draw-bridge sun-burned men-at-arms right-hand unhoped-for

HISTORICAL NOTE

Full details of works referred to by short titles in this Note can be found at the head of the Explanatory Notes, 368–69. Historical Sketch. In choosing the twelfth century for the setting of the Tales of the Crusaders, Scott was returning to familiar ground, which he had examined in Ivanhoe (1820). That novel was set in 1194,1 during the reign of Richard I (1189–99), after his departure from Palestine, captivity in Austria, and return to England in March 1194. The Talisman belongs near to the start of Richard’s reign, while he was still in Palestine; and The Betrothed slightly earlier still, in the late 1180s, before the death of Henry II in 1189. Scott was clearly stimulated to locate these two novels in a period of conflict at home and abroad, and in both cases makes much of the interaction of neighbouring cultures and mores. The immediate context of both novels is the shocked surprise that swept through Europe at the disaster of the battle of Hattin in July 1187, and the subsequent loss of Jerusalem to the Muslims a few weeks later. This brought to an end the western kingdom which had been established there nearly ninety years earlier, at the end of the First Crusade (1096–99). In 1185, when the Muslim forces were beginning to get the upper hand, the Patriarch of Jerusalem and the Grand Masters of the two military orders, the Hospitallers and the Templars, had toured Europe, seeking support from the Pope and from the principal monarchs. Many rulers and nobility ‘took the Cross’ at that stage (including Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, and Richard), and others (Henry II and Philip II of France) did so later, but it was only when news of the defeat by Saladin and his forces at Hattin in July 1187 and the subsequent fall of Jerusalem in October arrived in the west that major efforts were made to organise a new expedition to the Holy Land and to institute the Third Crusade. The Betrothed makes use of this context, but is set away from the main centres of power and the actual conflict itself. Scott has chosen to examine the milieu from which springs the knightly and chivalric behaviour associated with the Crusades in the literature of the middle ages, and he does so by means of the local conflict along the border of the powerful English kingdom with the insubordinate Welsh princedoms. From the ninth century there were four areas and dynasties which rivalled each other for dominance in Wales: Gwynedd in the north, Deheubarth in the south and west, Morgannwg in the south-east, and Powys in the east along the English border at Offa’s Dyke. Soon after 1066, Norman barons were granted lands on the English side of the border. They built castles and, by military force, tried both to 361

362   contain the customary pattern of Welsh raids into England and to extend their power westward. Earldoms were established at Gloucester, Hereford, Chester and Shrewsbury, which initially succeeded in this containment. By the turn of the century, however, these earldoms were weakened, one by forfeiture and another by the absence of an heir, and Shropshire reverted to the direct control of Henry I, who reigned from 1100 to 1135. Consequently, Gruffudd ap Cynan, ruler of Gwynedd between 1081 and 1137, was able to begin to re-assert control over much of north and central Wales (including Powys, the princedom which abutted Shropshire) by the time of his death. During Stephen’s reign (1135–54) and the civil war that was fought during it (see note to 90.35–36), the Welsh were able to encroach further into what had been English lands, by re-capturing Oswestry, for instance. Furthermore, the party supporting the Empress Matilda against the King often employed Welsh troops in battles far from Wales, bolstering the confidence and the coffers of the Welsh. By the mid-century, Owain Gwynedd, second son of Gruffudd, who ruled Gwynedd from his father’s death until his own in 1170, was once more in a strong position in the north; and the prince of Powys, too, regained some power and land, but this was dissipated at the death of Madog ap Maredudd in 1160 and the subsequent division of his lands among five heirs. After his succession to the English throne in 1154, Henry II (1133–89) began to reassert Norman control, partly by military force and partly by playing one prince off against another. He maintained his ‘overlordship’ of Wales, but a large-scale military invasion in 1165 failed, and was not to be attempted again until the time of John, about forty years later. Thus, a stalemate persisted for the rest of the century, the period in which the novel is set. But at the end of the century Welsh opposition to Norman power became more pronounced, and specific incidents may be relevant to the quasi-history of The Betrothed. For instance, in 1175, William de Braose, having invited the Welsh leaders to a Christmas feast at Abergavenny Castle under the pretence of peace and the start of a new era at the end of the year (a traditional time for settling outstanding differences amongst the Welsh), had them murdered by his men. Later, in 1198, when Gwenwynwyn, Prince of Powys, threatened the entire Welsh middle marches, Maud, wife of William de Braose, held off a massive Welsh attack on Painscastle near Hay-on-Wye for three weeks until Norman reinforcements arrived. This is the general framework within which Scott locates his tale, but it is not safe to seek for too precise a relationship between the fiction and the external history: both the time-scheme of the novel and the individual characters fit within the above framework, without being historically accurate. For instance, the preaching of the Cross did not start in England until late in 1187, and in Wales until 1188. And, since Scott takes one of his principal characters to Palestine and out of the narrative for three years, and as Henry II is still alive at the end of the novel, there is not sufficient time for the story to

  363 take place before the death of Henry II in July 1189. As to the location of the action on the Welsh Marches (the English counties of Cheshire, Shropshire, and Herefordshire) and in Gloucestershire, Scott does not attempt to be precise about particular towns and castles, and, although there are occasional references to identifiable places, he does not seem to have a clear map in his mind as he writes, as he had for a number of the novels set in Scotland. This is of no consequence, but there have been attempts, especially by nineteenth-century writers, to be more precise than Scott himself had been, and to identify the location of the Castle Douloureuse. There is no evidence that Scott had ever visited the Welsh marches (although it is not impossible), and, indeed, he did not set foot in Wales until his return from Ireland in August 1825. Although Clun is an appealing location for the principal castle of the tale, Scott never visited it, and he presents a physical setting rather different from that of the now ruined castle there. It is possible that he had seen prints or drawings of the site, but none seems to survive in the Abbotsford collections. Also there is little evidence of the presence of Flemings on the Welsh March in the twelfth century. Trade in wool from East Anglia and elsewhere to the Low Countries had become important during the century, and some Flemish traders are known to have settled in the east Midlands to handle the business. Flemings also took part in Henry II’s campaign in Wales in 1165, and Flemish mercenaries were recruited by the Earl of Leicester in his unsuccessful rebellion against Henry in 1173. Scott will also have read of the settlement of Flemings by Henry I in Pembrokeshire in the early years of the century, in The Itinerary of Archbishop Baldwin through Wales by Giraldus Cambrensis: The yeare 1108, the rage of the sea did overflow and drowne a great part of the lowe countrie of Flanders, in such sort that the inhabitants were driven to seeke themselves other dwelling places, who came to King Henrie and desired him to give them some void place to remaine in, who being verie liberall of that which was not his owne, gave them the land of Ros, in Dyvet or West Wales, where Pembroke, Tenby, and Haverford are now built, and there they remaine to this daie, as may well be perceived by their speech and conditions, farre differing from the rest of the countrie.2 Furthermore, as in Ivanhoe, Scott has simplified the contrasts between the racial and linguistic groups in the novel. Each age reads the past in the light of its own prejudices, and, as one of the first to reimagine the medieval period, Scott sees with Enlightenment eyes. On the whole he assumes a hierarchy from civilised and cultured Normans, down through sturdy and reliable Flemings, to rather backward Anglo-Saxons, and eventually to uncouth and rebellious Welshmen. This serves his fictional purposes well, but it should be remembered that the Welsh and the Anglo-Saxons had a longer pedigree as cultured and educated nations than did the Normans. Scott reflects the views of his age, in which 1066 and its consequences were a

364   dominant feature of the historical landscape. Scott’s Sources. The medieval story of particular importance for The Betrothed is Tristan and Isolde: the plot of the romance turns on the union of an older man with a younger woman, King Mark of Cornwall and Isolde, Isolte or Iseault of Ireland, with the emissary between them, Mark’s nephew Tristan or Tristrem, falling in love with Mark’s betrothed. The Betrothed is the Tristan and Isolde story with a happy ending, and without the adultery. Scott produced the first modern edition of Sir Tristrem (1804) from a manuscript in the Advocates’ Library in Edinburgh, and his own edition is deployed several times in the novel (see notes to 20.2–3, 27.14, 55.39–41, 142.30, 145.27–28, 162.9–10, 180.25–26). Jerome Mitchell has shown that Scott has drawn on other romances known to him, including Malory’s Morte Darthur, Sir Eglamour, Valentine and Orson, and La Bonne Florence of Rome.3 Chaucer’s The Merchant’s Tale provides the name of the ‘hero’ of the novel (see note to 80.22). Scott refers to two of the most famous troubadours: Jaufre Rudel and Peire Vidal (see notes to 163.41 and 164.23). He draws on legendary histories such as Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia regum Britanniae (see notes to 10.27–28, 13.17, 25.14, 25.21, 180.10), and Caradoc of Lhancarvan’s The History of Wales. Scott also drew on books on antiquities and on modern itineraries: The Itinerary of Archbishop Baldwin through Wales, A. D. MCLXXXVIII. By Giraldus de Barri [Giraldus Cambrensis], in the translation by Sir Richard Colt Hoare (see notes to 13.12, 13.14, 13.17, 14.16–17, 20.40); William Camden’s Britannia (see note to 25.28); and Francis Grose’s The Antiquities of England and Wales (see notes to 18.8, 236.42, 241.38–39). On Welsh literature he was particularly indebted to William Owen, later William Owen Pughe, and his The Cambrian Biography: or Historical Notices of Celebrated Men among the Ancient Britons (see notes to 17.20, 20.2–3, 21.29, 22.19, 205.15, 208.32). He had also corresponded with Owen on the subject of Sir Tristrem,4 quotes Owen’s translations from Welsh poetry (see note to 19.40), and in a fascinating letter of 29 April 1814 to Jacob Grimm reveals that he, Scott, knew something of the Mabinogion, via translations by Owen in the hands of George Ellis.5 Scott’s imitations of Welsh poetry in The Betrothed do not seem to derive from Owen, and perhaps owe more to Macpherson’s Ossian. Scott had been sceptical about its authenticity, but there is at times something of its grand gestures in the tone of The Betrothed, just as the beleaguered defiance of Gray’s The Bard (1757) is echoed in the outburst from Vidal (259.14–36). Scott was also abreast of modern scholarship. In The Betrothed he draws from Thomas Dudley Fosbrooke’s British Monachism; or, Manners and Customs of the Monks and Nuns of England (see note to 141.21), Joseph Strutt’s A Complete View of the Dress and Habits of the People of England (see note to 102.30), and Sharon Turner’s History of the Anglo-Saxons (see note to 112.18–24).

  365 Scott’s personal contacts also helped. As indicated in the Essay on the Text above (282), his acquaintance with those genuinely interested in exploring the literature of the Middle Ages—Ellis, Leyden, Ritson, and Weber—undoubtedly enriched his own appreciation. The position is similar on matters Welsh. He decided to send his second son, Charles, to school at Lampeter, in Wales, where the Rev. John Williams, a friend of Lockhart’s from university days, was the master. Charles was there from the autumn of 1820 until early in 1824, preparing for entry to Oxford. He lived in the Williams household and learned some Welsh there.6 Charles could easily have been a direct informant, as indeed could Williams himself (although there is nothing relevant to this topic in the correspondence from this period). However, in April 1824 Williams was appointed as the first Rector of the newly-founded Edinburgh Academy, in the planning of which (and indeed in the appointment itself) Scott had been closely involved. There would have been many occasions over the next year when Scott could have obtained information he needed from Williams. It would have been very unlike Scott not to have taken an interest in the culture of the land to which he had sent his son for education, and he is very likely to have asked searching questions over the dinner table. Contemporary literature also plays its part in shaping The Betrothed. In 1801 Southey published a poem called Thalaba the Destroyer, an eastern tale, and in 1805 Madoc, a Welsh tale or at least one whose hero is a Welsh prince. It can be argued that Tales of the Crusaders is Scott’s riposte to Southey, and it is relevant that he refers to Madoc several times in the course of The Betrothed: see notes to 15.25, 17.20, 18.17–24, 22.19, 25.28, 194.16, 208.32. Overall, then, Scott seems to have been inventing just as much as he was drawing on substantial evidence, and as in the other novels set in the medieval period, he makes free use of material from a wide range of periods. This is inevitable: Scott did not have access to a wealth of documentary evidence such as he used in his seventeenth-century novels, but it can have the effect of making everything medieval appear to have co-existed without change over a period of five hundred years. Principal Characters. As is normal in Scott’s historical novels the principal characters are fictional creations who operate in conjunction with real historical figures. The royal family. The tale is set in the closing years of the reign of Henry II, who was very rarely in England in the late 1180s. He was in France from February 1187 to January 1188, and again from July 1188 until his death there, at Chinon, in July 1189. Richard, too, spent most of his time in France, engaged in conflicts with the French king, with his brother, John, and sometimes also with his father. The encounter between the two sons and their father (246.6) is, therefore, a pleasing fiction. Hugo de Lacy. Scott may have borrowed aspects of a number of members of the Lacy family to create this character. Following the

366   Norman Conquest, several branches of the de Lacy family were granted lands. In the area around Pontefract (Yorkshire), one branch was well established by the early twelfth century, and a Henry de Lacy survived the civil war of mid-century, fought under Henry II in Wales in 1165 and in Normandy in 1173, and died in the Holy Land in 1177. He was succeeded by his son Robert, and when he died without heir in 1193 the Lacy name and estates were assumed by Roger ‘Helle’, the great-grandson of Henry de Lacy’s sister Aubrey. Roger had succeeded his father John as Constable of Chester in 1190, and on his own death in 1211 his son John de Lacy assumed that office. Another branch of the Lacy family had been based at Weobley and Ewyas in Herefordshire, but later held lands all the way from the Welsh border to Oxford and from the Forest of Dean to Bridgnorth. There had been a Hugh de Lacy in this branch at the start of the century (he probably died before 1115) and there was a second, his great-nephew, who probably also fought in Wales in 1165 and certainly in Ireland in the 1170s and 80s, becoming Viceroy of Ireland from 1177 to 1184. His successors were principally concerned with Ireland. He died in 1186.7 Other Characters. The name of Raymond Berenger is that of the Counts of Barcelona and Provence between 1018 and 1162, but the character is fictitious. Ermengarde is not an Anglo-Saxon name, but it is found occasionally in early medieval sources. Scott is most likely to have encountered it as the name of the wife (who was of Norman origin) of William I (‘the Lion’), King of Scots (c. 1142–1214; King from 1165). Eveline and Damian are names drawn from romance tradition, with the latter being best known as the squire in Chaucer’s Merchant’s Tale. As explained in the Essay on the Text (315–17), Scott changed his mind several times about the naming of his Welsh characters, probably because he discovered that he could not follow history at all closely. His final choice of Guenwyn for the principal antagonist of the Normans is roughly accurate, since the historical Gwenwynwyn fought the English under his father, Owain Cyfeiliog, Prince of southern Powys from 1160, and went on to succeed him from 1197 to his own death, probably in 1216. After the publication of the novel, an irate Welshman wrote to Scott complaining of the disrespect shown by the truncation of the famous prince’s full name: the final syllable of the full name means ‘free from blemish’, whereas Gwenwyn (the form in the first edition) means ‘poison’.8  1 See Ivanhoe, ed. Graham Tulloch,     8, 495. 2 Hoare, 1.197. Compare explanatory note to 27.16. 3 Jerome Mitchell, Scott, Chaucer, and Medieval Romance (Lexington, Kentucky, 1987), 172–77. 4 See Letters, 1.147–48, 166–68. 5 Letters, 3.436.

  6  1552, ff. 23–24. 7 W. E. Wightman, The Lacy Family in England and Normandy 1066–1194 (Oxford, 1966). 8  900, ff. 36–38.

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In these notes a comprehensive attempt is made to identify Scott’s sources, and all quotations, references, historical events, and historical personages, to explain proverbs, and to translate difficult or obscure language. (Phrases are explained in the notes while single words are treated in the glossary.) The notes are brief; they offer information rather than critical comment or exposition. When a quotation has not been recognised this is stated: any new information from readers will be welcomed. References are to standard editions, or to the editions Scott himself used. Thus proverbs are normally identified both by reference to the third edition of Ray’s A Compleat Collection of English Proverbs, and to The Oxford Dictionary of English Proverbs. Books in the Abbotsford Library are identified by reference to the appropriate page of the Catalogue of the Library at Abbotsford. When quotations reproduce their sources accurately, the reference is given without comment. Verbal differences in the source are indicated by a prefatory ‘see’, while a general rather than a verbal indebtedness is indicated by ‘compare’. Biblical references are to the Authorised Version. Plays by Shakespeare are cited without authorial ascription, and references are to William Shakespeare: The Complete Works, edited by Peter Alexander (London and Glasgow, 1951, frequently reprinted). The following publications are distinguished by abbreviations, or are given without the names of their authors: Child The English and Scottish Popular Ballads, ed. Francis James Child, 5 vols (Boston and New York, 1882–98). CLA [J. G. Cochrane], Catalogue of the Library at Abbotsford (Edinburgh, 1838).     The Edinburgh Edition of the Waverley Novels (Edinburgh, 1993–). Grose Francis Grose, The Antiquities of England and Wales, new edn, 8 vols (London, 1783–97): CLA, 177. Hoare The Itinerary of Archbishop Baldwin through Wales, A. D. MCLXXXVIII. By Giraldus de Barri [Giraldus Cambrensis], trans. Sir Richard Colt Hoare, Bart., 2 vols (London, 1806): CLA, 242. Letters The Letters of Sir Walter Scott, ed. H. J. C. Grierson and others, 12 vols (London, 1932–37). Lockhart J. G. Lockhart, Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., 7 vols (Edinburgh 1837–38). Madoc Robert Southey, Madoc (1805), in Robert Southey: Poetical Works 1793–1810, ed. Lynda Pratt, 2 vols (London, 2004), Vol. 2: see CLA, 195. Magnum Walter Scott, Waverley Novels, 48 vols (Edinburgh, 1829–33). Minstrelsy Walter Scott, Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, ed. T. F. Henderson, 4 vols (Edinburgh, 1902). ODEP The Oxford Dictionary of English Proverbs, 3rd edn, rev. F. P. Wilson (Oxford, 1970). OED The Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd edn, 20 vols (Oxford, 1989). Owen William Owen [later William Owen Pughe], The Cambrian Biography: or Historical Notices of Celebrated Men among the Ancient Britons (London, 1803). 368

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Percy Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, [ed. Thomas Percy], 4th edn, 3 vols (London, 1794): CLA, 172. Poetical Works The Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., [ed. J. G. Lockhart], 12 vols (Edinburgh 1833–34). Prose Works The Prose Works of Sir Walter Scott, Bart., 28 vols (Edinburgh, 1834–36). Ray J[ohn] Ray, A Compleat Collection of English Proverbs, 3rd edn (London, 1737): CLA, 169. 3.4 sederunt Latin, literally they sat, but from the 15th century used as a noun meaning the list of people present at a meeting. 3.5 joint-stock company business owned by a group of shareholders who have contributed the capital to run it. In the 1820s there was great interest in such companies, formed, for instance, to light towns and build canals. Scott himself had shares in the Edinburgh Oil Gas Light Company which was incorporated by Act of Parliament in May 1824 (5 George IV c. 76), and became its Chairman. 3.7 Waverley Novels until 1827 Scott’s novels were published anonymously, and after Waverley (1814) title pages ascribed the novels to ‘the author of Waverley’ or to ‘Jedidiah Cleishbotham’ in the case of the three series of Tales of My Landlord. The collective title appears as the heading of a general review in The Citizen (Carlisle), new series, 2 (1824), 17–18, 44–45, but this is the first time in which Scott uses it of his own works in print. 3.9 Waterloo Tavern the Edinburgh Waterloo Tavern and Hotel was built in 1819 by a joint-stock company, at 23 Waterloo Place to the E of Princes St. It was Edinburgh’s first purpose-built hotel, and survived until the late 20th century. Scott held four shares in the company: see   112, f. 59. 3.9 Regent’s Bridge bridge over Calton Road built in 1816–19, to the design of Archibald Elliot. It takes the continuation of Princes St over to the Calton Hill. 3.13–16 public papers . . . public prints newspapers. 3.28 periodical press journals appearing monthly or quarterly. 4.3 Eidolon insubstantial image; apparition. As Scott’s novels were ascribed to ‘the Author of Waverley’, he presents himself here as the shadowy chairman of the meeting. In the Introductory Epistle to The Fortunes of Nigel (1822), Captain Clutterbuck (see note to 6.21) has an interview with ‘the Eidolon, or Representation, of the Author of Waverley’ in a back room of the publisher’s shop (ed. Frank Jordan,     13, 4.43–5.1). 4.4 Jonathan Oldbuck the central character in Scott’s The Antiquary (1816). 4.17 scores of volumes the first editions of the novels prior to Tales of the Crusaders occupy 55 volumes, the second and subsequent true editions 80, and the collected editions 95. 4.19 the immortal Adam Smith, concerning the division of labour Adam Smith (1723–90) argued in An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations (1776) that in order to be more efficient the manufacturing process should be divided into its constituent parts, with each one the responsibility of an individual worker. The first chapter is called ‘Of the Division of Labour’, and the first example is of pin-making which requires ‘about eighteen distinct operations, which, in some manufactories, are all performed by distinct hands’ (An Enquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations, 5th edn, 3 vols (London, 1789), 1.8: CLA, 256). 4.25 Pomaragrains probably a fictitious name, used in Guy Mannering in the description of a boundary dispute in which the Border farmer, Dandie

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Dinmont, is involved. See Guy Mannering, ed. P. D. Garside,     2, 207.14, 16, and note to 207.13–15. 4.25–26 before ye could say Dumpling this is apparently a proverbial saying: compare Saint Ronan’s Well (1824), ed. Mark Weinstein,     16, 74.42–43. 4.29 Dandie Dinmont see note to 4.25. Dinmont bred terriers and a breed of terrier is named after him. 4.30 ye may mind him you really must remember him. 4.30 ane o’ the best in your aught literally one of the best in your possession, i.e. of your creation. 4.31 am come into have inherited. 4.32 a wheen shares a fair number of shares. 4.38 in ordinary in due course. 4.38–39 associate us into a corporate body formerly each trading company was individually created by Act of Parliament, and usually given a monopoly of trade in its area of the world (the East India Company being the most famous example) or in a particular commodity, with the right to prosecute those who tried to infringe its ‘exclusive privilege’ (i.e. monopoly). 4.39 persona standi in judicio Latin a legal entity in the eyes of the law (similar to that pertaining to individual persons). 5.1 made and provided laid down within the statute. 5.2 Mr Dousterswivel character in The Antiquary, who claims to be able to find buried treasure by dowsing (hence his name), and who is shown to be a fraudster by Oldbuck and Ochiltree. 5.7 Groningen a town in the N of the Netherlands, once famous for the production of linen. 5.14 as rich as a Jew in Castle Rackrent (1800) Maria Edgeworth writes of ‘the old proverb of “as rich as a Jew”’: ed. Jane Desmarais, Tim McLoughlin and Marilyn Butler (London, 1999), 23 (The Novels and Selected Works of Maria Edgeworth, ed. Marilyn Butler and Mitzi Myers, 12 vols (London, 1999–2003), 1). The phrase is recorded in the late 17th century. 5.19 Pretty much the same in the Greek i.e. it does not matter what you call Dousterswivel, he is still a scoundrel. Compare Joseph Mitchell, ‘The Memorial: An Ode’, lines 51–52 (‘It is not Money, Sir, I seek;/ (Tho’ that’s the same Thing in the Greek)’), and ‘The Subscription: An Anacreontique’, lines 21–34, in his Poems on Several Occasions, 2 vols (London, 1732), 2.57, 71. 5.24 by the use of steam following the continuous improvements from the 1760s in the design and operation of steam engines effected by James Watt (1736–1819), the firm of Boulton and Watt was established in Birmingham in 1794 for the production of steam engines, which were adopted by the textile industries in the early 19th century with huge increases in output and productivity. 5.26 Blown up ruined: see OED, blow, verb1, 25a. There may also be a suggestion of Luddism: in 1811–12 and again in 1816 textile workers destroyed machines which were seen as reducing the demand for labour. 5.26 Bread taken out of our mouths proverbial taking away our livelihood: see ODEP, 800. 5.27 a steam parson i.e. (literally) a mechanical minister of religion. While ‘steam parson’ is obviously derogatory, the term ‘parson’ itself can have pejorative overtones (see OED, parson, 2). 5.39 the Sage of Laputa in Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels (1726), Part 3, Ch. 5, one of the professors of the Academy of Laputa uses a machine containing all the words of his language to write books ‘without the least assistance from genius or study’.

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5.40–41 by which weavers of damask alter their patterns the Jacquard loom, a mechanical loom invented by Joseph Marie Jacquard (1752–1834) in 1801, makes use of punched cards to determine the pattern. It was introduced to Scotland in 1825: Alfred Barlow, The History and Principles of Weaving by Hand and by Power (London, 1878), 48. 6.1–2 the Rev. Mr Lawrence Templeton Laurence Templeton is the fictional author of Scott’s Ivanhoe (1820). 6.3 Walladmor novel in three volumes (Berlin, 1824), purporting to be by Friedrich August Herbig, freely translated from the English of Walter Scott (‘Frei nach dem Englischen des Walter Scott’). The work was a parody, by Willibald Alexis, who had already published translations of The Lady of the Lake and The Lay of the Last Minstrel in 1822 and 1824 respectively, and had reviewed Scott’s novels. When it reached Britain, Walladmor was at once recognised as a hoax; it was reviewed by De Quincey who commented: ‘“Freely translated!” Yes, no want of freedom! All free and easy! impossible to complain on that score. Verily, this is the boldest hoax of our times’ (London Magazine, 10 (1824), 353). 6.7 the country in which he laid the scene Wales. 6.15 Dr Dryasdust fictional antiquary who appears in The Antiquary (ed. David Hewitt,     3, 282.2), is the dedicatee of Ivanhoe (ed. Graham Tulloch,     8, 5.3), cited as an authority in the final paragraph of The Pirate (ed. Mark Weinstein and Alison Lumsden,     12, 391), the recipient of the Introductory Epistle to The Fortunes of Nigel (ed. Frank Jordan,     13, 3.4), and the nominal author of the Prefatory Letter to Peveril of the Peak (ed. Alison Lumsden,     14, 3–12). His views on the origin of playing cards are referred to in a mock footnote to Quentin Durward (ed. J. H. Alexander and G. A. M. Wood,     15, 102.39–43), and he is the supposed author of the Conclusion to Redgauntlet (ed. G. A. M. Wood with David Hewitt,     17, 378–80). 6.17 Cymmerodion Welsh (Cymmrodorion) fellow-countrymen. The Honourable Society of Cymmrodorion was set up in 1751, and refounded in 1820, to promote the study of ancient Welsh literature and tradition. Scott had a copy of the first volume of its Transactions (1822): CLA, 315. 6.18–19 Llhuyd . . . Powel . . . Lewis’s History Edward Lhuyd, Archæologia Britannica (Oxford, 1707; CLA, 265); Caradoc of Lhancarvan, The History of Wales, trans. [David] Powel, ed. [William] Wynne (London, 1697; CLA, 237); and John Lewis, The History of Great-Britain (London, 1729; CLA, 232). 6.21 Captain Clutterbuck fictional author of the Introductory Epistle to The Monastery (ed. Penny Fielding,     9, 3–23), in which he explains how he came by the manuscript on which that novel is based, and is thus the recipient of the letter from the Author of Waverley that precedes The Abbot (ed. Christopher Johnson,     10, 3–4); and author of the Introductory Epistle to The Fortunes of Nigel (    13, 3–17). 6.25 chair of John of Gaunt turret on the battlements of Lancaster Castle, named after John of Gaunt (1340–99). 6.26 Cador-Edris Cadair Idris (‘Idris’s Chair’), a mountain (892m) in W Wales. The implication is that this is where the astronomer Idris looked at the stars (see note to 205.15). 6.27 The Talisman companion novel to The Betrothed; it met with more approval from Scott’s associates before publication than this one. See Essay on the Text, 287. 6.27 more trippingly off see Hamlet, 3.2.2. 6.28–29 the worthy minister of Saint Ronan’s Well Rev. Josiah Cargill, a character in Scott’s Saint Ronan’s Well (1824).

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6.29–30 the Siege of Ptolemais the imminent publication of a book on this topic by the Rev. Josiah Cargill is announced in a mock advertisement on the final page of Saint Ronan’s Well (ed. Mark Weinstein,     16, [373]). Ptolemais, later also known as St John of Acre, fell to Saladin in July 1187, but, after a long siege, was recaptured by the Crusaders in July 1191. 6.34 great Historical Poem in The Antiquary Oldbuck presses the idea of a great epic on Lovel: ‘What think you of a real epic?—the grand oldfashioned historical poem which moved through twelve or twenty-four books —we’ll have it so—I’ll supply you with a subject—The battle between the Caledonians and Romans—The Caledoniad; or, Invasion Repelled—Let that be the title’ (The Antiquary,     3, 107.4–8). 6.35 ad Græcas Kalendas Latin until the Greek Calends. Since the Greeks had no equivalent to the Roman term Calends, the word used of the first day of the month and from which other dates were reckoned, the phrase means ‘forever’. It may have been coined by the Emperor Augustus: see Suetonius (c.  70–c. 160), Augustus, 87.1. 6.41 Committee of Criticism standing committee of a literary society, providing criticism of compositions and declamations, or any committee set up to assess the quality of information at its disposal. 7.5 Vis unita fortior Latin strength united is stronger. Proverbial: see ODEP, 854. 7.6 Societas mater discordiarum Latin partnership is the mother of discords (or disputes). 7.10 studied the monastic institutions Oldbuck lives in Monkbarns, which is said to have been one of the farms of the Abbey of Trotcosey (The Antiquary,     3, 19.4–6). 7.12 the spirit of the age the phrase acquired a special resonance as a result of William Hazlitt’s essays on his major contemporaries, published in the New Monthly Magazine in 1824; 18 were collected as The Spirit of the Age and published on 11 January 1825. 7.12–13 Tres faciunt collegium Latin three form a college. The tag, which Scott probably met as a student of law, derives from the jurist Neratius Priscus of the early 2nd century  : his writings do not survive, but he is quoted in these terms by the late 2nd-century jurist Ulpius Marcellus. In later usage the phrase often has a more general significance: ‘three people are necessary for the existence of any kind of community’. 7.14 nine tailors to make a man proverbial: see ODEP, 567. 7.17 the Prince of Orange William of Orange (1650–1702). His mother was the daughter of Charles I, and thus he was nephew of Charles II and James VII and II. He was chosen as Stadtholder in 1672 and quickly made himself leader of the United Provinces (the Netherlands). He fought a long war with Louis XIV in order to contain French expansion. Supported by English politicians, he invaded England on 5 November 1688 landing unopposed in Torbay. His uncle James fled the country, and following this ‘Glorious Revolution’ he and his wife Mary, daughter of James VII and II, were invited to assume the thrones of England and Scotland in 1689. 7.18 Mr Seymour not identified, but possibly Sir Edward Seymour (1633–1708; baronet from 1688) who joined William (see previous note) soon after his invasion on 5 November 1688. 7.18 Without an association, we are a rope of sand the conversation has not been traced. A ‘rope of sand’ is proverbial: see ODEP, 684. 7.20 the old leaven 1 Corinthians 5.7: ‘Purge out therefore the old leaven’, i.e. purge traces of the old, unregenerate condition, in this case adherence to the cause of the Stuarts. 7.21 a Jacobite novel i.e. Waverley, which can be construed as sympath-

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etic to the Jacobite cause. The Jacobites (from the Latin Jacobus, James) were followers of James VII and II and his descendants. 7.21–23 know nothing . . . William the Third i.e. the Author of Waverley is being accused of indicating his Jacobite bias by talking of ‘William of Orange’, William’s rightful Dutch name, rather than his title as King of England, Scotland and Ireland. 7.31 of solid parts having abilities that are reliable and substantial. 7.32 caballing plotting. The word ‘cabal’ was formed from the initial letters of the names of five of Charles II’s ministers, who governed from 1667–73, and alludes to the Hebrew cabbala, ‘occult science’. 7.35 black cattle Highland cattle of the time were typically black; they were reared in Scotland and driven S in herds to be fattened for the English market. 7.38–39 extremes of rude and of civilized society the two poles in the theoretic studies of society of the 18th-century Enlightenment: e.g. in Adam Ferguson, An Essay on the History of Civil Society (1767), Part II concerns ‘the History of Rude Nations’, while Part IV deals with ‘the Advancement of Civil and Commercial Arts’. The Author of Waverley makes a commonplace observation on the condition of Scotland in arguing that the disparity between the rude (represented by Highland patriarchy) and the cultivated (represented by the commercial and comparatively prosperous South) is closing, but develops the point in a teasing way by making out that the new capitalist investor is now in the same situation as those in an economically undeveloped society (compare note to 4.19). 7.40 the patriarchal period a period where social authority resides in a chief whose word is law. 8.3 hydraulic machine steam-powered pump, used to raise water from mines, particularly the tin mines of Cornwall. 8.6–7 illuminates his house to advance his own Gas Establishment see note to 3.5. Abbotsford was one of the first private houses to be lit by gas, in 1823. 8.10–11 odor lucri Latin smell of profit. See Juvenal (who wrote between  98 and 128), Satires, 14.204, ‘lucri bonus est odor’ (the smell of profit is good), alluding to a story in Suetonius (c.  70–c. 160), Vespasian, 23. 8.15–16 the late facetious Doctor G—— James Gregory (1753–1821), Professor of Medicine at the University of Edinburgh 1776–1821. His Censorian Letter to the President and Fellows of the Royal College of Physicians in Edinburgh (Edinburgh, 1805) is a polemic against some of the revisions proposed to the legislation that governed the College, in particular the suggested repeal of the Act that prohibited a physician from acting as his own apothecary. At the climax of his brilliant and sarcastic diatribe, Gregory suggests that for him to enter into partnership with Mr Trotter, an undertaker, in a firm called ‘              ’ (Censorian Letter, 136) would be no less offensive than the combination of ‘the trade of Apothecary with the profession of Physician’ (134). Gregory’s witty sarcasm in his account of the benefits of combining the two occupations, as well as its likely effect of driving the whole population to flee south of the border, clearly appealed to Scott, who has here adopted Gregory’s ‘partnership’ in the form of a ‘joint-stock company’. 8.27 Hinc illæ lachrymæ Latin hence those tears. A frequently used phrase from Terence (c. 195–159  ), Andria, 1.1.99. 8.34 the House the House of Commons. 8.38–39 reasons in the contrair Scots counter-arguments; arguments against.

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8.39–40 to bell-the-cat proverbial to undertake a dangerous mission, from the fable of the mice who agreed to hang a bell round the cat’s neck, but were each too afraid to do it (ODEP, 44). 8.40 Pitscottie Robert Lindsay of Pitscottie (c. 1532–c. 1586), compiler of The Historie and Cronicles of Scotland which covers the period 1437–1575. 8.40–41 the great Earl of Angus Archibald Douglas, (c. 1449–1513), 5th Earl of Angus from 1463, gained the nickname ‘Bell-the-Cat’ in 1482 when he led an attack on the favourites of James III. 8.42 Have a care of take heed of; beware of. 9.3 ex cathedra Latin from the chair [of a bishop]. As the Pope’s pronouncements from his throne are said to be infallible, the phrase is used to suggest an unwarranted use of authority. 9.4 per ambages Latin by means of digression (or evasion). See Virgil (70–19  ), Georgics, 2.46. 9.7 above stairs where the gentry live as distinct from the servants. 9.7–9 whereas last year . . . gathering pearls a bill ‘for Prevention of Frauds in Establishment of Joint Stock Companies’ was introduced in the House of Commons on 29 April 1825 (Tales of the Crusaders was published on 23 June 1825); among its objectives, as stated in the preamble (p. 6), is ‘that His Majesty’s subjects should be fully and completely protected from the frauds of any individuals who, for the sake of their own pecuniary advantage, and with no view of establishing a permanent joint stock company, shall or may receive tenders for shares in schemes merely visionary’. See also note to 9.24. 9.12 fire or air, land or water the traditional four elements, but used here to describe the kinds of joint-stock companies recently established for lighting by gas, mining, canal building, etc. 9.16 Lost before the committee probably referring to the procedure whereby bills before the House of Commons are considered in detail by a committee before being brought back for the approval of the whole House. 9.19 Saint Dunstan’s clock two Herculean figures ornamented the famous clock of St Dunstan in the West, in Fleet Street, London, striking two bells at the quarters with clubs. The clock was installed in 1671; the present building of 1831–33 replaced the medieval church, and the clock was restored to it in 1936. For St Dunstan see note to 107.43. 9.23 The Lord Chan—— the Lord Chancellor. In 1825 the Lord Chancellor, who presided in the House of Lords, was John Scott (1751–1838), created 1st Earl of Eldon in 1821. 9.24 Lord Lau—— James Maitland (1759–1839), 8th Earl of Lauderdale from 1789, and 1st Baron Lauderdale of Thirlestane in the British peerage from 1806 with a seat in the House of Lords. He was initially a Whig but by the 1820s was a Tory and a supporter of the government. In 1824 and 1825 he campaigned to restrain the proliferation of joint-stock companies which lacked sound finances (see note to 9.7–9). 9.25 Scandalum magnatum Latin defamation of a peer or holder of a great office of state, which was an offence from 1275 although obsolete in 1825. 9.28 Breach of Privilege it is not specified what breach of parliamentary privilege has arisen, but it may well consist of showing the chair disrespect. 9.31–32 Called before the House when a complaint concerning privilege is made, the person complained of is summoned to appear before the House of Lords or Commons, as appropriate, to explain his or her conduct. 10.1 what is called a bore the use of bore to designate a person in this sense is first recorded in 1812. The word, whose etymology is undetermined, first appears in the sense of ‘ennui’ in 1766.

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10.7–13 no longer avail myself . . . expedients in The Tempest, 5.1.33–57, Prospero lists all the elves and other powers by which he has controlled nature, but goes on to say ‘this rough magic/ I here abjure’ (50–51); so the Author of Waverley lists many of the features of the Waverley Novels, and indicates he will abjure them all by writing ‘History’. In line 41 (‘weak masters though ye be’) Sir Thomas Hanmer (1677–1746) emended ‘masters’ to ‘ministers’: The Works of Shakespear, 6 vols (Oxford, 1744), 1.63. Scott may be recalling this, or he may be adjusting the quotation to suit the context. 10.8–9 unbeget you, as Old Absolute says in The Rivals (1775) by Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Sir Anthony Absolute threatens his son with ‘I’ll disown you, I’ll disinherit you, I’ll unget you!’ (2.1) if the latter refuses to marry the heiress that his father has chosen for him. 10.14 vindicate my own fame with my own right-hand this declaration may be derived from the motto of the British monarchy, ‘Dieu et mon droit’ (God and my right), which is sometimes translated as ‘God and my right hand’. It prefigures Scott’s declaration following his insolvency in January 1826: ‘I will involve no friend either rich or poor—My own right hand shall do it’ (The Journal of Sir Walter Scott, ed. W. E. K. Anderson (Oxford, 1972), 65). 10.16 Whom I have used for sport, rather than need see King John, 5.2.175. 10.17 my foundations . . . quick-sands see Matthew 7.26. 10.18 painted cards a structure built of playing cards is proverbially fragile (OED, noun2 1b). 10.23 Sir John Mandeville the supposed author of a popular 14thcentury compilation of travel writings, known in English as Mandeville’s Travels, in which the author claims to have travelled through much of Asia, to have visited Prester John (a legendary Christian ruler in Asia or Africa), and to have served the Emperor of China. The name became a by-word for a teller of exaggerated traveller’s tales. 10.27–28 Geoffrey of Monmouth (c. 1100–55), author of the Historia regum Britanniae (History of the Kings of Britain) which purports to be based on a lost manuscript. His account of the history of Britain from the arrival of Trojan colonisers under Brutus (see note to 25.21) to the defeat of the Welsh by the English in the 7th century is based on myth and may have been partly invented by Geoffrey, but, importantly, gave an extremely influential and full account of the exploits of Arthur and of Merlin, on which so much literature and history in Britain and Europe were subsequently based. 10.28 Lord Clarendon Edward Hyde (1609–74), created 1st Earl of Clarendon in 1661, author of the most authoritative early history of the English Civil War, in which he had himself played a part. He began compiling it in 1641 as soon as the conflict began, and continued it in exile after 1667. The complete work, The History of the Rebellion and Civil Wars in England (CLA, 24), was not published until 1702–04. 10.30 touch his forehead an indication that the speaker is mad. 10.32–35 Be by your friends . . . mad see Kane O’Hara, Midas, 1.94–97, a burletta (musical farce) first published in 1764, and frequently performed, including at the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh. Midas is a burlesque version of the story of Midas having to judge between the musical skills of the satyr Pan and the god Apollo in disguise. He chooses Pan, and so is punished by Apollo. The lines quoted by Clutterbuck come in a heavenly council of the gods, at which (in the Third Air) Apollo sings these lines critical of his father, Jupiter (‘dad’), and is consequently cast out of heaven by a ‘bolt’.

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10.42–43 Life of Napoleon . . . Waverley Scott suggested a Life of Napoleon at a meeting with Constable in May 1825 (Lockhart, 6.28–32); Tales of the Crusaders was published on 23 June 1825. The Life of Napoleon Buonaparte appeared in 1827 in 9 volumes. 11.2 Scottish rappee a blend of coarse snuff prepared in Scotland. 11.9–10 hold at defiance treat defiantly. 11.11–13 the meeting . . . much-admired disorder see Macbeth, 3.4.109–10. 13.6–7 motto this sentence has not been found in John Lewis, The History of Great-Britain (London, 1729; CLA, 232), nor elsewhere. The best approximation is in [Johannes Sleidanus (1506–56)], A Famovse Cronicle of oure time, called Sleidanes Commentaries, concerning the state of Religion and common wealth, during the raigne of the Emperour Charles the fift, trans. Ihon Daus (London, 1560), f. 196v: ‘At thys tyme also began hote warre betwene England & Scotland’ (CLA, 229). By ‘hote warre’ is meant war of a particularly intense and violent kind. The Welsh Marches take in the counties of Cheshire, Shropshire and Hereford. 13.10 the year — in the   Scott left the date blank, but the first edition prints 1187, the year in which the Crusaders lost the battle of Hattin (4 July) and then Jerusalem itself (2 October). In the wake of these disasters, the Third Crusade was instituted in order to try to regain Jerusalem. This edition returns to the unspecified year, because there is insufficient time for the action of the novel, particularly Hugo’s absence in the Holy Land, to take place between late 1187 and the death of Henry II in July 1189: see Historical Note, 362–63. 13.11–12 the Lords Marchers Norman noblemen given absolute powers (equivalent to those of the king) in the Marches, or borders, of England and Wales. 13.12 formidable castles after the Conquest in 1066, ‘the Earl of Shrewsbury did homage for Powys, fortifying the town and castle of Baldwyn, which he called after his own name, Montgomery; Hugh Lupus did homage for Englefield and Rhyvonioc; Ralph Mortimer for Elvel; Hugh de Lacie for Ewias, and Eustace Cruer for Mold and Hopedale. The first object of these Norman lords was to erect strong castles, as a security for their usurped dominions’ (Hoare, 1.clxxix). After the Welsh resurgence in the first half of the 12th century, Anglo-Norman control slipped; many of the remains of castles in places like Brockhurst, Ludlow and Montgomery date from later. The great castles (which are perhaps those designated by ‘formidable’) such as Caernarvon, Conway and Harlech were built for Edward I (1239–1307; King from 1272) after his conquest of Wales 1274–84. 13.13 the ancient British the inhabitants of the southern parts of Britain in pre-Roman and in Roman times withdrew westwards in the postRoman period under pressure from the invasions of the Anglo-Saxons, becoming known by the Anglo-Saxon name for them, the Welsh. 13.14 Giraldus de Barri Gerald of Wales, Giraldus Cambrensis, or Gerald de Barry (c. 1146–c. 1223), author of The Description of Wales, and The Itinerary through Wales, the latter a record of his journey in 1188 with Archbishop Baldwin who was recruiting for the Third Crusade, with extraordinary success. In fact, he did not become Bishop of St David’s, despite being elected by the chapter in June 1199, because King John, who had recently succeeded his brother, Richard I, withheld his assent. In the first translation of his work (by Hoare) the Itinerary is to be found at 1.1–2.210, and the Description at 2.253–364, but Hoare’s very extensive notes and commentary are probably more important for The Betrothed than Gerald. 13.15 Baldwin Baldwin (c. 1125–90) became Bishop of Worcester in

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1180 and Archbishop of Canterbury in 1184. He died in 1190 in Acre in Palestine while on the Third Crusade. 13.16 preached the Crusade urged the population to volunteer to serve with the Christian forces in the Holy Land. 13.17 Cambria according to Gerald in The Description of Wales, this name for ‘all that region which lies beyond the Severn’ (Hoare, 2.287) derives from Camber, one of the sons of Brutus. According to Geoffrey of Monmouth (see notes to 10.27–28 and 25.21) Brutus, a descendant of refugees from Troy, settled in Britain, and (in Gerald’s words) gave ‘his name to the country and people’. 13.18 the Holy Sepulchre the cave outside the walls of Jerusalem where Christ’s body is believed to have lain between his crucifixion and resurrection, and, from the 4th century, marked by a church. Jerusalem had been captured by Muslim forces in October 1187, and the object of the Third Crusade was its recovery. 14.13 Guenwyn see Historical Note, 366. 14.15 Powis-land the N part of E Wales, bordering on Cheshire and Shropshire, N of the Severn, from the middle of the 12th century divided into two princedoms. The standard spelling has become ‘Powys’ since Scott’s time. 14.16–17 Mortimers, Guarines, Latimers, Fitz-Alans for Mortimer see note to 13.12. Scott would have found Guarine in the account of the fight to control Ludlow for Walter Lacy (in Hoare, 2.196–97). No Latimer has been found on the Marches in the 12th century, but the surname comes from Old French latinier, meaning an ‘interpreter’ (literally one who knows Latin). The Fitz-Alans were originally Breton, and built up large estates in the Marches, becoming Lords of Clun and Oswestry, then Earls of Arundel from the 13th century. 14.21–22 Roderick Mawr . . . Mervyn Rhodri Mawr (‘the Great’) was until his death in 878 ruler of Gwynedd (NW Wales) from 844. He may also have ruled Powys from 855, and Seisyllwg (roughly between Aberystwyth and Swansea) from 872. Tradition, rather than history, assigns Powys to Mervyn after his father’s death. 14.24 Tall men Scott probably refers to the Welsh uchelwyr, the ‘high’ men or nobles (see 25.1). 14.30–31 Torch of Pengwern Pengwern is the Welsh name for Shrewsbury. There appears to be no record of the phrase, but it is a plausible invention. 14.33 Plinlimmon Plynlimmon, a mountain (758 m) E of Aberystwyth, on which the Severn rises. 14.42 Sir Raymond Berenger see Historical Note, 366. 15.1 Castle of Garde Douloureuse in Lancelot, part of the early 13thcentury French ‘Vulgate Cycle’ of Arthurian stories, Lancelot conquers the castle of ‘la dolorouse garde’, adopts it as his own, and later alters its name to ‘la ioiouse garde’: Le Livre de Lancelot del Lac, in The Vulgate Version of the Arthurian Romances, ed. H. Oskar Sommer, 7 vols (Washington, 1908–13), 3.143–92. In Malory’s The Morte Arthur, Lancelot changes its name after his banishment from the court of King Arthur: ‘And so he toke his way to Joyus Garde, and than ever afftir he called hit the “Dolerous [Garde]”’ (‘The Vengeance of Sir Gawaine’, in The Works of Sir Thomas Malory, ed. Eugene Vinaver, 2nd edn, 3 vols (Oxford, 1967; continuously paginated), 1202: Bk 20, Ch. 17 in Caxton’s edition). 15.21 Castle of Colune Colune is an 18th-century spelling for both the river and the town of Clun in Shropshire (see Historical Note, 363). 15.25 Cadwallon an imaginary character, but probably suggested by

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Madoc, Part 1, sections 2 and 3, where there is a blind seer called Cadwallon. 15.33–34 the teeth . . . out of sight although apparently proverbial, this is not listed as a recognised proverb. 15.43 Hugo de Lacy, Constable of Chester see Historical Note, 365–66. 16.7 was in the use of working out normally accomplished. 16.25–26 the Pope was not like to be scrupulous while the Church has always taught that marriage is indissoluble, an ecclesiastical court (usually the papacy when reigning monarchs were involved) could nullify a marriage for specific reasons including marriage within the specified degrees and nonconsummation. There were three popes in the course of 1187, but if Scott had a name in mind it was probably Clement III (Pope 1187–91) who can be considered the organiser of the Third Crusade, and was known to Scott as the Pope who made the Church in Scotland independent of the Archbishopric of York. His attitude to annulment is not known. 16.27 assumed the Cross engaged himself to go on a crusade. In the First Crusade, crusaders of all the participating nations wore red crosses on their shoulders; in later crusades the colour of the crosses varied: see Edward Gibbon, The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (originally published 1776–88), ed. Oliphant Smeaton, introd. Christopher Dawson, 6 vols (London, 1966; this Everyman’s Library edition first appeared in 1910), 6.39n (Ch. 58: see CLA, 204). Hugo de Lacy wears a white cross (83.35). 16.31–32 the manners of Wales . . . interim arrangement although Church authorities disapproved, it seems that in the middle ages there were many instances of young aristocratic women being offered as concubines prior to marriage to ensure social, dynastic and other objectives; and of course some women voluntarily entered non-marital relationships, as e.g. Eleanor of Aquitaine probably did before marrying the Count of Anjou, the future Henry II (see note to 173.12). 16.33 Saint David’s the diocese of St David’s as reformed by the Normans covered most of SW Wales as well as some of the lands in central Wales W of the Severn, but Powys was probably under the Bishop of St Asaph’s in the north. 16.36 Twelfth-day 6 January, the normal end of the festive period that began at Christmas. 16.39–40 made small account of little valued. 17.20 Einion a fairly common name in Owen, but there may be a reference to Mebydd Einion, Archdeacon of Celynog (d. 1151), ‘characterized by Caradog as the wisest of the learned men of North Wales, who was used to counsel wisdom, justice, and mercy; but little was his advice attended to in that country’ (Owen, 109). Scott also knew the name from Madoc, Part 1, Bk 11, line 60. 17.34 six ounces 170 gm. 18.1 Vashti, Esther, and Ahasuerus King Ahasuerus rejected his wife, Vashti, who refused to appear before him, in favour of the Jew Esther (Esther Chs 1–2). 18.8 Castell-Coch ‘This Castle . . . was anciently called Pool castle, from its vicinity to Welch Pool; and also castle Coch, or the Red castle, from the colour of the stones with which it was built, and only obtained its present name of Powis castle, since the fifth year of the reign of King Charles the First, when Sir William Herbert was created Baron Powis of Powis’ (Grose, 7.99). 18.10–11 princely . . . later period Powis Castle dates from the 13th century. It was extensively remodelled in the late 16th century, and again in the 17th and 18th centuries. It does not seem to have been owned by any Duke of

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Beaufort; from the 17th to 20th centuries it belonged to the earls of Powis before being left to the National Trust in 1952. The 3rd Marquess of Worcester, whose ancestors had lived in Raglan Castle, was elevated to become Duke of Beaufort in 1682. 18.17–24 motto not identified; probably by Scott. Madoc is the central character in Southey’s poem of that name. 18.21 stern Necessity dire necessity. In 1826 this was a relatively new phrase, and Scott would have met it in Joanna Baillie, The Family Legend (Edinburgh, 1810), 5.1.84 (he wrote the prologue for this play), and James Hogg, The Queen’s Wake (Edinburgh, 1813): see the edition by Douglas S. Mack (Edinburgh, 2004), 67 (Night the Second, line 449). 18.22 Dull Peace the phrase is found in several works before Scott, e.g. Thomas Dekker, ‘A Discription of the Muster made by Children’ (1616), line 26, and Ben Jonson, ‘Part of the Kings Entertainment in Passing to his Coronation’ (also 1616), line 57. 19.21–22 the more elegant and costly beverage i.e. wine. 19.36 the long moustaches moustaches were not characteristic of 12thcentury Welshmen. Scott may be influenced here by Classical descriptions of the Celts or Gauls: see e.g. Diodorus Siculus (c. 40  ), 5.28.3. 19.40 Eudor-chawg Welsh, eurdorchawg wearing a golden torque. For the term see the 6th-century ‘Elegy of Llywarç Hen, On Old Age, and the Loss of his Sons’, in The Heroic Elegies and Other Pieces of Llywarç Hen, trans. William Owen [later Willian Owen Pugh] (London, 1792), 134: CLA, 156. 20.2–3 three diademed princes Owen, 331. Scott uses the same information in his edition of Sir Tristrem (in Poetical Works, 5.23), where ‘Trystan, with Gwair and Cai, were called the three diadem’d princes of Britain’. 20.5 squires of his body young gentlemen who attended personally upon him. 20.9–10 foot-bearer ‘the name of an officer in the courts of the ancient Anglo-Saxon and Welch kings. He was a young gentleman whose duty it was to sit on the floor, with his back towards the fire, and hold the king’s feet in his bosom all the time he sat at table, to keep them warm and comfortable’ (‘Feet’ in Encyclopaedia Britannica, 3rd edn, 18 vols (Edinburgh, 1797), 7.186). 20.16–17 broad, sharp, short two-edged sword known as the gladius, this weapon for hand-to-hand fighting was adopted by Roman armies in the 2nd century  . Scott probably recalled Polybius (c. 202–120  ) writing of the battle of Telamon in 225  (Histories, 2.30) when the short thrusting swords of the Romans overcame the long slashing weapons of the Gauls. 20.19–20 pikes . . . bills the first three are long-handled weapons. A pike has a pointed tip; a halberd is also pointed but has in addition an axelike cutting edge on one side; a Danish axe is a battle-axe with a very long blade. The remaining two have shorter handles and serve primarily as agricultural implements but can be used in warfare: the Welch hook has a hooked tip and is used for pruning, cutting wood, and hedge-laying; the bill has a concave blade. 20.23–24 the stricter rules . . . chivalry imposed in ‘An Essay on Chivalry’ (1818), Scott writes that other than the adoption of Christianity ‘we know no cause which has produced such general and permanent difference betwixt the ancients and moderns, as that which has arisen out of the institution of chivalry’; he goes on to describe the training of a knight which includes ‘practising the virtues of humility, modesty, and temperance’ (Prose Works, 6.3, 5).

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20.28–40 minstrels . . . bards in ‘An Essay on the Ancient Minstrels in England’, Thomas Percy writes: ‘The M were an order of men in the middle ages, who subsisted by the arts of poetry and music, and sang to the harp verses composed by themselves, or others. They also appear to have accompanied their songs with mimicry and action; and to have practised such various means of diverting as were much admired in those rude times, and supplied the want of more refined entertainment. These arts rendered them extremely popular and acceptable in this and all the neighbouring countries; where no high scene of festivity was esteemed complete, that was not set off with the exercise of their talents; and where, so long as the spirit of chivalry subsisted, they were protected and caressed . . . The M  seem to have been the genuine successors of the ancient  , who under different names were admired and revered, from the earliest ages, among the people of Gaul, Britain, Ireland, and the North; and indeed by almost all the first inhabitants of Europe, whether of Celtic or Gothic race . . . Their skill was considered as something divine; their persons were deemed sacred; their attendance was solicited by kings; and they were every where loaded with honours and rewards’ (Percy, 1.xxi–xxii). 20.40 the order of the bards it seems that from the 7th century bards were regulated into an order: see Hoare, 2.300–19. 20.41 the Druids members of the priestly and learned class in the ancient Celtic societies of Western Europe, Britain and Ireland. They were suppressed by the Romans and disappeared from the written record by the 2nd century  . 21.29 Caradoc of Menwygent a fictitious character from an imaginary but plausible place. Caradoc is a fairly common name in Owen (39–41). 21.42–22.1 as a lion . . . maiden compare Una meeting her lion in Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene, Bk 1 (1590), Canto 3, stanzas 5–9. 22.16 Taliessin or Taliesin, a 6th-century poet, with an enduring reputation, who in the later middle ages came to be thought of as a magician or prophet. Some of his work has survived in the Book of Taliesin (Llyfr Taliesin in Welsh), one of the most famous Welsh manuscripts (now in the National Library of Wales), which dates from the first half of the 14th century though many of the poems are much older. The proverb has not been traced, and it may be Scott’s invention. 22.19 Iorworth as ‘Iorwerth’ a fairly common name in Owen (208–09). The bards were also the heralds, and six of the Iorwerths in Owen are described as poets. Scott would also have found the name in Madoc (1805), Part 1, Bk 1, lines 74, 179. 22.35 language . . . of Britain British (or Brythonic), from which both Welsh and Cornish are descended, was the common language in Roman times throughout Britain S of the Forth-Clyde line in Scotland, and survived in SW Scotland, Cumbria and Cornwall even after the Anglo-Saxon conquest of what is now called England in the 5th and 6th centuries. 22.36 Tintadgel . . . Cairleoil Tintagel on the N coast of Cornwall, and Carlisle in Cumbria. Both have associations with the legendary 6thcentury British king, Arthur. 22.41 the feast of Saint David 1 March. St David is the patron saint of Wales. 24.6 by no case probably in no way; by no means. 24.10–11 The sheep and the goats . . . the other in the Bible sheep and goats are never used to make a racial point such as this, but the image implies that one people are chosen and the other condemned: see Matthew 25.32–33. 24.18 Our Lady Mary, mother of Jesus.

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24.18 Saint Mary Magdalen of Quatford Mary of Magdala was one of the women present at the Crucifixion, and in the middle ages was identified both with Mary, the sister of Martha (Luke 10.38–42), and with the woman who anointed Christ’s feet (John 12.1–7). There is an 11th-century church dedicated to her at Quatford on the River Severn, S of Bridgnorth in Shropshire. 24.21 Aldrovand an Italian name (the greatest botanist of the Renaissance was Ulisse Aldrovandi, 1522–1605, of the University of Bologna), but it is not clear why Scott has used it. 24.22 a black monk a monk of the Benedictine Order, founded in the 6th century and reformed in the 10th, whose robes were dark in colour. See also note to 75.13. 24.22 the house of Wenlock a Benedictine monastery was founded c. 1080 at Much Wenlock, between Shrewsbury and Bridgnorth. 24.23–24 Saint Alphegius Ælfheah (954–1012), bishop of Winchester 984–1006, during which time he was instrumental in converting some of the Danes to Christianity, and Archbishop of Canterbury (1006–12). He was captured in 1011 in a renewed Danish invasion, refused to be ransomed, and was killed by the Danes after a drunken feast. His cult was prominent at Canterbury (his feast day is 19 April) until it was overshadowed from the 1170s by that of Thomas Becket, who, in his last sermon before his own martyrdom, spoke of Ælfheah as the first Canterbury martyr. 25.14 Vortigern a semi-historical local king in Wales in the mid-5th century, who receives detailed treatment in Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History (see note to 10.27), and is reviled in later Welsh tradition for inviting the Saxons Hengist and Horsa to settle in Kent in order to defend Britain in the aftermath of the Roman withdrawal. For Vortigern’s marriage to Hengist’s daughter Rowen see The British History, Translated into English from the Latin of Jeffrey of Monmouth, trans. Aaron Thompson (London, 1718), 186–88 (Bk 6, Ch 12), CLA, 244; for Hengist and Horsa see 180–97 (Bk 6, Chs 10–16). 25.21 Brute Brutus, legendary founder of Britain (see The British History, Translated into English from the Latin of Jeffrey of Monmouth, trans. Aaron Thompson (London, 1718), 34–38 (Bk 1, Chs 16–18): CLA, 244). See also note to 10.27–28. 25.28 Mathraval according to William Camden (Britannia, rev. Richard Gough, 4 vols (London, 1806), 3.162: CLA, 232), this ‘was the seat of the princes of Powis’. It is situated about 30 km SW of Oswestry in the valley of the Vyrnwy, at its confluence with the Banwy. It is mentioned, together with Cyverliock, in Madoc (1805), Part 1, Bk 13, line 188. 26.13–15 motto 3 Henry VI, 1.4.25–26. 26.19 tenure of cornage ‘it is said yt in ye Marches of Scotlande some holde of the kinge by cornage yt ys to say to blowe an horne for to warne the men of the countrey &c. when they here yt ye Scots or other enemies will come or enter into England’ (Littleton Tenvres in Englishe ([London, 1574], f. 34r). The OED calls this an ‘erroneous explanation’ (see cornage), but it is clearly what is meant here. 26.39 bells were rung backwards i.e. rung from the lowest to the highest, the reverse of the normal practice in change ringing, as an alarm signal. 27.14 Morolt according to Arthurian legend, Morolt was the brother of Isolte (see note to 176.43–177.1), the Irish princess with whom Tristrem falls in love, but it is possible that Scott used it because the name looks like French rather than Irish. 27.16 the Flemings ‘About this season [1107] a great part of Flanders

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being drowned by an exundation or breaking in of the sea, a great number of Flemings came into England, beseeching the king to haue some void place assigned them, wherein they might inhabit. At first they were appointed to the countrie lieng on the east part of the riuer of Tweed: but within four yeres after, they were remooued into a corner by the sea side in Wales, called Penbrokeshire, to the end they might be a defense there to the English against the vnquiet Welshmen.’ (Holinshed’s Chronicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland, 6 vols (London, 1807–08), 2.58:CLA, 29). No record of a similar colony in Shropshire has been found. 27.20 With your favour by your leave. 27.21 Flammock Scott may have taken the name from Holinshed (see note to 27.16), 3.514, where there is a mention of ‘Thomas Flammocke, a [Cornish] gentleman, learned in the lawes of the realme’. 27.22 hammers of his own fulling-miln wooden mallets used in a mill to beat (full) cloth to clean and thicken it. 27.25 stubborn as a mule proverbial: ODEP, 550. 28.25–26 a sound skin . . . a slashed one although proverbial in form this does not seem to be a recognised proverb. 28.31 the white dragon the white dragon was the symbol of Wessex, but it is presumably being used by the Welsh to signify their opposition to the Normans. 29.5 made good defended. 29.40 to a Jew or to a Lombard Jews and, later, Lombards (those from Lombardy in N Italy who acted as bankers and money-lenders) controlled most of the banking and money-lending in the middle ages. 29.41 kept the day paid the money due on the day agreed. 30.3 sin of a word-breaker see Numbers 30.2: ‘If a man vow a vow unto the Lord, or swear an oath to bind his soul with a bond; he shall not break his word, he shall do according to all that proceedeth out of his mouth’. 30.6 deed of dole grievous thing. 30.6 the Abbot of Glastonbury Glastonbury in Somerset was the earliest Benedictine foundation in England (c. 940), and remained influential throughout the middle ages. 30.11 naked savages in the context this is an insult, but Scott may be recalling the battle of Telamon in 225  when the Gauls fought naked (see note to 20.16–17). The medieval Welsh did not do so. 30.11–12 for weal or woe for good or ill. 31.4 the Benedictine sisters at the time at which the novel is set there was no Benedictine nunnery in the West Midlands. That at Leominster, between Hereford and Ludlow, had been suppressed in 1046 after the Abbess was abducted. 32.3 Base mechanic see 2 Henry VI, 1.3.191 (‘Base dunghill villain and mechanical’); and compare A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 3.2.9–10 (‘A crew of patches, rude mechanicals,/ That work for bread upon Athenian stalls’). A mechanic or mechanical is a manual worker. 32.27 the language of chivalry the language of love and honour. In ‘An Essay on Chivalry’ (1818) Scott describes ‘the wild and overstrained courtesies of Chivalry’, and particularly the language of love (in Prose Works, 6.49, 39). 32.30 base composition negotiated settlement; treaty, called ‘base’ as the knights believe that fighting is the only honourable way of settling differences. 32.38 prick forth ride out. 32.39–40 down portcullis, up draw-bridge see ‘Auld Maitland’, stanza 33, in Minstrelsy, 1.250.

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33.23 Roschen German little Rose; i.e. diminutive of Rose. 33.23 Der alter Herr ist verruckt German Der alte Herr ist verrückt (the old gentleman is mad): alter would mean ‘older’. 33.31 high rolled hose probably stockings (which were of cloth, not knitted) coming over the knees and held up by garters or ties round which the fabric coming above the garters was rolled. 34.2 A flagon of Rhenish Hamlet, 5.1.174. Rhenish wine comes from the valley of the Rhine. 34.5–6 if drink will give you the courage . . . want this is the proverbial ‘Dutch courage’, or bravery induced by drinking (see ODEP, 209). 34.20 hath savour tastes good. 34.23 Ghent . . . Ypres two important cloth-weaving towns in Flanders, in modern Belgium. 34.25 Gascony SW France; at this time, and until the mid-15th century, in English hands. Only in the 13th century did ‘France’ begin to expand beyond the northern and central areas of modern France. 34.26 the Rhine and the Neckar the banks of the Rhine were and are an important area of wine-production. Rhine wines are mainly white, unlike those of SW France (see previous note) which are predominantly red. The Neckar is a tributary of the Rhine, entering it at Mannheim. 34.34 The whole butt, man The Tempest, 2.2.124. 35.18 double ale ale of twice the normal strength. 35.19 March and October English beer was traditionally brewed in these months. 35.26 fight like devils Henry V, 3.7.147. The phrase also appears in seven other plays of the 17th and 18th centuries. 35.31 deep potations see Othello, 2.3.50. 35.33 without doors outside. 36.2–6 motto see Walter Scott, ‘Thomas the Rhymer: Part Second’, stanza 15, in Minstrelsy, 4.123. The poem is based on traditional prophecies, ascribed to Thomas of Erceldoune; a footnote indicates that this prophecy relates to Bannockburn, a Scottish victory over the army of the English King Edward II, in 1314. The expression out ower means ‘across’. 36.17 on great hazard at considerable risk. 36.20 Earl of Arundel the 1st Earl of Arundel, Richard Fitzalan (I) (1267–1302) was first so styled in 1292. 37.13 Dominican member of the Order of Dominicans (called the ‘Black Friars’, from the black mantle they wore over their white habit), founded by St Dominic (1170–1221) in 1220–21. Given the setting of the novel in the late 12th century, Aldrovand could not have been a member of the Order, and he has, in any case, already been identified as a ‘black monk’ or Benedictine (see 24.22). 37.19 the white-mantled Welchmen see 38.39–40. 37.20 take such order arrange themselves in such a manner. 37.27 Saint George patron saint of England, especially from the time of Richard I and the Third Crusade. 37.29 monk’s beads the use of a string of beads (a rosary) to count the repetitions in a sequence of prayers (to ‘tell his beads’, 38.8) was a practice that appears to originate in the 9th century, and was promoted by the Dominicans in the 13th century. 37.36–37 laying their lances in rest placing their lances with the butt-ends fixed in a contrivance at the right side of the cuirass to prevent them from being driven back upon impact. 38.21 whistle . . . the tempest compare The Tempest, 1.1.6. 38.31–32 their lances in rest see note to 37.36–37.

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38.39 exposed their bare bosoms see notes to 20.16–17 and 30.11. However, the text at 38.37–38 indicates that the Welsh were only naked in comparison to the ‘mail-sheathed Normans’. 39.9 Gwentland Gwent; SE Wales. 39.12 Deheubarth kingdom formed in SW Wales c. 920, which in the late 12th century was resisting the Norman expansion through S Wales. 39.16–17 military tenure a feudal tenure under which a vassal owed his superior certain defined services in war. 39.34 managed horse horse trained in the manège, i.e. trained in a riding school. 40.12 Welch hooks see note to 20.19–20. 40.24 clottered with blood covered with clots of blood. See Geoffrey Chaucer, ‘The Knight’s Tale’, in The Canterbury Tales, I (A), line 2745. 40.30 the Romans who opposed the elephants of Pyrrhus Pyrrhus (319–272  ) was King of Epirus in Greece from 307. Frustrated in his attempts to extend his power into other parts of Greece, Macedonia and Illyria, in 280 he transferred his activities to Italy and Sicily, defeating the Romans at Heraclea with an army that included 20 elephants, and then again at Asculum, before retreating to Epirus after the indecisive battle of Beneventum (275). The story is told in the Life of Pyrrhus, 16–25 by Plutarch (c.  46–c. 120). 41.30 hollow way sunken path. 42.4–5 mangled and mutilated the limbs compare 1 Henry IV, 1.1.43–46. 42.13–21 motto see ‘The Rising in the North’, lines 113–20, in Percy, 1.293 (Child, 175). The expression soon anon means ‘quickly’. 42.40 in her despite in spite of her efforts to the contrary. 43.11 who confounds the counsels of the wise see 1 Corinthians 1.27. 43.13 vain repining expressing pointless sorrow. 43.14 feeble remnant see Isaiah 16.14. 43.15 the jaws of the devouring wolf several biblical texts lie behind this phrase (see Matthew 7.15; John 10.12–13; Acts 20.29). 43.39–40 like fire and water . . . master proverbial: Ray, 107; ODEP, 259. 44.1–2 of an enduring generation of a hardy or long-lived stock. 44.2 shrink in the washing proverbial: ODEP, 730. 44.6 cared for taken care of. 44.15 sharp set eager or keen for food. 44.17–18 one of those . . . come of it see Matthew 26.52: ‘all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword’. 45.31 good composition good terms. 45.43 Flanderkin i.e. ‘little man from Flanders’; presumably a patronising and sarcastic diminutive. 46.5 bull-frogs a large American species of frog: although his use of the term is an anachronism, Aldrovand insults the Fleming by reference to his great size and to the low-lying Netherlands which the Flemings had left on account of flooding (see note to 27.16). 46.10 hold for the advantage of mine service i.e. consider necessary for carrying out my obligations. 46.13 power to bind and to unloose power to forbid and to permit: the traditional formula describing the powers of the Pope and the priesthood more generally, derived from Matthew 16.19. 46.15 heresy of the mountaineers the beliefs of the Waldensians or ‘Vaudois’, followers of Peter Valdes of Lyons, who in 1170 became a mendic-

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ant and itinerant preacher. His earliest teaching was directed at the worldliness of the clergy, but in 1179 he was banned from preaching. He and his substantial following gradually parted from the Church, ceasing to accept the authority of the Pope and were subject to severe persecution (which continued even in the early 19th century), resulting in their retreat to the mountain areas of Savoy and Piedmont (now areas of France, Switzerland and Italy). 46.15–16 refused to take the blessed cross refused to go on a crusade. See note to 16.27. 46.16–17 breakfasted . . . ere thou hast heard mass formerly it was obligatory to postpone eating until after taking communion. 46.23 quite so far as the gates of Jericho see Joshua 6, where Joshua and his army do not directly assault the city of Jericho. 46.27–28 my stomach brooks not working ere I break my fast i.e. I can’t work without eating first. 47.28 Crogan Welsh, crogau: knaves; those who deserve to be hanged (crog, a gallows). 47.36–37 base mechanic see note to 32.3. 47.38 woe to him that will trust a stranger not listed as a proverb in English, but ‘never trust a stranger’ is widely recognised as proverbial. 48.13 shall your portion be with you will share the fate of. 48.27 those of that nation in Pembrokeshire from the early 12th century, Flemings had been settled in Pembrokeshire under Norman control, to such an extent that first Flemish and then English supplanted Welsh as the language of the area: see note to 27.16. 48.29–30 Hark thee hither listen to me. 48.35 toil and trouble Macbeth, 4.1.10, 20 and 35. 49.1 frame thyself not don’t pretend to be. 49.7 withdrawing of a bar removing the reinforcing bar behind a door or gate that prevents it being opened from the outside. 49.43 black rood a cross made of ebony which was often the subject of particular veneration; however, no black rood pertaining to the English Marches has been identified. 50.4 the whilst in the meantime. 50.35 In faith indeed. 50.40–41 Welch hooks see note to 20.19–20. 50.43 a small earnest of a great boon a down-payment against a substantial future favour. 51.7 wild work i.e. a violent reaction. 52.18–19 a line of heroes . . . warriors of the North the ‘line of heroes’ are the Normans who gave their name to Normandy, in NW France. They were descended from the Vikings who conquered the area in the 10th century. Thor, Balder and Odin were Norse gods. Pagan gods were often seen by Christians as legendary figures improperly treated as divine beings. Thor was second in the Norse pantheon; he had great strength, was a god of the household, of peasants, and of metal-working, and had a huge hammer. Balder was god of light, whose death preceded the overthrow of the gods. Odin (Woden to the Anglo-Saxons) was the all-wise leader of the gods, and god of poetry, and presided over the banquets for those slain in battle. 52.25–26 the rough, and often fatal sports of chivalry see ‘An Essay on Chivalry’ (1818) for a discussion of this point: in the course of the middle ages tournaments became more strictly regulated, but they still ‘often ended fatally’ (Prose Works, 6.45). 52.30 under shield in battle. In spite of the inverted commas ‘death under shield’ does not seem to be a quotation.

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53.8 the Lower Empire the Roman Empire after  260: ‘The lower empire comprehends near 1200 years, reckoning [from 260] down to the destruction of Constantinople in 1453’ (Encyclopaedia Britannica, 3rd edn, 18 vols (Edinburgh, 1797), 6.573). For most of this period the Roman Empire was centred on Constantinople, which was founded 324, and in 330 became the capital of the Eastern Empire. 53.8–9 a Grecian painting . . . Luke in the middle ages, St Luke was believed to have been a painter. The most famous of the icons attributed to him was of the Virgin Hodegetria, which showed Mary holding the child Jesus who pointed the way to salvation. The icon, said to have come from Palestine, was displayed in the Monastery of the Panaghia Hodegetria in Constantinople; copies, which were held to have the same miraculous powers as the original, spread throughout Europe. 53.21 place of strength fortress. 53.37 Maria Mary, mother of Jesus. 53.40 unconscious of without the conscious awareness of. 54.2–3 the lists of Chester as a castle was built in Chester in the late 11th century to dominate the surrounding area and the Marches, tournaments would have been held there. 54.35 an ave derived from ‘ave Maria’ (hail Mary; a devotional recitation from Luke 1.28 and 42), it is used here as meaning ‘a prayer’. 55.10 dreadfully beset The Rape of Lucrece, 444. The phrase means ‘surrounded with huge dangers’. 55.39–41 Flemish . . . piebald English Rose’s defence of Flemish, one of many languages that derive from a presumed common Germanic (‘Gothic’ in Scott’s day) ancestor, leads her to represent English as a degenerate mixture, rather as Scott had done in his edition of Sir Tristrem: ‘after the Norman conquest, while the Saxon language was abandoned to the lowest of the people, and while the conquerors only deigned to employ their native French, the mixed language, now called English, only existed as a kind of lingua franca, to conduct the necessary intercourse between the victors and the vanquished’ (Poetical Works, 5.49). In fact, in the late 12th century, written English was beginning to shed its earlier fully-inflected form, but otherwise retained its distinctive syntax, while also beginning to acquire specialist vocabulary from, among others, Norman French, thus embarking on its long and adaptable history. 55.42–43 fought against the Roman Kaisars . . . bent the neck for the most part the Germanic tribes successfully resisted incorporation into the Roman Empire while Britain was a Roman province; the boundary of the Empire at its height was roughly on a line between modern Rotterdam and Budapest. ‘Kaisar’ or ‘Kaiser’ (emperor) is common in the middle ages in English texts, especially since it usefully alliterates with ‘king’. 56.3–4 confide, as in the Evangelists, in the honesty of mine trust what I say, in just the same way as you trust the writers of the four gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke and John). ‘Confidence’, having faith and trust in the word of God, is one of the key terms of the New Testament. 56.9 charge upon your parent accuse your parent of. 56.20–21 Gothic fortresses of the Norman period in Scott’s time the rigid distinctions in architectural history between Romanesque, Norman, Gothic, etc. had not yet been adopted. Here, Gothic may just mean ‘medieval’ (OED, Gothic, 3a). Scott uses another sense of the word at 55.41 (see note to 55.39–41). 56.34 Ave Maria! Ave Regina Cœli! Latin Hail Mary! Hail Queen of Heaven! 56.34 on a rock more sure see Luke 6.48; 1 Corinthians 10.4.

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56.42 Our Lady of Succour and Consolation the Virgin and the saints are often invoked in relation to specific qualities associated with them, and separately there are many altars and churches dedicated to ‘Our Lady of Succour’, and to ‘Our Lady of Consolation’. The combination of the words ‘succour and consolation’, now a set phrase, seems to begin with Scott. 57.11 what gives this? a literal translation of the German ‘was gibt dies?’, meaning ‘what’s this?’, ‘what’s the matter?’. 58.3 in ward under guard. 58.13–14 attach thee . . . of arrest you . . . for. 58.17 mad when the moon is full lunacy was believed to be a consequence of the influence of the moon. Scott combines this with the proverbial madness of the English (see Hamlet, 5.1.145–50). 58.31–32 bows and bills an English cry of alarm in extreme circumstances. 59.26–30 motto unidentified; probably by Scott. Compare Marmion (1808), Canto 6, stanza 2, line 22 (Poetical Works, 7.309). 60.8 running breakfast breakfast on the hoof. 60.24 fire and brimstone traditional torments of hell: Revelation 14.10, 21.8. 60.32 this gear can lie over this matter can be left until later. 60.32–33 marrying or giving in marriage see Matthew 24.38. 60.37 of ill conditions probably bad tempered, or characterised by bad manners: see OED, condition 11b. 61.4–5 Quis habitabit . . . monte sancto a Vulgate version of Psalm 14.1 (15.1 in the Authorised Version): ‘who shall dwell in thy tabernacle? or who shall rest in thy holy hill?’.The version of this verse and the one which follows is that found in the edition of the Vulgate in Scott’s library, published at Lyon in 1555 (CLA, 120). Like the Clementine text of 1592, produced as the Roman Catholic standard, this derives ultimately from the second of three translations by Jerome (c. 342–420), known as the Gallican Psalter, a revision of the existing Latin texts in the light of the Greek Septuagint and the work on the original Hebrew text by Origen (c. 185–c. 254). It differs from Jerome’s third translation, from the Hebrew, which was standard up to the 8th century and is now widely disseminated online. 61.6–7 Qui jurat proximo et non decipit? a Vulgate version of Psalm 14.4 (15.4 in the Authorised Version): ‘He who swears to his neighbour and does not deceive him’. See previous note. 61.7 Go to come along. 61.8 filthy lucre a dismissive term for money: 1 Timothy 3.3; Titus 1.11. 61.8–10 better is an empty stomach . . . word-breaking compare the parable of the prodigal son: Luke 15.11–32. 61.34–35 Belgic-brained boor a tribe named the Belgae occupied the territory between the rivers Seine, Marne and Rhine in Roman times. (The new country of Belgium was to adopt its name from this tribe in 1830.) Aldrovand implies that men from that region are slow-witted. 61.39–40 the letter of the Scripture slayeth . . . live see 2 Corinthians 3.6. 62.13 He blows like a town swine-herd swineherds carried horns, presumably to herd the pigs; e.g. see the description of Gurth in Ivanhoe, ed. Graham Tulloch,     8, 18.29–30. 62.26 agreeable to promise as promised; as agreed. 62.37 ghostly father spiritual adviser.

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62.40 on the faith of in reliance on the security of. 62.43–63.1 uncircumcised Philistine 1 Samuel 17.26. The Philistines were traditional enemies of Israel. In the Old Testament, the Jews, who were circumcised, used circumcision to distinguish themselves from their enemies, who were not, but there is probably also an allusion to the New Testament use of uncircumcised to denote the spiritually impure (see Acts 7.51). 63.2 shorn priest from about the 7th century in the west, the signs of a priest being received into the clerical order were the shearing of his hair and his investment with the surplice. 64.3 the ten thousand virgins probably a reference to the British Christian St Ursula who according to legend was killed by the Huns in Köln in the 4th century along with her 10,000 (or 11,000) companions. Her cult received new impetus in the 12th century. 64.6–12 motto see William Stewart Rose, ‘Edward the Martyr’, lines 179–84, in The Crusade of St. Lewis, and King Edward the Martyr (London, 1810), 25: CLA, 186. 65.21 in march on the march; marching. 65.28 Shrewsbury this character does not appear elsewhere in the novel, but he is presumably the Constable of Shrewsbury (i.e. governor of Shrewsbury Castle, with a military command of the surrounding area). The Norman castle which replaced the Anglo-Saxon original, was founded by Roger de Montgomery (d. 1094) in c. 1070. He was one of William the Conqueror’s principal counsellors, was a Lord Marcher, and held his estate in Shropshire as a bulwark against Welsh incursion; he was created 1st Earl of Shrewsbury between 1068 and 1074. 65.41 the cross of their swords their cross-shaped hilts. 66.42 It needs not there is no need. 67.22 Bees alarm’d, and arming in their hives see John Dryden, The Spanish Fryar (1681), 1.1.48: included in The Works of John Dryden, ed. Walter Scott, 18 vols (London, 1808), 6.387. 67.26 great inundation see the text at 97.29–30, and note to 27.16. 67.36 ridgy the term is used frequently in poetry of the late 17th and 18th centuries of waves and mountains, but for its use to describe tribes in attack see James Macpherson (1736–96), Temora (1763), Bks 3, 4 and 5, in The Poems of Ossian and Related Works, ed. Howard Gaskill (Edinburgh, 1996), 246, 256 and 267. See CLA, 19. 68.38–39 a second Ajax, grim with dust and blood see the encounter between Ajax and Hector in Homer’s Iliad, trans. Alexander Pope (London, 1715–20), 11.700–01: ‘And many a Javelin, guiltless on the Plain,/ Marks the dry Dust, and thirsts for Blood in vain’. Ajax was second only to Achilles in bravery among the Greeks. See CLA, 42. 68.43 What skills it what’s the point of. 69.3 the whilst meanwhile. 69.13 trebuchet ‘a mediæval military engine for casting heavy missiles. Described as consisting of a pivoted lever with a sling at one extremity, which was strained back against a heavy counterpoise, and then suddenly released’ (OED). Scott probably took the term from Robert Southey, Joan of Arc (1796), 8.205: Robert Southey: Poetical Works 1793–1810, gen. ed. Lynda Pratt, 5 vols (London, 2004), 1.118 (see CLA, 195). 69.18 Care not thou for that don’t you mind that. 69.19–20 low in stomach disheartened. The stomach was thought to be the seat of the emotions. 69.20 what thinkst thou of our estate? see Henry V, 4.1.95–96; estate means ‘state’ or ‘situation’.

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69.23–24 a fearful odds Henry V, 4.3.5. 70.22 betake yourself to your tools take hold of your weapons (in this case spiritual ones). 70.22 es spuckt German/Dutch it’s haunted (Mod. Dutch spookt; Mod. German spukt). 70.27 Conjuro vos omnes . . . parvi Latin I command you all, evil spirits, great and small. 70.32–33 a half pike ‘a small pike, having a shaft of about half the length of the full-sized one’ (OED). 70.40 Go to come, come. 72.8 the penitentiary psalms Psalms 6, 32, 38, 51, 102, 130 and 143. This is a traditional grouping; all appeal for God’s mercy and forgiveness and are sung particularly on Ash Wednesday and Fridays in Lent. 72.13–17 motto see ‘Colonel Gardener’ (‘’Twas at the hour of dark midnight’), in The Scots Musical Museum, ed. James Johnson, 6 vols (Edinburgh, 1787–1803), 3.215 (no. 206), lines 9–12. The song is on the death of Colonel Gardiner, killed at the battle of Prestonpans in 1745. 75.13 Saint Benedict Benedict of Nursia (c. 480–c. 550). He drew up the Rule of Benedict, which was followed by successive communities of monks, and became especially influential from the 10th century. Aldrovand has already been identified as a Benedictine monk (24.22). 75.16 Kyrie Eleison Greek Lord have mercy. The phrase is repeated several times at the beginning of the mass. 75.23 squire of the body see note to 20.5. 76.34 bravest of mankind it is not known who describes the ‘ancient Britons’ as the ‘bravest of mankind’, nor why this should be a ‘hereditary privilege’, but the phrase is used several times in the poetry and drama of the Restoration and the 18th century, nearly always in the context of ‘liberty’, the earliest example being John Dryden, Tyrannick Love, or the Royal Martyr (1670), 5.1.550: in The Works of John Dryden, ed. Walter Scott, 18 vols (London, 1808), 3.429. 76.39 earthquake voice of victory Byron, ‘Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte’ (1814), line 30. 77.23 Saint Edward King Edward the Confessor (c. 1003–66), one of the most popular English saints of the middle ages. He succeeded the Danish rulers of England in 1042, and his death at the beginning of 1066 precipitated the Norman invasion, because he was believed to have acknowledged William of Normandy as his heir. Various evidences of his sanctity led to his canonisation in 1161, a step supported by both the English, who saw him as the last English king, and the Normans, who valued his endorsement of William. His name was invoked by soldiers in battle in the 14th and 15th centuries, alongside that of St George. 77.23–24 Saint Dennis Bishop of Paris, martyred c. 250. He became the patron saint of France, and the church dedicated to him in Paris was the burial place of the kings of France. 78.34–35 complied with adapted itself to. 78.41 scarlet hose see the Wife of Bath in Geoffrey Chaucer, ‘General Prologue’ to The Canterbury Tales, I (A), line 456. 79.17 with a wanion with a vengeance. 79.18 cucking-stool ‘an instrument of punishment formerly in use for scolds, disorderly women, fraudulent tradespeople etc., consisting of a chair (sometimes in the form of a close-stool [commode]), in which the offender was fastened and exposed to the jeers of the bystanders, or conveyed to a pond or river and ducked’ (OED). 79.19 Scant o’ Grace meaning being short of grace.

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79.31 Butterfirken a small barrel for storing butter. Gillian is commenting on Wilkin’s shape. 79.32 Marry quep i.e. marry gup or guep (a cry of derision). For ‘marry guep’ see Samuel Butler, Hudibras, Part 1 (1663), 3.202. 79.37 In troth indeed. 79.40 mannerly Mrs Margery see the refrain in John Skelton (c. 1460–1529), ‘Mannerly Margery Milk and Ale’: The Complete Poems of John Skelton Laureate, ed. Philip Henderson (London, 1931), 38. 79.41 is your heart so high are you so conceited? 79.42–43 the cat will find its way to the cream a proverbial formulation: compare ‘That cat is out of kind that sweet milk will not lap’ (Ray, 84; ODEP, 108). 80.6–7 make up the number three ‘the picture of “we three”’ (Twelfth Night, 2.3.16) and similar jokes make the point, as does Gillian here, that someone staring at two fools may be thought to have joined their number. 80.16–20 motto see ‘The Friar of Orders Gray’, lines 25–28, in Percy, 1.260. 80.22 Damian the name of the squire in Chaucer’s ‘The Merchant’s Tale’, in The Canterbury Tales. An old knight called January marries a young wife called May; Damian cuckolds January by making love to May in a tree where he is hiding. 81.11 Eudorchawg see note to 19.40. 81.21–22 man of blood a common phrase in 18th- and early 19thcentury poetry and drama: e.g. see [Joanna Baillie], De Monfort, 5.2, in A Series of the Plays in which it is attempted to delineate the Stronger Passions of the Mind [Plays on the Passions] (London, 1798), 386: see CLA, 212. 81.28 were making were being made. 81.31 My kinsman’s vow see 83.34–41 and 88.33–34. 82.5 Wolf of Plinlimmon see note to 14.33. 82.9 The Jew and the Lombard see note to 29.40. 83.3–4 black monks see note to 24.22. 83.6 Miserere me, Domine Latin have mercy on me, O Lord. A version of the first words (‘Miserere mei Deus’) of Psalm 50 in the Vulgate (Psalm 51 in the Authorised King James version). The words are the same in the Gallican and Hebrew Psalters (see note to 61.4–5). 83.25 within a few hours a few hours ago. 83.35 the cross signed in white cloth see note to 16.27. 84.10 Gothic front see note to 56.20–21. 84.28 bethink you consider. 85.18–19 Gillian of Croydon this name may be a conflation of the proverbial Gillian of Brentford and either Grim the Collier of Croydon (1600), of unknown authorship, or Tom Collier of Croydon in Like Wil to Like (1568), by Ulpian Fulwell. Scott refers to ‘Fair Gillian of Croyden’ in Minstrelsy, 3.205, and to ‘Rare Gillian of Croydon’ in Kenilworth, ed. J. H. Alexander,     11, 247.16. 85.20 a silver twopennies throughout the middle ages there was a silver coin of the value of two pence (0.8p). 85.22 sour as vinegar proverbial: see Ray, 225; ODEP, 721. 85.22–23 fit for no place but the kennel derived from the proverb ‘a kennel is lodging fit for a dog’ (see ODEP, 420). 85.32 turned to grass retired. 85.33 hang him up with the old hounds working dogs were normally destroyed when they became too old to work; presumably the sense here is that before the days of firearms, hounds were hanged when they became too old to hunt effectively.

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85.37 In good troth indeed. 85.38 be to seek have to seek. 86.2 in treaty under negotiation. 86.14–16 Cloth . . . to bier these lines have not been identified as traditional, but they were recognised as such after their appearance in The Betrothed. See Andrew Cheviot, Proverbs, Proverbial Expressions, and Popular Rhymes of Scotland (Paisley, 1896), 77. 86.19 I can turn the steward round my finger proverbial: ODEP, 847. 86.20 in part of your bargain i.e. as an interim payment. 86.30 come to speech of get to speak with. 86.43 death-meal funeral feast. Scott seems to have invented the term: see Ivanhoe, ed. Graham Tulloch,     8, 383.39. 87.10–12 motto see Hamlet, 1.2.180–81. 88.7 by times early. 89.14 king’s cups marsh marigolds, a large-flowered member of the buttercup family, common in damp meadows in spring. 89.30 the theme of every tongue a fairly common phrase in late 18thand early 19th-century literature: e.g. see Maria Edgeworth, Ormond, A Tale (1817), ed. Claire Connolly (London, 1999), 64 (The Novels and Selected Works of Maria Edgeworth, ed. Marilyn Butler and Mitzi Myers, 12 vols (London, 1999–2003), 8). 89.38 her tutelar protectress the Virgin Mary, adopted by Eveline as her protectress at 52.40–54.29. 90.13 armorial bearings coat of arms. Each noble family adopted a symbol or combination of symbols which was worn by them and their household to distinguish them from others in battle and on ceremonial occasions. 90.25–26 agreeing with matching. 90.26–27 tapestries of Ghent and Bruges the Low Countries were famous for their tapestries from the 14th century. 90.31 William of Ypres (d. 1165) one of the Flemish mercenaries employed by King Stephen during the civil war in England in the 1130s and 1140s. There is no record of his having been made Earl of Albemarle. 90.32 King Stephen see next note. 90.35–36 Empress Maude, or Matilda Matilda (c. 1102–67), widow of Emperor Henry V (1086–1125; Emperor from 1106), was the only legitimate child of Henry I (1069–1135; King from 1100) to survive him, and had earlier been accepted by the barons as heir to the English crown. Stephen (c. 1092–1154), grandson of William the Conqueror and one of Henry I’s nephews, claimed the throne on Henry’s death in 1135, was crowned, and gained the support of the Pope and the king of France. A civil war ensued lasting to 1153, with Stephen’s party generally having the upper hand. On Stephen’s death in 1154, Henry Plantagenet (1133–89), Matilda’s son by her second husband, Geoffrey of Anjou, succeeded to the throne, as Henry II. 91.33 short Norman mantle F. W. Fairholt observes: ‘Henry II. introduced a short mantle, known as the cloak of Anjou, and obtained by that means the sobriquet of “Curt Manteau” (Costume in England, 3rd edn, rev. H. A. Dillon, 2 vols (London, 1885), 1.96). 91.33–35 close dress . . . slightly soiled Hugo’s clothing recalls that of the Knight in the ‘General Prologue’ to Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, 1 (A), lines 75–76. 91.36 sprig of rosemary rosemary usually signified memory. 93.8–9 too long trained . . . plainly see Othello, 1.3.81–89. 93.24 Randal Lacy see Historical Note, 365–66.

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93.31 some abatement perhaps in the escutcheon of his arms OED defines abatement in its heraldic sense as ‘a supposed mark of depreciation’. It gives two supporting quotations (here corrected from the originals): ‘An Abatement is an accidentall [subsidiary] mark annexed to Coate-armour [coats of arms], denoting some vngentleman-like, dishonourable, or disloiall demeanour, qualitie, or staine, in the Bearer, whereby the dignitie of the Coatearmour is greatly abased’ (John Gwillim, A Display of Heraldrie (London, 1611), 31); ‘’Tis a little controverted among Authors, whether Heraldry allows of any such thing as regular Abatements. . . . The last editor of Guillim discards the whole Notion of Abatements, as a Chimera’ (Ephraim Chambers, Cyclopædia, 2 vols (London, 1728), 1.3). 93.38–39 the ice being now broken proverbial: see Ray, 198; ODEP, 83. 94.15–16 the dowry of a queen OED defines dowry (dower) as ‘the portion of a deceased husband’s estate which the law allows to his widow for her life’. 94.32–33 of your nobleness i.e. I beseech your lordship. 95.1–2 the Benedictine nunnery at Gloucester no Benedictine nunnery existed at Gloucester (see note to 31.4), though there was an important monastery for men. 95.30 handed forth led out by the hand. 96.2–6 motto see ‘The Lovers Quarrel’, lines 414–17, in Pieces of Ancient Popular Poetry, [ed. Joseph Ritson] (London, 1791), 135: CLA, 174; Child, 109B, stanza 104. 96.29 it shames them not they are not ashamed. 96.41–97.1 our Lady of Mercy compare note to 56.42. 97.18–19 row against wind and tide proverbial, derived from ‘to sail with the wind and tide’ (ODEP, 892). To ‘row against wind and tide’ seems to have been used in print for the first time in Charles Dibdin (1745–1814), The Waterman (London, 1774), 5 (Act 1, Scene 3). 98.4 marrying or giving in marriage see Matthew 24.38. 98.11 Saracen Arab or Muslim. Among the later Greeks and Romans, Saracen was a name for the nomadic peoples of the Syro-Arabian desert who harassed the Syrian area of the Roman Empire; hence it became a name for an Arab or a Muslim, especially with reference to the Crusades. 98.33 Avarice . . . Ambition’s bastard brother not identified. 99.2 soul of fire Samuel Johnson, The Vanity of Human Wishes (1749), line 193. 99.10 graduated measuring-wand a measuring-rod: a piece of wood a yard or two yards long, marked with feet and inches. 99.12 cloth of gold cloth with gold threads woven into it. 100.2–6 motto unidentified; probably by Scott. 100.21 Spanish jennet small, Spanish horse. The first recorded English use of jennet in the OED is from the mid-15th century, about the time when the monks of the Carthusian order in Spain began to breed the fine Andalusian horses. 100.33–34 golden chain . . . white wand articles which distinguished stewards of noble households. Compare Philip Massinger, A New Way to Pay Old Debts (performed 1625, published 1633), 1.2.2–3: ‘this staffe of office that commands you;/ This chaine, and dubble ruffe, Symboles of power’. Malvolio in Twelfth Night also has a chain of office (2.3.113). 101.25 Arab horse there is no specific evidence that these prized horses were in N European hands earlier than the 13th century, but the Franks had adopted cavalry warfare from the Moors of Spain in the 8th century, and presumably made use of highly-bred Arab horses. Similarly, the Norman

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conquest of Sicily and parts of S Italy in the 11th century will have brought them into contact with the same breed. See R. H. C. Davis, The Medieval Warhorse (London, 1989), 57–59, 70. 101.30 Mahound the ‘false prophet’ Mohammed, in the middle ages often believed to have been worshipped as a god. 101.41 yerked out his hoofs see Henry V, 4.7.77. 102.4 nods, winks, and wreathed smiles see John Milton, ‘L’Allegro’ (written c. 1631; published 1645), line 28. 102.26–28 ancient oak . . . patriarch see Genesis 18.1–10, where beneath a tree in the plains of Mamre the elderly Abraham and Sarah entertain three strangers, who tell them that Sarah will bear a child. 102.30 samite silk, often with gold or silver thread woven into it, ‘a very rich and estimable stuff’ (Joseph Strutt, A Complete View of the Dress and Habits of the People of England, 2 vols (London, 1796–99; continuously paginated), 129: CLA, 154). 104.13 the distinguished family of Herbert it is not known whether any Herberts were active in the Welsh Marches in the 12th century. The Herbert family claimed descent from ‘Herbertus Camerarius’, a companion of William I. His descendants intermarried with Welsh families, acquiring large estates in SE Wales, and received grants of land from King John. However, to Scott the most distinguished family of Herbert would have been the Earls of Pembroke and of Montgomery, created in 1551 and 1605 respectively. The first collected edition of Shakespeare’s works (the first folio, 1623) was dedicated to the 3rd Earl of Pembroke, William Herbert, and to his brother Philip, 1st Earl of Montgomery and later 4th Earl of Pembroke. The first earldom of Pembroke was created c. 1138 by King Stephen for Gilbert de Clare, and the second in 1189 for William Marshal. 104.15 Baldringham apparently a fictitious place, but the name proclaims Anglo-Saxon origins, and means ‘dwelling of a brave warrior’. 104.29–30 the old Saxon language . . . intermixture of French i.e. Old English with Norman French loan words. The language of most of England and southern Scotland was one or other dialect of Anglo-Saxon, but the language of those in power was French. The linguistic situation is discussed in Ivanhoe, ed. Graham Tulloch,     8, 21.6–28, and when James Ballantyne said in the proofs of Ivanhoe (1.50–51) that he did not understand, Scott commented: ‘Surely the strongest possible badge of the Norman conquest exists in the very curious fact that while an animal remaind alive under the charge of the Saxon slaves it retaind the Saxon name Sow Ox or calf—when it was killd & became flesh which was only eaten by the Normans the Sow became Porc the ox boeuf or beef the calf veau or veal. So that we still have the peculiarity of having two words one to denominate the animal alive another his flesh when dead and served up to table. The circumstance shows that the Saxon bondsmen kept the herds & flock, the Norman baron eat the flesh. A thousand volumes cannot speak the condition of the country more strongly.’ 104.34 Ermengarde see Historical Note, 366. 105.39 Gothic pinnacles and turrets see note to 56.20–21. 105.43 the battle of Hastings the defeat of Harold, the last AngloSaxon king of England, by William the Conqueror at the Battle of Hastings (14 October 1066) is seen as a major turning-point in the national story. 106.8 fallow deer woodland deer found in parkland. 106.19 heavy round arch . . . Saxon such arches can be seen in some pre-Conquest churches (of which there are about 50 in England), but early Norman arches are little different. In Scott’s day architectural history was imprecise: in his ‘Essay on Border Antiquities’ (1814) he describes the

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‘Saxon style of architecture’ as ‘massive round arches, solid and short pillars, much gloom and an absence of ornament’, and cites the Chapter House at Jedburgh Abbey as a ‘very perfect specimen’ of this style (Prose Works, 7.39), whereas the earliest parts of the existing abbey at Jedburgh actually date from the 12th century and are now described as Anglo-Norman. 106.27 turn bridle turn round. 106.34 Edward the Confessor King of England 1042–66: see note to 77.23. The word ‘confessor’ is used of someone who makes avowal of their faith in the face of difficulty or danger, and who dies naturally (as distinct from a martyr who is put to death). Edward was particularly noted for his piety. 107.2 some Saxon saint there were about 130 Saxon saints. 107.3 the Romish calendar the calendar of saints, a traditional method in the Catholic church of organising a liturgical year by associating each day with one or more saints. In the early middle ages, the cult of a saint might have been quite local, but from the late 12th century, the Pope took steps to centralise the process of canonisation, and a single calendar (which did allow local exceptions) was established in 1570. 107.7 dais the medieval term was effectively revived by Scott in Ivanhoe (1820): ed. Graham Tulloch,     8, 33.32. Its use to mean ‘canopy’ at 80.24 in The Betrothed follows modern French rather than English usage (according to OED, which does not record an occurrence before 1863). 107.28 assorted well with suited well. 107.29 wolf-dog Scott’s favourite dog, Maida, was one such. In a letter to Anna Jane Clephane of May 1816, he wrote: ‘I have got a deer-hound or blood-hound, or wolf-hound that is the most magnificent creature ever seen for height and strength. All Edinburgh is agape at him. I got him from Glengarry. He is descended of the Blue Spanish wolf-dog, and the real deer grey-hound’ (Letters, 4.180; for addressee and date see James Corson, Notes and Index to Sir Herbert Grierson’s Edition of the Letters of Sir Walter Scott (Oxford, 1979), 118, note 180a). Maida died in October 1824 (at the time of the composition of this novel) and was buried beneath the mounting stone beside the front door at Abbotsford. Macdonnell of Glengarry immediately offered a replacement from the same stock (Letters, 8.413n), which arrived in mid-1825 and was called Nimrod. 107.33 Thryme in Old English þrymm means ‘strength’ or ‘glory’, and þrymma ‘warrior’. 107.38–39 Woden, or Freya Woden was the principal god of the pagan Anglo-Saxon pantheon; Freya, goddess of love, was his wife. 107.43 Saint Dunstan (d. 988), Abbot of Glastonbury (939–56), and eventually Archbishop of Canterbury (960–88). He restored and strengthened Benedictine monasticism in England during his time at Glastonbury, and his influence on successive kings for nearly 50 years made him a central figure in 10th-century English history. 108.8 Berwine the name, which has no particular meaning, indicates the attendant’s Anglo-Saxon background. 108.24 merry England England characterised by its pleasant landscape, or the robust cheerfulness of its people. According to the OED, the phrase is first recorded in 1400. 108.25 player’s placket in 16th- and 17th-century drama jokes often referred to the gusset behind the buttoned front-fastening of a woman’s dress. 108.43 as the bramble clings to the elm proverbial, derived from ‘the vine embraces the elm’ (ODEP, 860). 109.20 poor bird the phrase is very common in the poetry and drama of the 17th and 18th centuries.

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109.37 curfew the bell rung at around 8 pm each evening to inform people that it was time to extinguish their fires. It seems to have been introduced in England to reduce the likelihood of fires. The idea that the curfew was introduced by William the Conqueror as a measure of political repression has been current since the 16th century, but it rests on no early historical evidence. Edward A. Freeman notes that in 1061 at a Synod at Caen held by authority of William, Duke of Normandy (to be William the Conqueror in 1066) ‘it was ordered that a bell should be rung every evening, at hearing of which prayer should be offered, and all people should get within their houses and shut their doors. . . . Whatever was its object, it was at least not ordained as any special hardship on William’s English subjects’: The History of the Norman Conquest of England, 6 vols (Oxford, 1867–79), 3.185. 109.39 Hundwolf an invented Anglo-Saxon name meaning ‘dog-wolf’ (see note to 107.29). 110.11 ruffle it swagger. 110.21 in some sort to some extent. 110.25–26 without transgressing the rules of the Church attempts to foretell the unpredictable by magic or divination of any sort are forbidden by such passages in the Bible as Matthew 6.34: ‘Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’ Magic, divination, etc. were also regularly and explicitly forbidden by the Fathers of the Church, early Councils, and later by Popes. 111.6 Go to go ahead; get to work. 111.25–30 motto see John Dryden, Don Sebastian, King of Portugal (1690), 2.1.569–73, in The Works of John Dryden, ed. Walter Scott, 18 vols (London, 1808), 7.346. 111.36 Horsa one of the legendary first Saxon invaders of Britain, from whom the Kentish dynasty traced its origins. See also note to 25.14. 112.18–24 torches . . . the office of a modern clock Asser, in paragraph 104 of his Life of King Alfred (893), gives an account of the commissioning by Alfred of candles graduated so as to measure the passage of time. In The History of the Anglo-Saxons, 3rd edn (London, 1821: CLA, 235), 2.276, Sharon Turner includes a full translation of the passage, and adds in a footnote an account in Latin from the Annals of Charlemagne about a gift from ‘the king of Persia’ (Haroun al-Raschid) to Charlemagne of a waterclock that released brass balls to mark the hours. Scott has combined the two instruments, either inadvertently or mischievously. 112.36–37 an old glee-man Gerdic the term ‘glee-man’ is AngloSaxon, and is used of a professional singer or entertainer. The name ‘Gerdic’ has a suggestion of the Anglo-Saxon, but it is not otherwise significant. 112.37 a harp, which had but four strings although the word ‘harp’ occurs in Old English and reference is made in poems of the time to its being played, no example of what we would now call a harp (the triangular or ‘pillar’ harp) is known to have survived from the Anglo-Saxon period. The plucked instrument used at that time was more akin to the lyre of classical times, a U-shaped frame, with up to six or seven (in this case, four) strings running from the sound box at the bottom to a row of pegs on the yoke at the top. It was generally strummed, rather than being used to play tunes. Later in the middle ages (and in the period in which the novel is set), the triangular harps played in Wales, Ireland and Brittany had between 6 and 25 strings. See also note to 189.12. 112.41–113.2 alliteration . . . hyperbolical epithets Old English poetry is structured by internal alliteration in each line rather than rhyme, and the need to alliterate led to there being a great many synonyms which

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could make the poetry seem obscure. In Scott’s time the study of the verse of the early middle ages was only just beginning, and its more recent students are less prejudiced against its techniques. 113.4–5 fabliaux . . . lais fabliaux were comic tales (frequently bawdy), written in France in the 12th and 13th centuries. The lai, which in northern France flourished in the late 12th and 13th centuries, was ‘a long poem having nonuniform stanzas of about 6 to 16 or more lines of 6 to 8 syllables. One or two rhymes were maintained throughout each stanza’ (The New Encyclopædia Britannica, 15th edn, 29 vols (Chicago, 1974), 7.104). 113.26 the cold palsy used of several diseases of the nervous system, some characterised by involuntary tremors, others (as presumably here) by paralysis (from which the word derives). 114.25 myrtle the word was used of a number of shrubs and plants. Scott may have in mind one that has highly-scented flowers and is an emblem of Venus. 115.3 tremble like the aspen a literary cliché since the 16th century. 115.28–29 the females . . . the third degree i.e. all daughters, granddaughters and great-granddaughters descended from the owners of Baldringham. Degrees of kinship are measured upward from the person in question to the nearest common ancestor. 116.13–14 Saxons . . . half converted Rose’s remark reflects prejudice rather than history: the Anglo-Saxons had been converted to Christianity long before the pagan Normans reached northern France in the 10th century. 116.26 corps de garde small troop of soldiers on guard. 116.43 a line of arrayed battle troops drawn up in battle order. 117.38 the pale planet the moon. 120.5–6 the whilst in the meantime. 120.12 a Saxon font see note to 106.19. 121.19–23 motto see Thomas Tickell (1685–1740), ‘Lucy and Colin’, lines 25–28 (Percy, 3.338). Scott has transposed the two couplets. His attribution of the stanza to David Mallet (1702?–65) is plausible in that Mallet both adapted traditional ballads, and wrote imitation ballads. 121.29 at a homely rate in a simple or plain way; without comfort. 122.32–33 molten lead . . . tears compare King Lear, 4.7.47–48. 122.38 take part side. 122.43–123.1 the Saxons . . . void of Christianity see note to 116.13–14. 123.5 Speak not for them do not defend them. 124.14 Hengist and Horsa see note to 25.14. 124.16–17 glanced aside struck obliquely and turned aside. 124.17 Saint Dunstan see note to 107.43. 124.17–18 the royal and holy Confessor King Edward the Confessor: see notes to 77.23 and 106.34. 124.42–43 Pride . . . goeth before destruction . . . fall see Proverbs 16.18. 125.3 a man of war and of blood see 1 Chronicles 28.3. 125.20–21 forest of Deane area N of the River Severn, between the Welsh border on the River Wye and Gloucester, which remained isolated well into the 20th century. Iron was mined here from pre-Roman times onwards, but from the late 17th century the use of local wood for iron furnaces was recognised as a major source of deforestation and in Scott’s time extensive replanting was undertaken: see H. G. Nicholls, The Forest of Dean: An Historical and Descriptive Account (London, 1858), Chs 4–6. 126.9 Plinlimmon see note to 14.33. 126.29–30 the Holy Image . . . never reveals i.e. confession made

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before an image of God cannot be repeated by the image. 126.35 Yseulte a name well-known in medieval romances. Yseulte fell in love (as a result of a love potion) with Tristan, who had been sent by his uncle King Mark of Cornwall to bring her from Ireland to marry the King. 126.40 Bahr-geist see Letter 3 of Walter Scott, Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft (London, 1830), 97–98. Scott calls it ‘a deity . . . of Teutonic descent’. The explanation provided here at 127.4–13 adapts the idea of the ‘Bahr-geist’ to fit the context of The Betrothed. See also Rob Roy, ed. David Hewitt,     5, 122.40. 127.21–22 Druids of whom the Welch speak so much for the druids see note to 20.41. Classical writers (e.g. Lucan, Caesar, Suetonius and Cicero) referred to human sacrifice under the supervision of the druids in the Celtic Iron Age; the only account of druidism in Britain comes from Tacitus, who also refers to human sacrifice on altars (Annals (c.  115–17), 14.30). Druids are mentioned in old Irish manuscripts, and the idea of the druid is fused in Welsh literature with the idea of the bard. However, it is probable that 12th-century Welshmen (and their ancestors) would have known nothing either of druids or of human sacrifice, and that Scott’s idea of the druid owes much to the reinvention of Wales and the Welsh past in the 18th century. For the perceived connection between the druids and stone circles see especially William Stukeley, Stonehenge a Temple Restor’d to the British Druids (London, 1740). 128.4 in the third degree see note to 115.28–29. 128.20 under favour of with all deference to. 129.4 Ay, there is the question see Hamlet, 3.1.56 and 65. 129.23–24 Widow’d . . . betray’d probably by Scott, but for the first line see William Combe, ‘The Wedding’ (1815), line 212: ‘A widow’d Bride, a married Maid’. 129.33 Mara in Anglo-Saxon and other Germanic languages the spirit that induces bad dreams, or the dream itself; the word is the second element in ‘nightmare’. 130.39 in place present. 132.3 lay her account with anticipate; reckon upon. 133.39 slippery paths Joseph Addison, ‘When all thy Mercies, O my God’, line 21: The Spectator, 453 (9 August 1712: ‘the slipp’ry Paths of Youth’). 134.21–22 the Pope’s Legate in England the Pope maintained in various parts of Europe permanent representatives who had the authority to act on his behalf and who reported back to the Vatican on local matters. 134.31 bezants gold coins from Byzantium, in use throughout Europe between the 9th and 14th centuries. The term is also applied to gold coins issued by the Crusading states such as the Kingdom of Jerusalem and Tripoli at the time of the novel’s action: these were copied from Islamic dinars, the region’s main coinage. 134.37 Baldwin see note to 13.15. 136.8 Jewish leech as a consequence of the Muslim conquest of the Iberian peninsula Jews moved north in the 11th and 12th centuries, taking with them both Jewish and Muslim medical knowledge. 136.21–22 gathered under planetary hours it was believed that there were appropriate times, according to astrology, for the gathering of medicinal herbs. 139.28 starts of temper sudden fits of passion or of derangement. 141.6–10 motto not identified; probably by Scott. 141.21 cellaress nun charged with the safe keeping and distribution of provisions in a convent. Scott may have found this word in Thomas Dudley

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Fosbrooke, British Monachism; or, Manners and Customs of the Monks and Nuns of England, new edn (London, 1817), 178: CLA, 184. 142.5 the conventual rule each monastic house had its own Rule, or book of rules, regulations and procedures, generally based closely on the one used by the founder of the Order. 142.6 Mistress of the Novices the senior nun in charge of new entrants to the convent. 142.30 minivair ‘minever (menu vair), an inferior kind of vair [fur], made from the skins of the small weazel and marten’ (note to Sir Tristrem, in Poetical Works, 5.403). 143.1 Timon of the woods in Timon of Athens the central character is a misanthrope who leaves the city to live in the woods, but ‘of the woods’ applies to Raoul, who is a huntsman. 143.4–6 January . . . May see note to 80.22. 143.6 melting fire . . . eye i.e. an eye which causes others to melt. The expression ‘melting fire’ is found in Isaiah 64.2. 143.25 fantastic faces animal heads or grotesques were sometimes carved at the end of the necks of bowed instruments. 143.28 In troth is it indeed it is. 143.29 brach-tricks i.e. the tricks of a female hound. Behind the wordformation, which is unique to Scott, may lie ‘back trick’ (Twelfth Night, 1.3.114), which probably refers to steps in dancing, but may also have an indecent reference. 143.38 hunt counter follow the wrong scent; blunder: 2 Henry IV, 1.2.85. 144.3–4 once and away once in a while. 144.5 Michaelmas the feast of Saint Michael on 29 September would be an appropriate time of year, after the breeding season was over, to hunt deer and subsequently sell their hides. Although in the middle ages there was no legally defined close season, it was usually observed, and hunting began again in July or August. 144.7 thy horns the allusion is to the widespread late medieval and Renaissance joke of the cuckold’s horns, which broadcast his shame and his wife’s infidelity. 144.15 Saint Hubert the patron saint of huntsmen. Hubert (d. 727), Bishop of Maastricht and Liège, seems to have acquired (during the 14th century) from the legend of Saint Eustace the story of being converted to Christianity while (inappropriately) hunting on Good Friday. 144.22–23 Men lie . . .women also a pun on telling a lie and going to bed with. 145.6 What can ail what can be the matter with. 145.6–7 a dead pause a sudden, complete stop. 145.17 dog-leech the word means both ‘veterinary surgeon who treats dogs’ and ‘quack’. 145.24 favour for liking for; friendly regard for. 145.27–28 a second Sir Tristrem in sylvan sports in the Sir Tristrem edited by Scott, there is an extended description of Tristrem preparing the carcass of a deer (Fytte 1, stanzas 44–47, in Poetical Works, 5.158–60). In his note Scott comments: ‘The “mystery of woods and of rivers” was a serious subject of study to the future candidate for the honours of chivalry’, and adds that it was ‘universally believed, that our hero, Sir Tristrem, was the first by whom the chase was reduced into a science’ (5.381). 145.29 fetter . . . bands of steel see Hamlet, 1.3.63. 145.32 Balaam’s ass in the Mystery in Numbers 22.23–30 the story is told of Balaam’s ass which lay down upon seeing the angel of the Lord, thus

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drawing her master’s attention to the truth. The story is recounted in the 5th play of the Chester Mystery Cycle (mid-15th century). 145.39 as if the devil sat on the door-way if a reference or quotation it has not been identified. 145.43 what ails what is wrong with. 146.3 your valour a form of address like ‘your honour’. For a similar use of the phrase see John Fletcher, The Tragedie of Bonduca (first performed before March 1619), 1.2.126 (The Dramatic Works in the Beaumont and Fletcher Canon, ed. Fredson Bowers, 10 vols (Cambridge, 1966–96), 4.167). 146.3–4 men . . . over new doublets although proverbial in form this does not seem to be a recognised proverb. 146.7–8 as green in wit as grey in years compare ‘Grey hairs are nourished with green thoughts’ (ODEP, 338); ‘Grey and green make the worst medley’ (Ray, 115; ODEP, 337); and ‘To have a hoar head and a green tail’ (ODEP, 375; see also Ray, 115). 146.15 frayings ‘velvet’ which deer rub off their antlers on trees and bushes. The huntsman makes use of these signs in following deer. 146.35–36 the aphorisms of Hippocrates the medical wisdom book attributed to Hippocrates (c. 469–c. 399  ), who is acknowledged as the father of medicine. He was the author of perhaps six works on medicine with 66 others attributed to him; the Aphorisms, which were widely consulted in the middle ages, recommend sleep and rest (2.1–2, 48). 147.14 Curatio est canonica non coacta Latin healing is governed by rules, not by force. A version of the traditional adage ‘Omnis curatio est vel canonica vel coacta’, meaning ‘every cure is [achieved] either by rule or by constraint’. 148.7 Amazons race of warlike women in Greek mythology. 148.9 sumifuges this word is not recorded elsewhere, but Scott may have coined it on the pattern of febrifuge, a medicine that drives away fever, using the first element from Latin humidus, ‘damp’ or ‘moist’. Thus the treatment would drive out the cold, moist physiological humour known in ancient medicine as ‘phlegm’. 148.11–12 Non audet . . . fabri Latin see Horace (65–8  ), Epistles, 2.1.115–16: ‘No-one dares to give [medicine] unless he has learnt [its use];/ Doctors undertake a doctor’s work, carpenters handle carpenters’ tools’ (translated by H. Rushton Fairclough in the Loeb edition of 1926). 148.16 Saint Luke according to Colossians 4.14 Luke was a physician. 148.18 whip in drive (a hound) with the whip back into the pack so as to prevent it from straying. 148.18 brabbles squabbles noisily. Used of hounds that give tongue too loudly or without reason. 149.38 Deus vobiscum Latin God be with you. 149.40–41 if thy business be not the more hasty unless your business is more urgent than mine. 150.9 the canons of the Church canon law, the rules that govern the faith and discipline of the Church. 150.15 metropolitan an archbishop, in this case the Archbishop of Canterbury, who has the oversight of the bishops of a province. The designating of a ‘city’ as a cathedral town is assumed here by Scott, but was only formally adopted under Henry VIII, and there was no bishopric of Gloucester until 1541. 150.16 his apostolic commission his instructions from the Pope. 150.16 a latere Latin from the side (i.e. of the Pope). A ‘legate a latere’ is a representative sent by the Pope, with full power to act on his behalf without further instructions.

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150.21 tawny hood the colour of the paritor’s hood suggests that he is imagined as a Franciscan friar, some of whom will have held such offices in the later middle ages. The Franciscan Order was founded in 1209. 150.22 have swallowed thy citation see Sir John Oldcastle (first printed 1600), 2.1.61–94, where Harpoole, Oldcastle’s servant, makes the Sumner do just that. The play is anonymous, but in 1619 was attributed to Shakespeare; by Scott’s day this attribution was no longer accepted. 150.30–35 Roman supremacy . . . domination of the church Thomas Becket (c. 1120–70), Chancellor of England and a favourite with Henry II (1133–89; King from 1154), was appointed by him to be Archbishop of Canterbury in 1162. Differences quickly grew between them when Henry sought to assert royal jurisdiction in matters usually controlled by the ecclesiastical courts. Following the judgment against him by a council of barons and some of the bishops, Becket fled to France and gained the support of the Pope. Eventually a reconciliation was effected, and Becket returned to England. However, Becket refused to excuse those bishops who had passed sentence on him, unless they swore obedience to the Pope. Henry’s renewed anger at this led to Becket’s martyrdom in Canterbury Cathedral on 29 December 1170, which shocked the whole of Europe, and was followed by his canonisation just over two years later. 151.32–34 motto Horace Walpole, The Mysterious Mother: a Tragedy (1768), 1.3.83–84, in The Works of Horatio Walpole, Earl of Orford, 5 vols (London, 1798), 1.48: CLA, 234. 152.33 palace of the Bishop there was no bishop of Gloucester until 1541, after the then Abbey was surrendered to Henry VIII’s commissioners in the aftermath of the English Reformation. 152.35 sumpter mules mules carrying baggage. 153.6 stood on foot . . . horse-boys see Henry VIII, 5.2.16–18 and 23–25. 153.13 hath held the stirrup i.e. has assisted [the Archbishop] to mount his horse, a sign of homage and subservience. 153.14 most degrading observances there was extreme conflict between Henry II and the Church following the murder of Becket (see note to 150.30–35). The Pope imposed severe conditions on the reconciliation between them, among which was public penance by the King at the shrine of the saint on 11 July 1174. 153.15–16 his priestly successor Becket’s immediate successor was Richard of Dover (Archbishop 1174–84), but Scott refers here to the following Archbishop, Baldwin (see note to 13.15). 153.26 Primate of England the principal archbishop of England having authority over the whole Church in England. 153.28–29 extensive views wide understanding (of things). 153.39 Ptolemais Acre (now Akko, N of Haifa), on the coast of Palestine. Baldwin landed at Tyre in October 1190, but died suddenly on 19 November. 154.11–12 close shirt of hair-cloth undergarment of rough material worn next the skin to mortify the flesh. 154.26 Satis est, mi fili Latin that is enough, my son. 155.3 Do veniam Latin I grant permission. 155.9 It skills not now . . . to say there is no point now in saying. 155.20 Dean of Hereford each cathedral was run by its chapter (the members of the religious house established there) under the guidance of the dean, who was second only to the bishop in authority. The Cathedral of Hereford was a Saxon foundation. From c. 1186–1200 its dean was one Richard.

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155.35 great things a phrase repeatedly used in the Bible about what God has done for the people of Israel. 156.1–2 who sleep . . . high altar the choir, or sanctuary at the east end of a church, was the most prized burial place. 157.22 withdraw your hand from the plough see Luke 9.62. 157.33 break off my purpose for the Holy Land see 1 Henry IV, 1.1.48. 157.40 marrying and giving in marriage Matthew 24.38. 157.40–41 the sorrows of Jacob Genesis Chs 29–31 tell the story of Jacob’s fraught relationship with his father-in-law Laban, summed up in his complaint at 31.41: ‘Thus have I been twenty years in thy house; I served thee fourteen years for thy two daughters, and six years for thy cattle: and thou hast changed my wages ten times’. 157.41 a main prop of our enterprize see 1 Henry IV, 4.1.29: ‘The very life-blood of our enterprise’. 158.30–31 when the fathers eat sour grapes . . . edge see Ezekiel 18.2. 159.2–3 the prayer of the good king Hezekiah the story of God’s answering of Hezekiah’s prayer that the Assyrians should be defeated, of Hezekiah’s subsequent sickness, and the extending of his life is told in both 2 Kings Chs 19–20 and Isaiah Chs 37–38. At 2 Kings 20.9–11, Isaiah asks Hezekiah whether he wants the shadow of the sundial to move forward or backward; and the Lord ‘brought the shadow ten degrees backward, by which it had gone down in the dial of Ahaz’. 159.5 falling away a phrase used in the New Testament when people cannot live up to the word of God: e.g. see Hebrews 6.6. 160.33 Te Deum Laudamus Latin we praise thee, O God: the opening words of a hymn written in the 5th century. As well as being included in various offices, especially matins, it has been widely used on occasions of particular thanksgiving. 160.36 an especial providence see Hamlet, 5.2.212. 160.42–43 He that desires to catch larks . . . sparrows although proverbial in form this does not seem to be a recognised proverb. 161.2 knight-errant in medieval romances unattached knights wandered the world in search of adventure. 161.11–16 motto not identified; probably by Scott. Archibald Armstrong (d. 1672) was court jester to James VI and I and to Charles I. 161.39 the die is now cast proverbial once the dice have been thrown, there is no turning back: ODEP, 186. 162.9–10 rote . . . wheel the ‘rote was an ancient musical instrument, managed by a wheel, from which it derived its name. Tyrwhitt seems to think that it resembled the ancient psaltery, but altered in its shape, and with an additional number of strings’ (note to Sir Tristrem, in Poetical Works, 5.422). Recent study of medieval instruments has done much to clarify their identification. Although played with the fingers, the rote was not a lute-like instrument, but more like a zither, with two courses of strings, one on each side of a triangular frame. Tyrwhitt reports a 10th-century assertion ‘that it was the ancient Psalterium, but altered in its shape and with an additional number of strings’ (in The Canterbury Tales of Chaucer, ed. Thomas Tyrwhitt, 2nd edn, 2 vols (Oxford, 1798), 2.617–18: CLA, 155). The instrument whose strings were played using a wheel was the symphony or organistrum (more recently known as a hurdy-gurdy in English) which produced a series of drones from the wheel’s contact with some of its strings, while others were plucked to produce the melody. The Latin word for a wheel, rota, may have contributed to the confusion between the two instruments. (The matter is

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further complicated in the text when at 175.43 Vidal plays his rote but then at 177.6–14 sleeps against his harp). 162.11 of good compass with a wide range; capable of singing both high and low notes. 162.14–45 Soldier, wake . . . mirror composed by Scott. 162.27 falc’ner to the lake hunting with hawks was often for waterfowl. 162.39 some metaphysic dream the essay or exercise on which the student is working culminates in something insubstantial. 162.47 Philip Guarine ‘the Constable’s squire’ (130.26). 163.8 short Norman cloak see note to 91.33. 163.13 the Joyous Science Provençal, gai saber; the joyous or happy science; the art of poetry. In the 14th century a guild of the same name was established at Toulouse to revive the classical art of the troubadours, which had flourished during the period of the novel’s action. It produced an instruction manual and awarded prizes for the best poems in the approved style. 163.26 call forth summon. 163.27 bethink him consider. 163.32 evil received badly received. 163.41 Geoffrey Rudel Jaufre Rudel was active during the first half of the 12th century. At least six lyrics of his are known to survive, four of them with melodies. His vida (short biography in prose) says he fell in love with the Countess of Tripoli without seeing her, joined the Second Crusade in order to do so, but died in her arms on arriving (see The Vidas of the Troubadours, trans. Margarita Egan (New York, 1984), 61–62). He is not known to have had any connection with England, but Henry II of England was also Duke of Aquitaine; the story may be Scott’s invention, for Rudel was dead when Henry became Duke in 1152. 164.21 Armorican person from Armorica, the Roman name for NW France, including Brittany and Normandy, but its full extent is indeterminate. In the middle ages Brittany was renowned for its minstrels. 164.21 Morbihan the gulf of Morbihan on the S coast of Brittany. 164.23 Vidal Scott may have borrowed the name of the late 12th-century troubadour Peire Vidal, who came from the S of France, and was active widely in Europe, and may have gone on the Third Crusade. He was recognised as a great singer: ‘he sang better than anyone else in the world’ (The Vidas of the Troubadours, trans. Margarita Egan (New York, 1984), 80). Some 40 of his poems survive, of which 13 also have melodies. 164.39 edge tools implements with cutting edges; swords. 164.42 array me i.e. change my clothes for something appropriate for attending a religious service. 166.4 innovated upon altered. 166.33 united his troth . . . Berenger united his good faith with Edith Berenger’s in a solemn engagement. 167.30 possessed of made acquainted with. 167.32 from point to point point by point. 167.40 but an item of the account the Abbess sees the agreement between Baldwin and Hugo as a set of accounts, in which the failure to consult Eveline is only a single entry. 168.10 sit down slightly with put up weakly with. 168.17 kirtle . . . upper robe i.e. Eveline is wearing an under-tunic of white (the ‘kirtle’), and an over-tunic in pale blue. 169.17 man of woman born see Macbeth, 4.1.80. 169.17 hold a fair field defend [myself] in a tournament. 169.27 took the word took up the interchange. 169.36 interfere with interpose so as to change.

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170.19 put force on force you to act contrary to. 171.39 my superior i.e. the Archbishop. 172.39–40 maintain fire upon their hearths the income from the produce of the manors provided for the unproductive castles. 173.12 The Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine (c. 1122–1204), who was divorced from her first husband Louis VII of France in 1152 and who at once married Henry Plantagenet, Duke of the Normans and Count of Anjou. Henry became King of England as Henry II in 1154 (see notes to 90.35–36 and 233.26–27). 173.14 The Queen of Heaven Mary, mother of Jesus. 173.21 Lollard the dismissive name (it means ‘mumbler’) given to the followers of John Wyclif (probably born in the mid 1320s, d. 1384) who stressed the centrality of personal faith and study of the Bible rather than the authority of the Church itself, thus incurring its wrath. 173.21 Iconoclast breaker of images. The specific reference here is to Protestant activists at the Reformation in 16th-century England. The term originates in the 8th- and 9th-century disputes in the eastern church over the veneration of icons, which purists saw as close to idolatry. The divisions were often between the eastern emperors (who were against icons) and the patriarchs and monks (who defended them). 174.31–35 motto see ‘The Knight, and the Shepherd’s Daughter’, lines 53–56, in Percy, 3.74 (Child, 110A). However, the stanza as quoted follows the Scottish versions, which were very common: see particularly Child, 110K, stanza 11. The introduction of the ‘Earl Marshal’ suggests that Scott is also remembering ‘Queen Eleanor’s Confession’, lines 5–8, in Percy, 2.156 (Child, 156). 175.7 to become current from to run from. 175.18 levees . . . couchees morning and evening receptions, involving the robing and disrobing of kings and high nobles. 176.8–24 Woman’s faith . . . ere night composed by Scott. 176.31 Go to come on; what? 176.37 Joyous Science see note to 163.13. 176.43–177.1 Ysolte . . . Tristrem . . . Mark see note to 126.35. 177.7 harper see note to 162.9–10. 177.25–26 motto see Romeo and Juliet, 1.4.53. 177.27–30 The subject . . . sleeper a common idea, perhaps best expressed by Chaucer in The Parliament of Fowls, lines 99–105. 179.1 like a gilded helmet on a hog derived from the proverb ‘A hog in armour’ (ODEP, 376). 179.11 casting about searching mentally. 179.12 knight of name renowned knight. 179.13 deeds of vassalage valiant deeds, befitting a good feudal subordinate. 179.38–39 take chance of take your chance regarding. 179.43 it is well thy part you are certainly obliged; there is a clear obligation on you. 180.3 Think her picture her; imagine her. 180.6 by the threave in large numbers; in quantity. A threave of wheat consisted of 24 sheaves, and the use of the word was extended to cover anything that comes in quantity. 180.8–9 frighten our walls . . . Jericho see Joshua Ch. 6. By clerks is meant literate people, especially priests. 180.10 Charlemagne in the 11th-century Chanson de Roland and many subsequent medieval epic poems and romances, Charlemagne (742–814), King of the Franks from 768, and Holy Roman Emperor from 800, was

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surrounded by knights who performed heroic and chivalric deeds. 180.10 King Arthur in the later middle ages, especially after Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History (see note to 10.27–28), Arthur (whose historical existence is questionable) became the focus of innumerable romances and histories dealing with the exploits of his knights. 180.13 break lances take part in tournaments. 180.17 bolts . . . drawbridge . . . portcullis see note to 32.39–40. The phrase draw bolts means ‘fasten bolts’, ‘bolt the gates’. 180.21 Knight of the Swan symbols were commonly used to enable the crowd at a tournament to identify the participants. Jerome Mitchell, in Scott, Chaucer, and Medieval Romance (Lexington, Kentucky, 1987), 24–27, demonstrates that Scott possessed Chevalere Assigne and knew the expanded version, Helyas, The Knight of the Swan, two romances in which the swan is such an identifying symbol. 180.22 Eagle . . .Thunderbolt Scott is inventing further examples of knights’ titles. 180.25 in form following the standard procedures. 180.25–26 the castle of Tintadgel Tintagel, birthplace of King Arthur, and also (in the Tristrem story) the castle of King Mark of Cornwall, seems not to have been besieged in the romances; but Scott may be thinking of the parallel situation later in the Arthur story, when Lancelot, involved in an adulterous relationship with the queen (Guinevere), as Tristrem was with Isolte, was besieged in his own castle of Joyous Garde by Arthur and many of the Knights of the Round Table: see ‘The Vengeance of Sir Gawaine’, in The Works of Sir Thomas Malory, ed. Eugene Vinaver, 2nd edn, 3 vols (Oxford, 1967; continuously paginated), 1186: Bk 20, Ch. 10 in Caxton’s edition. 180.30 ever and anon continually at intervals. 180.35 At a word in a word; in short. 180.36–37 I wash my hands of it see Matthew 27.24, where Pilate absolves himself from the guilt of condemning Jesus by washing his hands. 180.37–38 the chaste Susannah in The History of Susanna in the Apocrypha, Susanna is spied on by two elders who then attempt to seduce her. When she resists, they falsely accuse her of adultery with a young man. The prophet Daniel clears her name by showing that the evidence of the witnesses is in conflict. 180.38 an enchanted castle in many romances, the heroine is protected by such a castle. There may be a specific reference to the Sleeping Beauty story which Scott knew from its occurrence (as ‘La Belle au bois dormant’) in the fairy stories told by Charles Perrault under the title Contes de ma mère Loye (Tales of Mother Goose) and first published under the name of his son Pierre in 1697: see CLA, 44–45 (Cabinet des Fées, 41 vols (Amsterdam, 1785–86), 1.17–31). He was also acquainted with the original version of the story in the 14th-century French prose romance La Treselega-te Delicieuse Melliflue et tresplaisante hystoire du tresnoble Victorieux & excellentissime Roy [King] Perceforest Roy de la grant Bretaigne, 3 vols (Paris, 1531–32), ff. 125v–133r (Vol 3, Ch. 48): CLA, 122. The knight Troylus receives supernatural help to enter a castle with only one window unblocked and there rapes the sleeping Zellandine whose father has dedicated her to the gods and imagines that Mars is the father of the resulting child. 181.8–9 a fool’s advice the concept of the wise fool, an unlettered person who sees practical or moral issues more clearly than the learned, begins in the middle ages; the best known literary example is the fool in King Lear. 181.19 those Latins and Greeks western Europeans (Latins) and subjects of the Byzantine Empire (Greeks). The western powers were heavily

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involved in the Crusading wars in Palestine, and the Empire occasionally so. For the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, see note to 185.18. 182.13 better trusting . . . old wolves although proverbial in form this does not seem to be a recognised proverb. 182.17 bethink thee think. 182.22 privileges with the development of towns and of commerce and manufacturing in them, independent of the rural community, special privileges were often granted by the lord to those who lived in them. At 249.22–27 in the text the privilege for which Flammock is seeking is independence from feudal obligations, specifically the requirement of military service; Henry II responds by creating a borough, i.e. a town with rights of selfgovernment independent of the feudal superior. Boroughs on this model were first established in the 12th century; Montgomery was created the first borough in Wales in 1227. 183.12 use to speak habit of speaking. 185.8 ploughed the narrow seas although this phrase is Scott’s own, the metaphor of a ship ploughing the seas is common (e.g. Virgil, Aeneid, 2.780: ‘vastum maris aequor arandum’, the vast surface of the sea must be ploughed); and the phrase ‘the narrow seas’ is equally common, used many times by Shakespeare among others (e.g. Henry V, 2.prologue.38). 185.12 the arms of the Lacys a purple lion rampant; for the full coat of arms see De Lacy in Wikipedia. 185.18 the Latins of Palestine the ‘Latin’, or Frankish, kingdom had been established in Jerusalem following the First Crusade (1096–99), but it was fiercely resisted by the local Muslims and had virtually disappeared by the time in which the novel is set. 186.43–187.1 If the prayer was misdirected as a Protestant writing for a predominantly Protestant readership, Scott implies that prayers should be addressed directly to God and not (as often in Roman Catholic practice) to saints. 187.5–11 motto see William Wordsworth, Ecclesiastical Sonnets (1822), Part 2, Sonnet 25, lines 9–14. 187.22 watching and warding a standard phrase for ‘guarding’. 187.38 military tenure see note to 39.16–17. 188.38–39 the books of Judges and of Kings historical books in the Old Testament. They recount the gradual settlement of Palestine by the Israelites, followed by the warlike history of the Jewish monarchy until Jerusalem was conquered by the Assyrians, which led to the subsequent exile of the Jews in Babylon. 188.39 Judas Maccabeus central figure in the account of the Jewish Wars against the Syrians in the 2nd century  , recounted in Books 1 and 2 of Maccabees (in the medieval biblical canon, but consigned to the Apocrypha in the King James Bible). 189.12 huge harp strung with horse hair Welsh harps were gutstringed and more portable than the large Irish harp of the later middle ages which was generally strung with wire. 189.41 the Saxon castle see note to 106.19. 190.24–25 changed the laurel-wreath into cypress i.e. changed an emblem of victory into a sign of mourning. 190.29–35 lay of the Count of Gleichen . . . monument it is not known to what poem (‘lay’) Scott refers. The story, as given in the text, seems to have been first recorded in the 16th century; the monument, probably to Lambert II, Count of Gleichen 1193–1227, is in Erfurt Cathedral, in Germany. He was bigamous only in popular tradition: he remarried after the death of his first wife. See Carl Reineck, Die Sage von der Doppelehe

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eines Grafen v. Gleichen (Hamburg, 1891). 192.8 Paynim Middle English version of an Old French word derived from late Latin paganismus, widely used in the ME romances to refer to the Muslims encountered by the Crusaders. 193.9–11 motto Thomas Randolph, ‘An Ode to M. Anthony Stafford to hasten him into the Country’, lines 61–62, in Poems, 4th edn (London, 1652), 63: CLA, 170. 193.22 Ever to seek for always having to be looked for; never to be found. 193.31 keistrils Gillian is making play with ‘kestrel’ (a type of hawk) and ‘coistrel’ (knave, rogue). 194.14 go to come on! 194.16 Malpas in S Cheshire 8 km NW of Whitchurch, the barony of which was held by the de Lacy family from the time of the Conquest. Richard Heber, a friend of Scott’s since 1800 and a possible informant about the area in which the novel is set, lived near this place. 194.16 Dinevawr ‘Dinas Vawr, The Great Palace, the residence of the Princes of Deheubarth, or South Wales’: Southey’s note to Part 1, Bk 13, line 19 of Madoc. 194.30 the Rock of Ramsey Ramsey is a town towards the northern end of the Isle of Man; it has not been determined what ‘the Rock of Ramsey’ refers to. 194.41 at the mount or the stoop on the rise or while diving (on prey). 195.1–2 King Reginald of Man Ragnvald Godredsson of Man (reigned 1188–1229). Praised by Irish bards and Icelandic saga-men as a great warrior, Ragnvald was also a devout Christian prince who patronised religious houses round the shores of the Irish Sea. 195.7 Go to come, come! 195.10–11 you are no bold bodesman probably that’s not much of an offer. Scott appears to have coined this word, with the root verb, bode, meaning ‘offer’. 195.19–20 though March be the fitter month . . . heron until the mid-19th century herons, esteemed a delicacy, and regarded as a pest because they preyed on fish stocks, were hunted with two or more falcons as described in the novel. ‘At the beginning of March herons begin to make their passage: if therefore you will adopt your falcons for the heron, you must not let them fly longer at the river’ (William Augustus Osbaldiston, The British Sportsman (London, [1792–96?]), 393). The heron’s passage is ‘at a reasonable height, while she is going to, or coming from Fishing, to her young ones’ during the nesting season (R[ichard] Wolley, The Present State of France (London, 1687), 206). 195.21 the matter of a mile a mile or so. 195.30 good now come on now! 196.8 crush a cup drink. Romeo and Juliet, 1.2.81. 196.9 in faith an interjection without particular significance, used as ‘oh’ might be at the beginning of an utterance. 196.22 throw them off falconry let them fly. 197.3 hawked at attacked on the wing. 197.15 girded on fixed to his belt. 197.16 Flandrekin elephant of a horse a very large horse from Flanders. Large draft-horses from the Low Countries became important in England in the middle of the 14th century: R. H. C. Davis, The Medieval Warhorse (London, 1989), 89. 197.20 liege mistress mistress entitled to feudal allegiance and service.

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198.2–3 a bowshot before aught much beyond anything. 198.6 hope to speed hope for some success. 198.14 tarn . . . in some countries the word is particularly associated with the English Lake District. 198.40–41 water-reptiles frogs and newts. Traditionally a ‘reptile’ was a ‘creeping or crawling animal’ (OED); the modern definition dates from the mid-19th century. 198.43 starting the quarry getting the quarry to set off from its station. 199.2 far jettee . . . jettee ferré these terms appear as ‘fer Jutty’ and ‘Jutty ferry’ in the 1810 edition of [Lady Juliana Berners], The Book Containing the Treatises of Hawking; Hunting; Coat-armour; Fishing; and Blasing of Arms, ed. Joseph Haslewood (1496; repr. London 1810: CLA, 208), 25. Rachel Hands, English Hawking and Hunting in the Boke of St Albans (London, 1975), which is a modern edition of the same text, explains: ‘At the fer jutty is the correct term for the kill if it is made on the bank of the river or pool away from the austringer [hawker]; at the jutty ferry, if it is made on the side of the river on which the austringer stands’ (114). She also remarks that these two terms are ‘peculiar’ to this text. 199.12 threw off let fly. 199.27–28 bent to preserve intent on preserving. 199.42 thy cake is dough your cake hasn’t cooked; i.e. the falcon has failed. Compare The Taming of the Shrew, 5.1.125. 200.22 a waif a wanderer. Early law-codes (including Welsh ones) permitted the ‘claiming’ of female trespassers who were unaccompanied. 200.22 Dawfyd with the one eye an unidentified character, but with a perfectly authentic name. 200.24 at point either appropriately or in readiness. 200.25 Welch hooks see note to 20.19–20. 201.21–25 motto see Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ‘Christabel’ (written 1797, 1800; published 1816), lines 81–84. It is possible that ‘a maiden most forlorn’ (Coleridge has simply ‘a maid forlorn’) was suggested by ‘the maiden all forlorn’ in the nursery rhyme ‘The House that Jack Built’: see The Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes, ed. Iona and Peter Opie (Oxford, 1951), 230 (no. 258). Scott may be recalling the passage from having heard John Stoddart’s recitation of Coleridge’s poem soon after its composition and long before it appeared in print: see Lockhart, 2.23. 201.27–28 might . . . right compare the proverb ‘Might is (makes, overcomes) right’: Ray, 135; ODEP, 530–31. 202.7 at either rein i.e. holding the rein at both sides of the horse’s head. 202.11 the Anglo-Norman language after the Norman conquest, the nobility and their administrators, churchmen, and merchants used a version of French from the northern part of France, which in time developed its own insular characteristics. It remained in use as the language of government until the early 15th century. 202.28 falcons fear not falcons although proverbial in form this does not appear to be a recognised proverb. 202.32 which way to hold which road to follow; which direction to go in. 203.5 the first frown of fortune see King Lear, 5.3.6: ‘false Fortune’s frown’. In this form the phrase is very common, but ‘the first frown of fortune’ is Scott’s own, used first in Quentin Durward, ed. J. H. Alexander and G. A. M. Wood,     15, 319.12. 203.14 singular fortification a development of an idea in A Legend of the Wars of Montrose (ed. J. H. Alexander,     7b, 103.30–36) which

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recalls a supposedly historical incident in the 16th century: ‘Does not the valley of Glenorquhy, to this very hour, cry shame on the violence offered to a helpless infant whom her kinsmen were conveying to the court of the Sovereign? Were not her escort compelled to hide her beneath a cauldron, round which they fought till not one remained to tell the tale?—and was not the girl brought to this fatal castle, and afterwards wedded to the brother of MacCallan More, and all for the sake of her broad lands?’ As a child Muriel Calder (1498 or 1499–c. 1575) was made prisoner in the manner described, and in 1510 she was married to Sir John Campbell (d. 1546), a younger brother of Colin Campbell (d. 1530), third Earl of Argyll. Scott also knew of works from medieval Welsh literature from George Ellis and William Owen and may have heard stories of extraordinary cauldrons in Welsh literature, such as the one that gives Taliesin his poetic inspiration in ‘Preiddeu Annwfyn’ (The Spoils of Annwn), the account of Arthur’s visit to the underworld in the Book of Taliesin (Llyfr Taliesin): see Legendary Poems from the Book of Taliesen, ed. Marged Haycock (Aberystwyth, 2007), 435–36. There is another in the Second Branch of the medieval prose collection Mabinogion, which restores dead warriors to life: when Efnysien is thrown into it he ‘stretches himself out in the cauldron so that the cauldron breaks into four pieces’ (The Mabinogion, trans. Sioned Davies (Oxford, 2007), 32). In 1814 Scott told Jacob Grimm that he had seen some ‘curious specimens’ of The Mabinogion (Letters, 3.436) which came from Owen but were in the possession of Ellis. See also Historical Note, 364–65. 205.15 Edris possibly named after Idris Gawr, ‘a personage ranked with Gwdion ab Don and Gwyn ab Nudd, under the appellation of the three sublime astronomers of Britain; whose profound knowledge of the stars, their nature, and aspects, enabled them to explain events’ (Owen, 194). 207.3 more in many degrees very much more. 208.12–14 motto see William Wordsworth, ‘Hart-Leap Well’ (1800), lines 123–24: ‘ “A jolly place,” he said, “in times of old,/ But something ails it now; the spot is curs’d. . . .”’. 208.31 Mother of Crw i.e. beer mother. 208.32 those which exalt the heroes of the famous Hirlas Horn in the medieval Welsh poem Hirlas Owain, the prince on the night after a battle enumerates the achievements of his warriors, and sends the brimming horn to each in turn. Its author, Owain ap Gruffydd (c. 1130–1197), known as Owain Cyveiliog (Cyfeiliog), was ‘one of the most distinguished of the princes of Powys, as a warrior, and as a poet’ (Owen, 272). In Madoc, Part 1, Bk. 10, lines 49–141, the Hirlas Horn is a drinking horn used at a time of celebration. 210.40–41 Dafyd the one-eyed see note to 200.22. 211.17 a thought a bit. 211.26–28 motto unidentified. The lines are not by Edmund Waller (1606–87); they may well be Scott’s own. 212.36–37 Where I go, he shall go see Ruth 1.16. 213.17 in the stead of in place of. 213.28 Bethink you remember. 213.39 it holds not with it is not consistent with. 214.3 in case unless. 214.9 tumults among the English rabble Scott may have in mind the ferocious anti-Jewish riots in London and elsewhere, including York, that occurred soon after the coronation of Richard I in 1189, in which there was much bloodshed and destruction of property. 214.19 I confide not in I don’t trust. 214.20 in security in safety; in a safe place.

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214.29 dare aught of violence dare do anything violent. 214.34 preached up commended. 214.36 draw bridle halt. 215.1–2 make some head against them offer some resistance to them; challenge their power. 215.3 would not care to head them wouldn’t wish to oppose them: see OED, head, verb 13. 215.31 art magic witchcraft. See The Wisdom of Solomon 17.7 in the Apocrypha. 216.21–22 beef-fed knave Wilkin implies that the Normans feed on meat while poorer men do not. 216.29 commend me to give me by choice. 216.32 for the fear and that in the expectation that. 216.33 with reverence with apologies; begging your pardon. The phrase is used before some remark that might offend the hearer. 216.33 damsel errant Scott’s coinage, based on the idea of the ‘knight errant’ (see note to 161.2); but Wilkin’s apology (see previous note) indicates that he is punning, suggesting that Eveline is both a wandering knight, and that her conduct is erring. 216.33–34 stand . . . for insist on. 217.14–20 Thou knowst . . . my own heart the prayer is an elaboration of a clause in the General Confession in the Book of Common Prayer: ‘We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts’. The idea of weakness as an instrument of grace is particularly pronounced in the Epistles to the Corinthians, and ‘strong’ and ‘weak’ are repeatedly juxtaposed in the New Testament. 217.26–33 motto not identified; probably by Scott. 219.20–21 no spurs displayed on the pall in the later middle ages spurs were an emblem of knighthood, and were symbolically attained when a man was dubbed knight, usually after some deed of heroism. They would be laid on his coffin at his funeral. 220.6 so that providing that. 220.39 Wild Wenlock the name was probably suggested by the town described as ‘wild Wenlock’ in A True & Faithful Relation of What passed for Many Yeers Between Dr. John Dee . . . and Some Spirits . . . (London, 1659), 2: CLA, 208. 221.7 King’s Lieutenant representative of the king in a particular part of the country, with the power to act in the king’s name. 221.26 You spur a willing horse see Richard II, 4.1.72. 221.29 win thy spurs see note to 219.20–21. 222.2 trying . . . conclusions making . . . experiments. 222.12 soldier of fortune mercenary soldier. 222.27–28 my way in my direction. 222.30 hatched and gilded toasting-iron see King John, 4.3.99. Genvil is ridiculing Amelot’s ornate, engraved sword. 222.31 led about on every boy’s humour led round about on the whims of boys. 222.32 stand little upon don’t care about; am not fussy about. 222.33 for the time for the time being. 222.41 cram . . . false throat see Richard II, 1.1.44: ‘With a foul traitor’s name stuff I thy throat’. 223.3 standard-spear a spear carried by a retainer that bore the pennon or flag of a knight. 223.23–24 my masters ironic gentlemen. 223.33 give back turn tail.

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223.37–38 stay not don’t desist from acting. 223.40 a steel saddle a saddle with a steel frame. 224.24 Twyford a hamlet 6 km SE of Oswestry. 224.24–25 finely off ironic in a fine position. 224.37–38 sound a mort blow the horn-signal at the death of the quarry. 225.5–6 an it like your juvenility if it please your youth. A parodic variant of e.g. ‘if it please your honour’. 225.8 this old swallows tail the pennon, with its swallow-tail termination. 225.9 a furbelowed petticoat an underdress with pleats and other decorations on it. The term was not in use before the 17th century, but common in the 18th. 225.12 par amours French by way of sexual love. 225.17 red gold ‘red’ is a conventional epithet for gold, especially in poetry. 225.20 make some vantage gain some advantage. 225.22–23 the boor to the booty . . . proverb the common man goes for the booty, and the soldier goes for the common man, and, by implication, gets his booty. However, this does not appear to be a recognised proverb. 226.19 as wily as an old fox proverbial: see Ray, 142; ODEP, 589. 226.26 par amours French in a sexual manner. 226.33–34 much water . . . wots of proverbial: see Ray, 136; ODEP, 870; and Titus Andronicus, 2.1.85–86. ‘Hob’ is a shortened form of Robert. Hob Miller is a generic name for a miller; e.g. in The Monastery, ed. Penny Fielding,     9, the convent miller is so called (73.35). 227.1 pass on find credit with. 227.4 upon the spur at full speed. 227.5 felly girded in with terribly hemmed in by. 227.7 making his place good holding his position. 227.27 the war-horse of Job see Job 39.19–25, especially 24–25. 228.29–30 Grand Justiciary of the Commons the two Justiciars, one in the north and one south of the Humber, acted as Regents during the King’s absence abroad (as, for instance, when Richard I was on Crusade and subsequently in captivity, from late 1189 until early 1194). The peasant is laying claim to such powers in the name of the common people. 228.32–33 men in state men in politics or government. 228.38 upon assurance i.e. on assurance of safe conduct. 229.31 draw out a force lead out a detachment. 229.38–39 this house . . . poured on it compare Matthew 7.24–27. The expression bear out means ‘endure’, ‘survive’. 230.2–4 motto these lines have not been found in the works of Otway, nor elsewhere. They may well be Scott’s own. 230.24–25 in no shape in no way; not at all. 231.17 Saint Clement’s Day 23 November. 231.26 the Sultan Saladin (c. 1138–93), the highly successful Sultan of Egypt and Syria. He was leader of the Muslim forces that recaptured Jerusalem in 1187, thus precipitating the Third Crusade. He plays a major part in The Talisman. 231.33 a Lombard’s mortgage see note to 29.40. If a mortgage is not redeemed on the agreed date, the security (often property) is forfeited to pay off the loan. 231.42–43 an usurer . . . forfeited pledge a money lender who is waiting for the due day for the repayment of a secured loan (i.e. a loan made on the basis of pledging some property as security), in the hope of getting the property rather than repayment.

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232.1 Michaelmas 29 September, the feast day of St Michael. This is one of the quarter days for the settling of financial agreements in England, Wales and Ireland. 232.35 death and ruin see the motto to this chapter (230.2–4). 233.3 Guy Monthermer a fictitious person, but probable, in that there was a Baron Monthermer from 1309. 233.16–17 beaver . . . grizzled see Hamlet, 1.2.229, 240. 233.20 triple plume a splendid plume consisting of 3 rows of feathers. 233.26–27 the House of Anjou see note to 90.35–36. 233.43 the King’s by law under the feudal system all land is vested in the Crown, but the Crown granted lands to others in return for service in war and maintaining order etc. within the grantee’s domains. 235.21–22 motto see Richard III, 4.4.509. 235.36–38 palmer cloaks . . . marked them as pilgrims the standard accoutrements of a palmer: compare Marmion, Canto 1, Stanza 27, in Poetical Works, 7.68–70. In the later middle ages, pilgrims to the various shrines in Europe and the Holy Land wore distinctive broad-brimmed hats, turned up at the front, and displayed the scallop shell indicating that they had visited Santiago de Compostela in NW Spain, home of the relics of St James the Greater since the early 9th century. 235.39–40 that fatal bourne see Hamlet, 3.1.79–80. 236.39–40 the Druid’s badge and emblem the oak tree was sacred to the druids. 236.42 Kist-vaen Welsh (from cist and maen) a box made of stone, in which human remains were buried in prehistoric times. Such constructions are frequently referred to in antiquarian books of Scott’s day. Grose (1.136–37) has a paragraph headed ‘ ’, which begins: ‘Kist Vaens, that is, stone chests, commonly consist of four flags or thin stones, two of which are set up edgeways, nearly parallel; a third shorter than the other two, is placed at right angles, to them thus forming the sides, and closing the end of the chest; the fourth, laid flat on the top, makes the lid or cover, which, on account of the inequality of its supporters, inclines to the horizon at the closed end.’ 237.11 bespoke him identified him as. 237.20 I can ill guess I don’t know; beats me. 237.21 runaway serf a serf, or villein, was legally tied to the land on which he worked, and could not leave without the landowner’s permission. He would have his own small-holding to maintain himself and family, and in return would be obliged to work the landowner’s ground on a stated number of days a year. 237.34–35 what avails to speak? what is the point of discussing it? 237.39 found upon build a case on. 238.3 the beast we heard of in Judaea presumably the hyena. 239.10 the raven . . . the dove Scott combines the raven that fed Elijah (1 Kings 17.6) with the dove that brought news of the end of the Flood to Noah (Genesis 8.11). 239.22–23 boast not, lest thy bands be made strong see Isaiah 28.22: the second clause means ‘lest your bonds grow tighter’. 239.38–39 an executioner standing with his knife . . . victim the sentences for crimes such as treason involved mutilation after half-hanging. 240.16–17 our date of engagement was out the period set for our engagement had expired. 240.30–31 pawnbroker . . . forfeits the pledge the pawnbroker retains the goods against which a loan had been secured because the time of redemption has passed.

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241.5–6 like that seeming emotion . . . character like the feelings exhibited by someone thought to be ‘deep’, but who is not entirely trusted. 241.12 gave breath to uttered. 241.15 name a health make a toast. 241.20 The date . . . was out see note to 240.16–17. 241.30 par amours French as lovers. 241.38–39 the Rocking Stones of the Druids in many parts of Britain there are naturally eroded boulders that can be rocked in their seats by human pressure. In the 18th century these natural phenomena were often connected with the druids: e.g. Francis Grose (1.138) says that rocking stones ‘were probably used by the druids as instruments of pious fraud’. 242.19–20 the bull-feast we saw in Spain a bull-feast is a bull-fight. The crusaders seem to have returned via Spain, although they apparently set out through the continent of Europe (185.8). 242.30 drew off from moved away from. 244.3 the Constable’s delegate i.e. Damian. 244.4 so they display provided they display. 244.11–12 kept the field were disposed to continue fighting. 244.36 Out upon him expression of rejection or reproach. 245.15 Let us e’en make a grace of probably let us win grace by or let us make a peace offering by. 245.22 Volenti non fit injuria Latin injury is not done to someone who consents. A maxim in Scots law, encapsulating the position that consent to an injury may invalidate a claim for compensation for it. 245.23–24 see how the wind sits proverbial: ODEP, 436. 245.37–38 Have you no care of it don’t bother with it. 245.38 par amours French by way of sexual love. 246.6 Richard and John this conjunction of Henry and his two sons is fictional. The King was absent from England from early 1187 for nearly a year, and then again from mid-1188 until his death in France in July 1189. Meanwhile, Richard spent much of the late 1180s in France, attempting to establish with the King of France his claim to Anjou, in the face of Henry’s desire to give it to John. Richard (1157–99) succeeded his father as King in 1189. John (1167–1216) succeeded his brother in 1199. 246.17–18 sharp knives and tough cords see notes to 238.22–23, 38–39. 246.30–31 the beggarly Frenchmen famish their hounds probably to make them keener hunters. 246.32 over green immature. 248.5 Out, alas! alas! 248.6 Gloucester the reference must be to William Fitz Robert (1116–83), who succeeded his father as 2nd Earl of Gloucester in 1147. There was no Earl immediately after he died leaving three daughters. In 1189 his youngest daughter Isabella (c. 1160–1217) married Prince John, the King’s youngest son, who was then styled Earl of Gloucester until he succeeded to the throne in 1199 on the death of his elder brother, Richard I. 248.11 Be comforted see Isaiah 40.1. 248.11 the chancellor from the Conquest in 1066 one of the high offices of state. In 1182–89 the position was occupied by Geoffrey (1151?–1212), an illegitimate son of Henry II, who became Archbishop of York in 1191. He was succeeded as Chancellor by William de Longchamp (d. 1197), who became Bishop of Ely also in 1189. 249.8–9 experience . . . the church see note to 153.14. 249.12 to preach to the ravens see Elkanah Settle, Distress’d Innocence: or, The Princess of Persia, A Tragedy (London, 1691), 17: ‘hang’d him on a

  Gibbet/ To preach to Crows and Ravens’ (2.180). 249.22–26 privileges . . . Mayor see note to 182.22. 249.37 in the King’s bosom in the privacy of the King’s thoughts. 250.5–8 motto see The Merchant of Venice, 4.1.223–25. 251.2 lord of his own mind compare John Milton, Paradise Lost (1667, rev. 1674), 1.252–56. 251.18 Armorican violer Breton fiddle-player. For ‘Armorican’ see note to 164.21. 251.42 nose . . . knife compare Henry V, 2.3.16. 252.2–3 his arms . . . riding-rods see King John, 1.1.140–41. 252.15 scarlet hose see note to 78.41. 252.21–22 hawking at sparrows something not worth doing. 252.23 bring our hand in use give us practice. 252.32 the hunting-horn of Saint Hubert see note to 144.15. 252.37 fee simple absolute ownership. 252.41 Out upon curses on. 253.3 King Somebody Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon, who lost his kingdom at the height of his power, and ‘did eat grass as oxen’ (Daniel 4.33). 253.5 A truce with your prating stop your foolish talk. 253.14–15 what would you what do you want?. 253.29 rule the roast be in charge. Proverbial: ODEP, 687. 253.36–37 let him alone . . . danger leave it to him to prove the news true as he would if the Constable were in his power. 254.6 tremor cordis Latin palpitation of the heart. See The Winter’s Tale, 1.2.110. 254.8 I warrant me I’ll bet. 254.17–18 cucking-stool see note to 79.18. 254.22 Saint Mary the full form of the exclamation more commonly encountered as ‘marry’. 254.29 in troth indeed. 254.38 trained out led out, dragged out. 254.40 making in intervening. 255.9 tongue-pad it chatter; gossip. 255.13 true as the gospel proverbial: ODEP, 840. 255.14–15 innocent . . . as is the babe unborn proverbial: see ODEP, 404. 255.43 a Dutch doll a doll made in Germany, operated by springs (see Redgauntlet, ed. G. A. M. Wood with David Hewitt,     17, 14.31), or made of wood, with articulated joints in the arms and legs. 256.12 with a wanion to ye curse you! 256.15 bred in the bone alluding to the proverb ‘What is bred in the bone will not out of the flesh’: Ray, 82; ODEP, 83. 256.25 Go to come, come! 256.35 my dangerous cousin Richard II, 5.3.81. 257.2–10 motto not identified; probably by Scott. 257.27 for fault of a better 2 Henry IV, 2.2.40. 259.7 rote see note to 162.9–10. 259.11–12 Taliessin, Llewarch Hen for Taliessin see note to 22.16. Llywarch Hen (‘Llywarch the Old’) was a Welsh prince of the late 6th century, whose life was the subject of a lost saga of which only the poetic sections survive. The words are put into the mouth of Llywarch himself (hence the 18th-century assumption that he was the poet), although they were probably composed in the 9th century. Scott possessed an English version of Llywarch’s poems: see note to 19.40.

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259.12–13 derived perhaps from the time of the Druids the phrase indicates a sceptical view of a century-old tradition of asserting that Welsh medieval poetry continued druidical poetic practices. The druids were suppressed in the 1st century  , and nothing is known of their poetry. 259.14–36 I asked of my harp . . . vengeance endureth the poem is by Scott, but it bears only a slight resemblance to the poetry of Taliesin and Llywarch Hen (see note to 259.11–12). 259.41 ever and anon continually at intervals. 260.15 pipe and tabour this combination of instruments, played by a single player, was commonly used in the later middle ages to play dance music. 261.6 a tester for thee see Twelfth Night, 2.3.32–33. A tester was worth sixpence (2.5p). 261.9 the gay science see note to 163.13. 261.18 solemn investiture see note to 182.22. 261.19–20 Edward the Confessor see notes to 77.23 and 106.34. 261.35–36 involving himself in i.e. joining, so as to conceal himself. 261.43 royal charter of their immunities see note to 182.22. 262.35 morion . . . plumes compare John Dryden, ‘Palamon and Arcite: or, The Knight’s Tale’, in Fables Ancient and Modern (1700), 3.452: in The Works of John Dryden, ed. Walter Scott, 18 vols (London, 1808), 11.304. 264.29 home blow blow reaching its target. 264.40 changed his slough the metaphor is of a snake shedding its skin. 265.10 Count of Anjou Cadwallon addresses Henry by his lesser title. 265.35 the Holy Rood the Cross. 266.3 our Holy Father the Pope. 266.30 shame thee be ashamed. 267.17–20 motto Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ‘Christabel’ (written 1797, 1800; published 1816), lines 302–05. 267.23 Cistertians the convent was previously said to be Benedictine (31.4 etc.), but the Cistercian Order, founded in the late 11th century and spreading rapidly through France, England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland in the 12th, aimed to return to the literal observance of the original Rule of St Benedict (see note to 75.13). 267.38 frail child of clay self quotation: Scott used this phrase in ‘William and Helen’ (1796), line 74 (stanza 19: Poetical Works, 6.297), and in The Lord of the Isles (1815), Canto 4, Stanza 10 (Poetical Works, 10.149). The idea derives from Job 13.12 and 33.6. 267.39 spouse of heaven since at least the 5th century a nun taking her vows has been conceived of as participating in a marriage ceremony with Christ as bridegroom. 268.32–33 the rod of Moses see Exodus 17.6. 269.10 oak and misletoe plants sacred to the Druids. 269.32 on the spur at full speed. 270.16–19 considering a charge . . . found guilty the assumption that an accused person is innocent until proved guilty is not formally enunciated until the early 19th century. In the medieval period ‘the mere fact of accusation raises a strong presumption of guilt’. See Carleton Kemp Allen, Legal Duties, and other essays (Oxford, 1931), 258, 261–62. 271.20 scallop-shell see note to 235.36–38. 271.23 Benedicite Latin Bless you! 272.4 the great Soldan i.e. Saladin: see note to 231.26. Soldan is an archaic form of Sultan, frequently used in the medieval and renaissance literary accounts of the Near East and of the Crusades, and adopted by Scott in The Talisman.

 

415

272.8 Hassan Ali unidentified; probably an invented character. 272.33 in such sort in such a manner. 273.2 heir of his body direct descendant. 274.6 death of thy heart a derogatory expletive which has not been found elsewhere. 274.10 rid off disposed of. 274.28–29 a Jew or Lombard see note to 29.40. 274.31 be not dainty of don’t worry about. 274.41 on the dregs the image invokes a bottle of wine, in which the lees (dregs) fall to the bottom and are regarded as waste. Compare Macbeth, 2.3.93–94: ‘The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees/ Is left this vault to brag of ’. 275.32 moulder out decay. 275.38 his holiness the Pope. 276.33 back-trip in wrestling, each contestant tries to trip the other, and thus force his opponent on to his back. The term is probably Scott’s coinage, but may be indebted to Sir Andrew’s ‘back-trick’ in dancing (Twelfth Night, 1.3.116). See also note to 143.29. 276.39 these walls have sometimes ears proverbial: see ODEP, 864. 277.11 Norway bear presumably the polar bear, which is notoriously strong. 277.23 the conquest of Ireland the Pope had given his approval to Henry’s conquest of Ireland as early as 1155, but the campaigns in the 1160s and 1170s led by Anglo-Norman barons—in particular Richard ‘Strongbow’, Earl of Pembroke, in 1169–70—did not succeed in establishing Anglo-Norman control over much more than Leinster (centred on Dublin) and parts of Munster in the south and Ulster in the north. Prince John had been granted the lordship of Ireland by his father in 1177 when he was 10 years old, but his campaigns in 1185 were no more successful. See Historical Note, 366. 277.30 the sacrament in Catholic unlike Protestant teaching marriage is one of seven sacraments of the Church. 277.43 a gentleman of coat armour a commoner, not of the knighthood or the nobility, who is granted permission to wear a coat of arms. 278.7 a high command . . . Ireland a Hugh de Lacy was lord of Meath 1172–86. See Historical Note, 366. 278.13 the flesh-pots of Egypt see Exodus 16.3; the phrase refers to a state of comparative luxury after famine. 278.25 the time of holding Easter in the early middle ages, various parts of the Christian Church disagreed about the method of calculating the date of Easter (which relates to the lunar cycle), but these differences had been resolved in the Western Church long before the supposed date of The Betrothed. This was achieved in England by the 7th century, and in the 8th century in Charlemagne’s empire. There is still a difference on this matter between the Orthodox and the Western Churches.

GLOSSARY

This selective glossary defines single words; phrases are treated in the Explanatory Notes. It includes words in Scots, English dialect, and foreign languages, as well as archaic and technical terms, and occurrences of familiar words in senses that are likely to be strange to the modern reader. For each word (or clearly distinguishable sense) glossed, up to four occurrences are normally noted; when a word occurs more than four times in the novel in a particular sense, only the first instance is given, followed by ‘etc.’. Orthographical variants of single words are listed together, normally with the most common use first. Sometimes the most economical and effective way of defining a word or expanding a definition is to refer the reader to the appropriate explanatory note. aback back 79.8 abatement see note to 93.31 abide face, encounter, sustain 40.20; await 236.43, 248.37, 258.3 abroad outside 67.28 etc. abrogate cancel, annul 165.43 abrogation annulment 167.6 accommodation (something) supplying a want or ministering to a comfort 185.29, 186.6 accompt account 182.20, 256.24 accoutre equip 91.39, 197.16, 222.8 accoutrement equipment 202.13 address skill 35.39, 135.20, 237.32 adieu farewell 149.32 adjust settle 135.16, 196.22, 196.24 adventitious accidental 52.14 affectedly with studied art 84.41 affiance engagement 241.20 affianced engaged 241.22, 241.29 afflictive painful, distressing 268.8 affront cause to feel ashamed 85.24 agitate revolve 16.35 ague fever, malaria 247.36 airy flimsy, imaginary 156.17 alongst along, together 228.6 Amazon female warrior 148.7 ambuscade ambush 198.39, 210.40 amourettes French love affairs 229.2 amulet charm, trinket worn to protect against evil 148.9 a-mumming dressing up 108.27

an if 225.5, 253.16 anatomy skeleton, emaciated creature 252.8 ancient former 37.14 etc. ane Scots one 4.30 anent concerning 8.40 annoy injure, vex 64.35, 242.20 anon immediately 202.8; for 42.18 and 259.41 see note to 259.41 anti-room anteroom, room that gives entrance to another 114.11 etc. ap Welsh son of 22.26, 24.1 apostolical papal 150.16 apostrophize address in an exclamatory manner 23.9 appellative appellation, name 14.14 appointed equipped 260.27 appointments equipment 161.25 apprehension ability to understand 103.33; understanding 191.9 approved tried, tested 173.37, 233.26 appurtenance associated equipment 163.9, 196.20, 197.32 arblast cross-bow 35.36, 48.23 arch-prelate archbishop 152.34 armorial heraldic 90.13 Armorican Breton 164.21, 164.29, 251.18 arms1 coat of arms 93.31, 185.12, 233.18, 270.26 arms2 warfare 246.24 416

 arras rich tapestry fabric 107.18 array clothes 277.4 artificer craftsman 90.12 ascendance ascendancy, domination 7.12 ascendancy dominance 215.15 assembly meeting-place 259.26 assoil, Scots assoilzie absolve, pardon 44.13 etc. assort see note to 107.28 assurance trust 228.38 attach legal arrest 58.13 aught1 anything 28.29 etc. aught2 possession 4.30 augur forecast 213.40, 237.23 augury omen, sign 148.38, 174.18 auspice fortune 246.7 ave Latin see note to 54.35 aver assert 275.12 avouch admit, confess 28.20, 131.8, 160.28 awen Welsh inspiration 21.4 awful profoundly respectful, reverential 54.24 azure heraldry blue 278.2 bacchanal riotous 82.35 bacinet light helmet, basinet 27.38 back-speer cross-examine 6.9 back-trip see note to 276.33 baffle frustrate, confound, foil 106.35 etc. baggage-wain baggage-wagon 28.8 Bahr-geist for 126.40 etc. see note to 126.40 bale bundle 99.26 bandish bandage 146.38 banditti banished persons, brigands 201.6 etc. ban-dog guard-dog 274.14 bands bonds, chains 239.22 bannerman banner-carrier 222.24 etc. banquette raised ledge behind a parapet 73.29, 74.38 barbed armed with a barb or bard (leather and metal covering protecting breast and flanks) 25.27 etc. bard court poet 14.34 etc. barret-cap small flat cap 233.20 barrier external defence, stockade 68.15 etc. base-court outer courtyard of a castle (occupied by servants) 75.24

417

basilisk mythical monster that killed by looking 175.41, 186.18 basnet light helmet, basinet 157.1 bass-viol violoncello 143.25 bastion projecting fortification 59.28 batten thin strip of wood, stick 247.36, 264.42 baulk foil 63.20 bayley space within the outermost wall of a castle 71.15 beadle parish constable 254.17 beads rosary (used for counting prayers) 37.29, 38.8, 59.31 bearings coat of arms 90.13 beaver hinged lower part of a helmet 233.16 beck gesture 268.20 beldame hag 254.17, 254.18 Belgic Belgian 61.34 belike probably 255.42 bely tell lies about, calumniate 276.20 Benedicite bless you 271.23 bend proceed 30.25 betake see note to 70.22 bethink consider 35.1; for 84.28, 163.27, 182.17, and 213.28 see notes bevy flock, group 113.17 bezant for 134.31 etc. see note to 134.31 bicker poetic run quickly 36.3 bill for 20.20 etc. see note to 20.19–20 bind falconry close with 200.3 blade fellow 96.27 bleaching-field place where cloth is laid out to bleach in the sun 67.18 blight harm 120.21 blot stain 98.28 board table top 112.16 bode be an omen of, prophesy 148.34 etc. boding ominous 235.14 bodesman see note to 195.10–11 bodkin long ornamental hairpin 212.23 bolt thunderbolt 10.23; cross-bow arrow 41.43, 69.9 bond binding agreement 231.23 bondswoman slave 110.5 bonnie Scots, N English handsome, fine 44.33 boon favour, request 24.16 etc.

418



boor ill-mannered person, peasant 61.26 etc. bootless of no use 247.6 borrel coarse 60.26 bound limit 51.2 bourne destination, boundary 235.40 (see note) bower bedroom, room 14.33, 95.36, 216.34, 266.15; shady spot 125.33 bower-maiden chambermaid, lady-in-waiting 113.22, 122.31 bower-woman chambermaid, ladyin-waiting 92.34, 113.17, 255.42 brabble see note to 148.18 brace pair 86.35 brach female hound 143.27 brach-tricks see note to 143.29 braggart boaster 30.4 brake thicket of bushes 162.28 brand torch 259.24 brave fine, good-looking 252.7 brazen made of brass 112.20, 112.24, 113.12 breast-knot bow of ribbon worn on the breast 143.35 breathe rest, permit to breathe 198.29, 227.23 breed breeding 101.26 breviary service-book 69.17 brigg bridge 36.2 broach open or tap a barrel 34.34, 109.42 broad-cloth double-width cloth 45.19 brocard maxim 7.6 broider embroider 28.32, 107.23, 225.9 broil grill 60.7 brook put up with, endure 46.27, 47.36, 109.43, 219.17 buck male deer (especially roedeer) 144.5, 146.14 buckler small round shield 20.14 buff made of stout dressed dull yellow velvety ox-leather 210.2 buffalo ox 106.22 buff-coat ox-hide coat 263.6 buffet fight 246.30 bugle glass bead 84.24 buik-trade Scots book-trade 4.32 bull-feast bull fight 242.19 bulwark defensive wall 66.1 burgo-master mayor of a Dutch town 5.12 burn stream 36.2

burthen burden 78.33, 172.38, 172.40; chorus 222.24 buskin laced boot 262.24 butler man in charge of the cellar 33.29 etc. butt barrel holding about 100 gallons (450 litres) 34.34 buttery room for storing or serving liquor 33.25 etc. buxom plumply attractive 85.18 caballing private plotting 7.32 cabinet small private room 119.6, 119.29, 120.22 cadence end of a sentence 148.15 caitiff wretch 206.22 etc. cancelier falconry swerve 196.40 canker gangrene 137.41 canons laws 150.9 caparison armour 78.25 carcanet jewelled necklace or collar 95.10 carry conduct 59.38 etc. case1 set 62.2, 101.18 case2 condition 219.43 casement hinged window 114.26 etc. casque helmet 47.41, 56.15 cassock ankle-length garment 33.31 etc. cast mien, appearance 108.2, 163.17; falconry pair 193.28, 195.1, 195.9; chance 261.21 castellane governor of a castle 15.39 etc. causticity acidity 145.37 cavalier knight, horseman 16.37 etc. cellaress nun in charge of food and drink 141.21 centrical central 71.30 certes truly 224.4, 242.41 cerulean deep blue 269.5 chace, chase hunt 23.16 etc. chaffer haggle, bargain 55.35, 157.7 chamberlain steward, principal servant 164.41 chaplet wreath, circlet 107.22, 107.40 chappe French (chape) cape 117.20 chapter governing body 136.28 chatelain person in charge of a castle 178.42 cherish keep warm 20.11 chirurgeon surgeon 148.3, 148.19,

 250.20 chuck pat 85.18, 85.25 churl countryman, freeman without land, rude fellow 19.2 etc. churlish niggardly 109.41 circumvallation encircling wall 204.6 cistern tank of water 102.38 citation summons 150.10, 150.22 clarion small trumpet 18.17, 261.31 clay flesh 267.38 clement merciful, lenient 244.14 clenched clinched, made firm 114.35 clerk religious or learned man 180.8 close private 36.17; tight-fitting 91.33, 154.11; close-cropped 116.39 cloth-yard space for manufacturing cloth 31.40 clottered covered with clots of blood 40.24 clown countryman, boor, man without refinement or culture 32.17, 220.18 clownish unrefined, awkward 44.23 cnicht Old English (cniht) young man, knight 127.30 coat coat of arms 219.21; for 277.43 see note coat-of-mail leather jacket with steel plates 44.42 cockeril young cock, youth 225.27 cognisance heraldic badge or emblem of a particular family 22.29 coif close-fitting cap 78.42 coistrel knave, common person 157.10 comely good-looking 78.39, 79.34, 142.29; decent, suitable 108.37 commission authority 130.7, 150.16 commons common people 214.43 etc. commonwealth body politic 228.22 commoved agitated 254.4 compass range 162.11 compear make a formal appearance 150.5 compensate make up for 13.29, 49.10 competency income 214.6 competent adequate, appropriate 77.18

419

complaisant polite 86.25 composition settlement, agreement 32.30, 45.31, 45.32 concave vault, sphere 204.15 conclave body of papal advisers 190.32 condition social position 108.32, 137.28 conference conversation 46.18 etc. confide have confidence 53.31 etc. confiscated deprived of property as forfeited 273.11 conformable acceptable 195.9 congee bow 71.20 conjure appeal to 32.28 consequence dignity 233.19 consider recompense, requite 86.21 consort agree 273.2 constable governor of a royal castle 15.43 etc. contemn scorn 14.18, 35.36, 168.4, 216.43 contingent of uncertain occurrence 214.26 contrair see note to 8.38–39 contumacy wilful disobedience 158.32, 234.9 contumely insult, scorn 49.25, 59.12 convent enclosed religious community 7.13 etc. conventual relating to a convent 142.5, 173.43 convolved twisted 143.24 copper large vessel used for washing clothes 205.3 coquetry flirtatiousness 143.17 coquettish flirtatious 102.5, 252.16 cordial good for the heart 34.26 cornage see note to 26.19 correspondence communication 255.12 corresponding fitting, appropriate 194.43 corselet, corslet leather protective jacket 45.1 etc. couch lower into position 156.3 couchant heraldry sitting with paws out and head up 107.36 couchee evening assembly of courtiers 175.18 counsel-keeper confidant 226.43 countenance bearing 41.36; encouragement, support 137.31 etc.

420



counter in the wrong direction 143.38 courser charger 36.4, 38.33 courtezan prostitute 82.21 cousin sarcastic friend 79.32 cowl hooded garment worn by monks 56.15 Cramer German (Krämer) shopkeeper 57.18 crave ask 23.43 etc. craven cowardly 223.32 crest helmet 103.21, 221.32 crisis turning point 160.15 crogan see note to 47.28 cross make the sign of the cross (on) 113.19, 120.7, 134.8 cross-grained cantankerous 101.24, 176.28 croupe rump of a horse 253.6, 263.5 crush drink 196.8 crw Welsh (cwrw) beer 6.13, 19.20, 208.21, 208.31 cucking-stool for 79.18 etc. see note to 79.18 cuirass leather or metal breastplate 39.13 cumber verb encumber 40.8, 195.4, 195.16 cumber noun nuisance, hindrance 50.36 cur dog 70.39, 143.19, 237.21, 278.18 curb horse-bit 101.29 curious(ly) ingenious(ly) 103.23, 120.12 Cymri, Cymry Welsh Welsh people, Welshmen 25.20 etc. cyprus delicate fabric from Cyprus used for mourning garments 84.25 dais canopy over a throne 80.24; platform 107.7 dalmatique wide-sleeved garment 276.28 damask (made of) fine fabric of silk or linen 5.41, 79.32, 135.35 dame familiar term of address to a woman, generally of the lower class 79.19 etc. damsel, damosel young unmarried woman 15.41 etc. damson small plum 253.28 danger control, power 253.37 dangerous menacing 256.35 dart light throwing spear 20.18, 63.21, 200.25, 242.20

darter soldier armed with light throwing spear 39.24 death-bell bell tolled to announce death 203.27 death-meal funeral feast 86.43, 87.17 death-peal knell rung to announce death 83.40 death’s-head skull 245.2 debate fight 30.28 deduction derivation 111.35 defile noun narrow passage 37.34 defile verb file 38.12 degree rank 88.37, 163.14 Deheubarth S Wales 39.12 delegate deputy, representative 184.28, 244.3 dell deep natural hollow, small valley 206.7 demesne estates, lands 200.22, 249.1 demoiselle maiden 79.12, 180.27, 246.42 denizen inhabitant, native 65.10, 236.11 denounce proclaim 124.41; declare 166.14 depreciating deprecatory 108.29 depress lower 233.16 derogate detract 65.26 derogation debasement 278.1 descant prelude 259.8 despite defiance 227.16 destrier French war-horse 144.15 determination decision 6.41, 94.31 devoir French duty, act of respect 88.8 etc. devote consign, doom 26.8, 129.21, 174.19, 211.1 devotee religious enthusiast 100.28, 134.2 dial clock, time 159.2 (see note) disburthen unburden 121.3, 271.24 discover reveal 55.19 dishabille state of undress 66.34 disport recreation, sport 188.13, 195.28 distaff rod on which wool or flax etc. is wound prior to spinning 112.33 distinguished distinctive 99.5 ditty song, poem 189.1 diviner soothsayer, prophet 131.24

 doddered having lost the top or branches through age or decay 236.38 dog-leech see note to 145.17 dole1 sorrow 30.6 dole2 charitable gift 84.6 dolt stupid person 241.9 domestic servant 33.14 etc. don put on 55.8 etc. donative gift 53.21, 131.11 donjon castle keep 251.22 doom fate 120.28, 210.33, 271.34; judgment, sentence 167.22, 168.34, 234.40, 234.43 doublet close-fitting jacket (often sleeveless) 66.26 etc. dower noun dowry, inheritance 109.22 dower verb endow 172.11 downright straightforward, honest 179.39 dowry see note to 94.15–16 drapery fabric, cloth 178.38 draw fasten 49.8, 180.17; come together 75.34 dross waste metal, rubbish 43.10, 206.17 drudge menial servant 109.27, 110.15 druid for 20.41 etc. see note to 20.41 durance imprisonment 205.5 earnest instalment, foretaste 50.43; serious intention 179.35 eathe easy 42.15 effectually successfully 206.1 Eidolon apparition 4.3 etc. (see note to 4.3) eleve pupil, student 232.38 elf-locks hair tangled (supposedly) by elves 212.3 elf-stricken bewitched 145.8 elision omission of an initial vowel 113.1 embarrassed impeded 68.30 emergence emergency 168.25 empacket pack 99.22 empiric charlatan, quack 148.6 empyrean highest heaven 57.7 emulous eager 210.30 enlightened illuminated 114.38 entertain occupy, wile away 189.1 equerry officer responsible for horses 90.41, 144.13, 196.9, 196.20

421

errant wandering 216.33 escalade assault with ladders 248.22 escutcheon heraldic shield 93.31 esplanade open space in front of a fortification 116.40 esquire squire, knight’s servant 29.16 etc. essay attempt 24.9 ethnic pagan 148.10 Eudor-chawg Welsh (eurdorchawg) golden collar 19.40, 81.11 ever always 26.2 etc. evolve reveal, unfold 235.25 ewer jug 149.21 excursive straying 7.35; involving varied flights, digressive 259.11 exert strive 165.33 exhale draw up, evaporate 100.11 extenuation emaciation 252.7 extrude expel 11.5 eyrie eagle’s nest 194.31 fabliaux French (plural of fabliau) comic tales in verse 113.4 faggot bundle of sticks 68.15 fain glad(ly) 42.39 etc. faith faithfulness, loyalty 87.7 etc. falchion curved sword 33.34 fallow see note to 106.8 fancy taste, judgment 103.6 fantastic fanciful 36.40 etc. fantastical imaginary, unreal 126.43 fastness security 29.24 fathom six feet (1.83 metres) 81.19 fealty loyalty 243.33 feat trick 262.17 fellow equal, match 225.9 felly terribly 227.5 fiançailles French betrothal 136.1 etc. fief land held in return for service or rent paid to a lord or the king 26.19 filial of a child 73.28, 88.6 fire-brand piece of burning wood 259.23 flail hinged tool for threshing corn 121.32, 222.29 flask bottle 61.13, 102.38, 258.26 flat piece of level ground 207.25 flaunting waving gaily or proudly 180.28 flay plunder, rob 214.42 fleam knife used for letting blood 145.15

422



flesh-pots see note to 278.13 flitting evanescent, unsubstantial 163.28 florin silver coin issued in Florence but widely in use 29.40, 30.7, 84.30, 86.35 flourish fanfare 83.27, 233.8, 261.28 flower finest part 260.26 folding-doors door divided vertically into two flaps 107.16 font spring 258.17 fool jester 145.35 foot-bearer for 20.9 and 24.34 see note to 20.9–10 forage food for cattle, fodder 50.38 foray plunder 49.17 forebode conjecture 213.32 forfeiture fine, deprivation of land 247.17, 249.2 form manner 87.1; formality 89.12 etc.; for 180.25 see note forsooth interjection indeed 98.17 forsworn perjured 63.6, 206.22, 254.14 forward presumptuously eager 96.10 fosse ditch 116.33, 251.22 fourscore eighty 107.20 frame see note to 49.1 franklin freeborn landholder or farmer 121.32, 185.35 fray frighten 193.26 frayings rubbed-off residue 146.15 (see note) freak trick 197.1; whim 216.29 freebooter someone who lives from plunder 210.41 frieze coarse woollen cloth 228.14 frigate warship 199.14 frippery trifle 108.36 frock loose outer garment 57.29, 63.3, 69.3, 249.10 frog-pecker heron 195.20 fulling-mill, fulling-miln place where cloth is beaten to thicken, shrink and clean it 27.22, 34.40, 47.25, 196.37 furbelowed pleated, flounced 225.9 furniture harness and other trappings 79.25 fury person resembling an infernal spirit or minister of vengeance 35.13 furze gorse 198.20

gale breeze 126.36, 278.26 gallant noun fine gentleman, ladies’ man 144.17, 164.11, 180.15, 180.19 gallant adjective fine, noble 38.30 etc. gallantry marked politeness towards women 92.21, 185.31 gallows-cast look of the gallows 253.27 gallows-tree gallows 261.21 gambade leap 101.36 game-pouch bag for dead animals 196.31 garnish furnish with a means of defence 71.25 Gascon from Gascony in SW France 102.38, 112.8 gate opening, entrance 106.23 gaud jewel 66.43, 108.22 gear business, goings on 60.32, 175.33 generous rich, strong, invigorating 34.14, 34.25, 117.30 genial mild, warm 136.9, 143.7 genius natural ability 47.43; disposition 67.39; spirit 127.10; characteristic method or procedure 154.34 gentle adjective noble 34.24 etc. gentle noun gentleman 245.14 ghostly spiritual 62.37 (see note) gird for 197.15 and 227.5 see notes glaive sword 41.33, 210.3 glance flash, gleam 48.14 glee-man entertainer, singer 108.26, 112.37, 113.13 glibly smoothly, easily 142.40 glinted made to flash 162.18 goss-hawk goshawk, a large hunting-bird 194.36 gossip familiar friend 85.39 Gothic Germanic 55.41; medieval 56.20 etc. (see note to 56.20–21) grace favour 79.16 etc.; title used of an archbishop or king 169.35 etc. gramercy many thanks 175.29 greensward close-cropped grass 197.33, 203.7 grew-bitch female greyhound 4.24 grinded sharpened 169.18 grist corn to be ground 228.22 gross plain 102.34, 112.5 guerdon reward 50.4 etc

 guidon small pennant 233.21 guilder Dutch coin 60.29, 60.41, 61.23 guise fashion 108.20, 108.24, 264.15 gull noun simpleton, fool 10.6 gull verb deceive 115.4 Gwentland SE Wales 39.9 habergeon sleeveless armoured jacket 197.21 habiliments clothing 205.35 habit dress 83.31 etc. habited dressed 23.23 hacked written by a literary hack or bad writer 10.9 hackle comb for flax or hemp 5.8 haggard falconry wild untamed hawk 197.3 hair-cloth coarse cloth of horsehair worn as penance 154.12 halberd long-handled weapon with a combined spearhead and axeblade 20.19 hallow call to hounds 255.8 halt limp 91.17 halting lame, imperfect 10.15 hame Scots home 4.25 hanging tapestry 180.26 hardihood boldness 187.34 hardly harshly, severely 157.12, 164.16, 244.18 hardy bold, audacious 210.42 harness armour 55.8 hasty urgent 149.41 hatched inlaid, engraved 222.30 hauberk armour for the neck and shoulders 55.36, 57.28, 78.34 headsman executioner 271.8 hectic flush 125.42 herald specialist in family descent 98.26 hide area of land (that supports one family) 107.43 hieroglyphical symbolic 107.37 hind servant, peasant 64.10 hippocras spiced wine 102.39, 112.10, 142.37 hireling derogatory person paid to work 234.5 hither nearer 38.13, 77.2, 199.2 hobgoblin evil spirit 70.23 hogshead 50 gallon cask (over 200 litres) 35.22 hold noun stronghold 44.11 hold verb maintain 128.30

423

holp help 44.10 homage respect 21.4 etc. hook for 20.19, 40.12 and 50.41 see note to 20.19–20 hope hope for 48.36 horseboy, horse-boy often contemptuous groom, boy that looks after horses 134.29 etc. horse-cloth blanket used to protect horse 145.5 horse-course race-course 198.32 hose stockings 33.31, 78.41, 228.14, 252.15 host army 48.34 etc. houndsfoot scoundrel, rascal 44.36, 71.22 House House of Commons 8.34, 9.32 hout interjection expressing dissent 4.24 husbandry farming 112.34 hydromel drink made from fermented honey, mead 19.20 iconoclast see note to 173.21 ill-boding ominous 235.1 immunity privilege 20.42, 261.43 immure enclose within walls 180.11 impassible impassive 44.25 impeach discredit, accuse 57.16 import matter, signify 272.18 important having an air of importance 101.38 imprecation curse 215.8 improve take advantage of 103.40 inartificially clumsily 91.18 incident natural 122.27 inconsiderate ill-advised, rash 31.16 indifferently tolerably, pretty well 164.29 infer imply 154.32 etc. inkhorn ink-holder made from animal horn 163.9 inmate inhabitant 122.12 etc. innovate see note to 166.4 instance instant 23.17 instantly urgently 99.13 intelligence understanding 62.21, 75.32, 195.37 intelligent knowing 84.40 interfere interpose 32.5, 139.13, 166.1; for 169.36 see note interference interposition 110.43, 118.7 investiture possession 261.18

424



involve entangle 128.41, 186.42; for 261.35 see note irruption incursion 87.25 issue outcome 30.32 etc. jack military jerkin (sometimes plated) 162.19 jangler chatterer, noise-maker 144.21 jargon debased language, gibberish 55.38, 55.40, 147.19, 193.34 jealous-pated jealous-headed 195.36, 237.31 jealousy vigilance, anxious concern 19.5 jennet small Spanish horse 100.21, 197.29, 213.2 jerfalcon gyrfalcon (a large and rare bird of prey) 193.32 jettee see note to 199.2 jonglerie French minstrelsy 262.19 jubilee jubilation 42.2, 82.35 juggler entertainer 82.21 etc. jurisdiction territory over which power is exercised 231.4 Justiciary powerful spokesman 228.29 (see note to 228.29–30) juvenility jocular immaturity 225.6 Kaisar emperor 55.43 Kammerer German steward, chamberlain 33.26 keen shrill, piercing 26.35 keistril kestrel 193.31 (see note) Keller-master (German Kellermeister) person in charge of the cellar 33.26, 33.39 kerchief headdress 84.41 kine cows 19.14 etc. kirk-yard Scots churchyard 80.19 kirtle woman’s gown 84.30 etc. Kist-vaen Welsh (cist faen) prehistoric stone box for burial of human remains 236.42, 238.38 knight-errant knight in search of heroic deeds 161.2, 180.9 lai French lay, sung narrative or lyric poem 113.5 lance horse-soldier armed with a lance 28.36 etc. largely abundantly 19.17 largesse generosity 175.28, 262.18, 266.38 latten brass 95.22 laud praise 92.43 lay attribute 128.25 lay-sister nun not involved in study

or the choir 141.21 leading-staff staff carried by a commander 262.36 league join together, confederate 250.14 leaguer noun encampment 69.39, 76.9, 76.28, 90.8 leaguer verb besiege 59.27 leaven raising agent (yeast) for dough 7.20 (see note) leech doctor 82.29 etc. legate representative, messenger 134.22, 150.16 (see note) leman lover 244.39 levee morning assembly of courtiers 175.18, 177.35 liege adjective entitled to feudal allegiance and service 58.14, 58.31, 197.20 liege noun superior owed feudal allegiance and service 64.7; (as address to the king) 249.22 etc. liegeman vassal sworn to service and support of feudal superior 27.15 lieutenant representative 221.7, 223.30 light fickle 80.12 like likely 16.26 etc. limner painter 54.21 line cord or rope for snaring birds 197.31 lineaments facial features 195.41, 252.1 list wish, please 35.6, 224.35, 228.32, 251.1 lithe-alos Old English (liþe ealu) mild ale 117.29 livery uniform 90.42, 144.16, 175.26, 232.27 locutory room set aside for conversation 173.43 Lollard see note to 173.21 Lombard native of Lombardy, banker 29.40 etc. long-shanked long-legged 196.39 loophole, loop-hole aperture to allow passage of missiles 68.10, 271.15 love-livery love-gift 180.14 lucre money 61.8 (see note) luggage portable goods 86.24 lurdane worthless, lazy 48.18 mace club-shaped weapon (often spiked) 27.41 etc.

 mail travelling bag, baggage 99.26 mair Scots more 4.32 malapert impudent 70.40, 95.24, 115.8 managed see note to 39.34 manchet small loaf made of fine flour, roll 60.8 mandate command, order, injunction 58.11 etc.; authority 244.8 manege art of training horses 152.21 mangonel military machine for throwing rocks 32.10 etc. manor landed property 163.42 man-service rent paid by work or military service 31.40 man-sworn perjured 29.21 Mara see note to 129.33 marcher inhabitant of the Border country 13.11 etc. (see note to 13.11–12) Marches Border country 13.5 etc. mark coin worth two-thirds of a pound (66p) 49.14 marry interjection to be sure! 79.32, 155.42, 247.21, 276.41 matins church service at dawn 27.31, 267.41 matronage womanhood 94.1 maugre in spite of 10.34 mazed stupefied 195.27 mean of low social status 179.5, 251.23 meaning intention 24.2, 273.27 measuring-wand yardstick 99.10 mechanic labourer, craftsman 32.3, 47.37, 66.28 meddle concern oneself 249.33 medicum doctor 147.18 meed reward 42.41, 84.31, 88.10 meet proper 272.41 mend improve 178.31, 179.3 mendicant beggar 189.9 merlin small bird of prey 223.27 metaphysic insubstantial 162.39 methinks I think 27.43 etc. metropolitan supervising bishop 150.15 mews building where hunting-birds are kept 193.12, 194.1, 194.24 Michaelmas 29 September (feast of St Michael) 144.5, 232.1 mighty potent 35.17, 35.27, 112.9 mime actor, entertainer 82.21 mind Scots remember 4.30 minion contemptuous creature

425

55.16; darling 115.17 minivair see note to 142.30 mirror paragon 156.30 misrule disorder, riot 179.19 mithridate universal antidote 148.8 monitress female adviser 231.9 moped bewildered 195.27 morion helmet 224.40, 262.35 mort horn-call at the death of the quarry 224.38 mortier French cap worn by high officials 103.25 moss Scots bog, moorland 200.14 motion signal 44.22 mount falconry rise 194.41 mulct fine 46.28 mummer actor, impersonator 56.13, 57.28 mummery ridiculous ceremony 251.16 mummy corpse 252.5 mump adopt a melancholy expression 142.12 murrain plague 193.25 murther murder 28.15, 157.20, 263.23 murtherer murderer 58.1, 128.7, 129.7 muscadine muscatel (sweet wine from muscat grapes) 142.37 nag small riding-horse or pony 201.40, 210.23 naker drum 44.39, 44.43, 83.18 narcotic sleeping drug 121.14 nares nostrils 193.32 necessity necessary duty 70.5 nervous strong 262.27 nice precise 88.39 nicety fastidiousness, scrupulosity, (excessive) refinement 72.1, 111.8, 192.32 obeisance bow 226.3, 239.6 objurgation scolding 79.30 observance due respect 80.27; attentive care 275.2 Omnipotence supreme power, God 156.13 orison prayer 37.31, 54.26, 102.16 osier willow (branch) 155.38, 156.2 over-burthened over-loaded 157.15 ower Scots and N English over 36.2 owl slow-witted person 194.7 own accept 18.23 palmer pilgrim 235.36 etc

426



palsy paralysis 113.26 pantler servant who supplies bread, baker 60.7 paramour lover 176.45 paritor official of an ecclesiastical court 149.35 etc parley speech 124.38 parlour reception room in a convent 136.31, 141.13, 174.1 particoloured, party-coloured variegated 161.9, 163.23, 262.25 passage occurrence 231.9 pate head 80.6 patriarch ancestor of the Jewish people 102.28 (see note) patriarchal adjective from preceding word 7.40 patroness mistress 110.43 patronize encourage 163.24 pavilion large ornate tent 88.35, 89.6, 90.6, 90.15 paynim pagan 192.8 peaked pointed 84.13 peculiar special, distinctive, personal 20.4 etc. peep verb begin to appear 162.14 peep noun first appearance 162.41 peevish perverse 226.14, 237.38, 245.30 pen-feathers feathers used for flight 10.5 pennon standard, rallying flag 77.39, 185.12, 225.2, 227.39 penoncelle small flag, pennant 125.27 perchance perhaps 179.16 etc. peril risk 48.25 pest disease, pestilence 229.23 pestiferous disease-ridden 275.32 piece cask, barrel 34.35, 109.42 pigment wine with honey and spices 112.10 pike long-handled weapon with a heavy metal point 20.19 etc. pinch critical juncture 31.7; particular difficulty 60.42 pitch noun falconry height from which the bird swoops 199.34 placket opening in clothing 108.25 plate armour made of metal plates 40.9; dishes coated in silver or gold 149.22 player actor 108.25 player-folk actors 10.12 pleasant cheerful 121.33; facetious

124.15 pleasure please, gratify 24.17, 50.29, 50.31 plebeians ordinary people 39.35, 243.15 plight promise 61.7 etc. policy sagacity, shrewdness, political prudence, shrewd conduct 15.8 etc.; principle 71.15 politic shrewd, cunning 133.24, 267.4 pompous splendid 154.12 poniard dagger 20.18 etc. port manner 19.34, 239.21 portentous extraordinary 111.31 postern gate at the rear 68.33 postern-gate postern, gate at the rear 66.23 postpone subordinate 166.15 potation drink 34.26, 35.31 pottle measure of half a gallon (2.25 litres) 196.3 pouch bag 64.22, 108.25, 197.31 præcentrix, precentrix nun in charge of religious services (especially music and books) 141.21, 167.26, 167.28 prate verb chatter 99.27 prate noun idle talk 146.40 prating foolish talk 253.5 pre-contract engagement 275.38 present immediate 50.11 etc. presently at once 34.36 etc. Preses president, chairman 4.6 etc. press crowd 30.9 pretend claim 91.28 etc. pretension claim 99.25 prick ride 32.38, 226.4, 228.12, 251.34 prithee pray you 62.16 etc. profane secular 23.24 proffer offer 95.18 etc. prognostic forecast 148.8 prompt quick to act 26.4, 113.43; ready in mind, disposed, inclined 38.13, 116.7; hasty 216.28 proper personal 77.38, 220.29; handsome 80.17 prove probe, test 40.9 provost-marshal officer in charge of military discipline 246.24 pshaw interjection expressing contempt 45.38 etc. puissant powerful 210.19 punctuality precision 216.1

 pursuivant heraldic officer 90.12 etc pursuivant-at-arms heraldic officer 232.27 pyx box in which the consecrated bread of the sacrament is kept 22.42 quaff drink 142.37 quality (high) social position 80.27, 185.38, 200.18 quarrell cross-bow arrow 69.13 quart a quarter of a gallon (1.15 litres) 34.8, 35.7 quart-pot cup containing a quart 34.41 quep see note to 79.32 quicksilver mercury 180.15 quotha forsooth, indeed 227.2 rabblement mob 220.26 range roam 100.5 rapine plunder, seizure 202.1 rappee coarse snuff 11.2 rarely splendidly 225.8 rascaille forming a rabble 28.29 ravish steal by force 171.6 ravisher someone who carries another off by force 210.12 recast repeat 238.7 recipe prescription 148.8 reclaim falconry call back, tame 194.36, 195.12 recluse secluded person (devoted to prayer) 170.1, 171.41, 180.11 recover get over, get better from 262.5 recruit replenish, compensate for 68.21 refection refreshment 112.15 refrain restrain 16.15, 43.7 rehearsing account, story 213.15 remark observe, perceive 3.12 etc. render surrender 247.3 repast meal 102.33, 185.34 represent resemble 154.15, 258.18 resent manifest resentment for 128.13 respectable of good social standing 180.4 respects politenesses, courtesies 79.6 retaliate make return for 14.27 reverence honour, respect 20.43 etc.; bow, gesture of respect 33.18 etc.; respectful title for clergyman 45.35 etc.

427

reverent(ly) respectful(ly) 21.14 etc. reverie daydream 230.14, 260.9 Rhenish wine from the Rhine area 34.2, 35.7 riddling sifting 9.8 riding-rod riding crop 252.3, 252.18 rippling-comb comb to remove seeds from flax or hemp 5.8 risible pertaining to laughter 29.39 rochet bishop’s outer garment 155.15 rod riding crop 130.25 Romish Roman Catholic 107.3 rood cross 49.43, 265.35 rote for 162.9 etc. see note to 162.9–10 rouse shake 194.28 rubric accompanying commentary 61.43 rude unrefined, primitive, rough, uncouth 7.38 etc. rudely roughly 114.19, 120.11 ruffle swagger 96.27, 110.11 (see note) ruffled frilled 5.8 ruffler swaggerer 144.28 rugged rough with hair 224.36 russet light brown 198.20, 260.19 rustic countryman 4.29, 162.26, 162.36, 196.32 sable black 84.23, 236.20 sacerdotal priestly 24.38, 77.34, 83.31 sad grave, serious 142.6 sad-coloured dark 146.32 saddle-bow front of a saddle, pommel 228.17 saffron-coloured yellow 269.5 sale trade 86.22 sally-port opening in fortifications for making a sally on the enemy 246.1 samite rich silk 102.30 (see note) sap trench dug in warfare 64.6 Saracen for 98.11 etc. see note to 98.11 satiate satisfy 78.7 saw saying 86.13 scantling small portion 10.27 scape escape 213.9 scapular part of a nun’s clothing that hangs from shoulders to feet 166.24 Schelm Dutch/German rascal 47.31,

428



71.8 scrip bag 258.22, 258.27 seam furrow 222.11 seared withered 259.26 secretary diplomatic assistant 97.42; confidant 225.32 sederunt list of people at a meeting 3.4 (see note) seethe cook by boiling 19.15 seneschal steward, governor 23.40, 173.36, 194.16 sensibly acutely 239.40 sensorium part of the brain that receives sensations 203.36 seraph angel 168.19, 168.21 serf tied labourer 237.21, 274.8 sewer servant in charge of serving food at table 109.9, 149.21 shambles slaughter-house 45.37, 59.38, 259.20 shamoy(-leather) (made of) soft leather originally from the chamois 91.34, 93.2, 135.36 sheen poetic radiant 36.3 shift quit 123.39 shiver shatter 15.42 shooting sudden pain 254.7 shorn shaved, tonsured 63.2 shrewd sharp, serious 63.36 shroud protect, screen 120.21 sibyl prophetess 124.40 sign figure 83.35; make a sign 114.16, 237.16; make the sign of (the cross) 129.21 signal notable, significant 39.31 single-hearted sincere, honest 268.11 sire father 52.22, 71.33 sirrah contemptuous form of ‘sir’ 31.35, 160.7, 160.13, 249.33 skill see notes to 68.43 and 155.9 skirt border, edge 116.41 sleight skill, dexterity 164.34 slight verb belittle 60.6 slight adjective contemptuous 150.40 slightly carelessly, with little ceremony 131.43; weakly 168.10 slinger soldier armed with a sling 39.24 sloe-thorn blackthorn 197.35 slouched see note to 235.36–38 slough skin, appearance 264.40 sodden boiled, stewed 45.22 Soldan sultan, eastern ruler 272.4,

272.8, 272.18, 274.22 something somewhat 69.19 etc. somewhat something 274.18 soothfast true 253.36 sovereign excellent, unparalleled 254.6 spear spearman 226.18 speed prosper 198.6 spirituality clergy 157.13 spite outrage 234.29 spleen melancholy 254.6 springald young man, stripling 225.33 spurn poetic kick out 36.4 squire well-born young man being trained for knighthood 15.35 etc. standard-spear see note to 223.3 start come undone 146.38 state dignity 88.40, 251.8 steel knife 149.17 stem ancestry 52.18 still always 182.3 stinging stimulating 35.25 stole priest’s silk vestment hanging from shoulders to knees 23.13, 23.21 stoled wearing a stole 23.13 stoop noun falconry diving down on prey 194.41, 200.14, 223.27 stoop verb falconry dive down on prey 199.35, 200.3 store plenty 20.16, 20.18 stout strong, strongly-built 4.24 etc.; brave 32.19 etc. stripe lash 157.5 study verb intend, plan 62.4 study noun concern, desire 89.5 substance wealth, possessions 49.9 etc. succours auxiliary forces, reinforcements 37.41, 38.4, 234.4 suit business, request 94.23 etc.; courtship 132.27, 133.12 sumifuge cure 148.9 (see note) summoner ecclesiastical court official 149.35 sumpter baggage-carrying 152.35 sup sip 254.5 surcoat outer garment 210.2 surplice loose ecclesiastical overgarment 154.18 surquedry arrogance 158.33 sustain bear 64.23 sway hold 243.36, 246.7 swine-herd boy who looks after

 pigs 62.13 switch hit with a riding-crop 200.8 tabard sleeveless coat 90.13, 259.6 tabernacle sanctuary, shrine 61.6 tabour small drum 260.15 tabouret drum-shaped stool 80.26 tale reckoning, account 50.20 tamper plot 57.43 tarn N English lake 198.14 tarry wait, delay 23.21 etc. tauridor bull-fighter, toreador 263.14 temerity rashness, boldness 31.24, 69.31 temperance mildness 196.12 tenement house 31.40 tenure terms on which land is held 32.1, 234.1; for 26.19, 39.17 and 187.38 see notes termagant scold, shrewish woman 80.2 terrene of the earth 187.10 terrific frightful, terrifying 19.34 tester sixpence (2.5p) 261.6 theme exercise 162.38 thong whip 255.22 thought little 211.17 threave large number 180.6 tier, tire head-dress 107.22, 195.34 tire-woman, tiring-woman dressmaid 99.14 etc. toasting-iron contemptuous sword 222.30 (see note) tod fox 4.25 toll proportion of grain or flour taken by miller in payment for grinding 228.22 tongue-pad see note to 255.9 tool weapon 70.22 (see note) touch produce 21.21, 23.5, 177.9 tourney 43.2 tournament traffic business 49.39 trail carry in an oblique position 83.7 train noun1 group or body of attendants, procession 15.19 etc. train noun2 falconry tail 194.26 train verb lure, decoy 254.38 transport rapture 22.10, 59.41, 171.2 trap equip 223.39 treat negotiate 55.11, 202.18 trebuchet see note to 69.13 tressell trestle, framework to support a table 112.16

429

troth promise, undertaking, good faith 31.33, 166.33, 176.23; for 79.37, 85.37, 143.28 and 254.29 see notes troth-plighted engaged to be married 241.20 trow believe, trust, think 79.32 etc. truncheon baton of office 262.36 tumultuary hastily gathered 244.25 turn verb put out 85.32 turn noun bout 276.32 tush interjection expressing disapproval or contempt 75.22, 130.35, 275.21 tutelage guidance 190.2 tutelar guarding 89.38 twangle play a stringed instrument 180.7 Twelfth-day 6 January 16.36 two-handed requiring two hands to use 197.15 tyne Scots lose 100.4 type image 143.7 Uckelwyr Welsh (uchelwyr) ‘high’ men, nobles 24.43 unapprehensive stupid, slow 49.2 uncanonical not recognised in church law 69.8 unclenching disengaging 274.31 unexampled unparalleled 25.6 unmeet unsuitable 99.7 unseeming unseemly 147.42 untractable intractable 42.35 uphold warrant 79.15 utter sell 194.4 uttermost outermost 42.15, 42.17 valanced furnished with short draped cloth 90.17 vantage advantage 207.3 varlet attendant 34.36, 134.28 vassal feudal subordinate 18.7 etc. vassalage see note to 179.13 venesection cutting of the veins 146.34 venison deer used for food 59.10 verity truth 62.5 verjuice acid grape-juice 191.3 vespers evening church-service 256.29 vestal chaste, pure 141.15 vestments clothing 163.23 viands provisions 112.16 victual verb provide with food 59.35, 61.16 vinegar extremely sour 102.2

430



violer fiddle-player 251.18, 251.30 votaress female devotee 53.14 etc. votary devotee 221.33 waif wanderer 200.22 (see note) wain wagon 28.2, 28.4, 28.4, 86.21 wait wait for 62.42 etc. wallet bag 229.1 wanion see note to 256.12 ward noun imprisonment 58.3 ward verb guard 187.22 warder guard 58.28 etc. wardrobe, wardrope room adjoining a bedroom 114.36, 114.37, 219.32, 219.37 ware merchandise, stuff 35.25, 35.25, 84.29 warrant authorize 16.31 wasteful devastating 14.28 watch-cloak thick heavy cloak 118.28 watch guard, stand sentinel (on) 47.11 etc.; staying awake 244.19 weal welfare, well-being 24.7 etc. web fabric 45.23 weeds clothes 83.32, 92.5 ween imagine, think 176.14, 187.5 well-a-day exclamation of sorrow 86.12 well-victualled well provided with provisions 44.19 wheen see note to 4.32 whilk Scots which 8.40, 9.2

whit tiny amount 275.8 wicket small gate or door (often within a larger one) 62.23 etc. wind blow (an instrument) 206.6 wire-twangler pejorative harp player 241.25 wit intelligence, understanding, mental sharpness 6.8 etc. withal with 29.33, 194.2; in addition 63.41, 144.16 withdrawing-room ante-room 144.27 wolf-dog large dog for hunting wolves 107.29 wolf-hound large dog for hunting wolves 273.42 woodbine honeysuckle 74.22 wood-knife woodman’s knife 20.18 woof woven fabric, piece of cloth 249.32 woon one 254.36 wormwood bitter-tasting plant 259.19 worship honour 176.34; good name, credit 220.13 wot know 35.11 etc. yeoman freeholder 39.16, 246.29 yeomanry body of yeomen 41.40 yerk kick 101.41 yore long ago 208.12 y-wroken avenged 269.18