Quentin Durward by Walter Scott (romantic love story reading TXT) 📕

your young kinsman. This simple bairn must come to no skaith [same as scathe] neither; so give me the roll of the company yonder down from the shelf, and we will even add his name to the troop, that he may enjoy the privileges.”

“May it please your Lordship” said Durward.

“Is the lad crazed?” exclaimed his uncle. “Would you speak to his Lordship without a question asked?”

“Patience, Ludovic,” said Lord Crawford, “and let us hear what the bairn has to say.”

“Only this, if it may please your Lordship,” replied Quentin, “that I told my uncle formerly I had some doubts about entering this service. I have now to say that they are entirely removed, since I have seen the noble and experienced commander under whom I am to serve; for there is authority in your look.”

“Weel said, my bairn,” said the old Lord, not insensible to the compliment; “we have had some experience, had God sent us grace to improve by it, both in service and in command. There you stand, Quentin, in our honourable corps of Scottish Bodyguards, as esquire to your uncle, and serving under his lance. I trust you will do well, for you should be a right man at arms, if all be good that is upcome [that is, if your courage corresponds with your personal appearance. S.], and you are come of a gentle kindred.—Ludovic, you will see that your kinsman follow his exercise diligently, for we will have spears breaking one of these days.”

“By my hilts, and I am glad of it, my Lord—this peace makes cowards of us all. I myself feel a sort of decay of spirit, closed up in this cursed dungeon of a Castle.”

“Well, a bird whistled in my ear,” continued Lord Crawford, “that the old banner will be soon dancing in the field again.”

“I will drink a cup the deeper this evening to that very tune,” said Balafre.

“Thou wilt drink to any tune,” said Lord Crawford; “and I fear me, Ludovic, you will drink a bitter browst [as much liquor as is brewed at one time] of your own brewing one day.”

Lesly, a little abashed, replied that it had not been his wont for many a day; but that his Lordship knew the use of the company, to have a carouse to the health of a new comrade.

“True,” said the old leader, “I had forgot the occasion. I will send a few stoups of wine to assist your carouse; but let it be over by sunset. And, hark ye—let the soldiers for duty he carefully pricked off; and see that none of them be more or less partakers of your debauch.”

“Your Lordship shall be lawfully obeyed,” said Ludovic, “and your health duly remembered.”

“Perhaps,” said Lord Crawford, “I may look in myself upon your mirth—just to see that all is carried decently.”

“Your Lordship shall be most dearly welcome;” said Ludovic; and the whole party retreated in high spirits to prepare for their military banquet, to which Lesly invited about a score of his comrades, who were pretty much in the habit of making their mess together.

A soldier's festival is generally a very extempore affair, providing there is enough of meat and drink to be had; but on the present occasion, Ludovic bustled about to procure some better wine than ordinary; observing that the old Lord was the surest gear in their aught, and that, while he preached sobriety to them, he himself, after drinking at the royal table as much wine as he could honestly come by, never omitted any creditable opportunity to fill up the evening over the wine pot.

“So you must prepare, comrades,” he said, “to hear the old histories of the battles of Vernoil and Beauge [in both these battles the Scottish auxiliaries of France, under Stewart, Earl of Buchan, were distinguished.... S.].”

The Gothic apartment in which they generally met was, therefore, hastily put into the best order; their grooms were dispatched to collect green rushes to spread upon the floor; and banners, under which the Scottish Guard had marched to battle, or which they had taken from the enemies' ranks, were displayed, by way of tapestry, over the table and around the walls of the chamber.

The next point was, to invest the young recruit as hastily as possible with the dress and appropriate arms of the Guard, that he might appear in every respect the sharer of its important privileges, in virtue of which, and by the support of his countrymen, he might freely brave the power and the displeasure of the Provost Marshal—although the one was known to be as formidable as the other was unrelenting.

The banquet was joyous in the highest degree; and the guests gave vent to the whole current of their national partiality on receiving into their ranks a recruit from their beloved fatherland. Old Scottish songs were sung, old tales of Scottish heroes told—the achievements of their fathers, and the scenes in which they were wrought, were recalled to mind; and, for a time, the rich plains of Touraine seemed converted into the mountainous and sterile regions of Caledonia.

When their enthusiasm was at high flood, and each was endeavouring to say something to enhance the dear remembrance of Scotland, it received a new impulse from the arrival of Lord Crawford, who, as Le Balafre had well prophesied, sat as it were on thorns at the royal board, until an opportunity occurred of making his escape to the revelry of his own countrymen. A chair of state had been reserved for him at the upper end of the table; for, according to the manners of the age and the constitution of that body, although their leader and commander under the King and High Constable, the members of the corps (as we should now say, the privates) being all ranked as noble by birth, their captain sat with them at the same table without impropriety, and might mingle when he chose in their festivity, without derogation from his dignity as commander.

At present, however, Lord Crawford declined occupying the seat prepared for him, and bidding them “hold themselves merry,” stood looking on the revel with a countenance which seemed greatly to enjoy it.

“Let him alone,” whispered Cunningham to Lindesay, as the latter offered the wine to their noble captain, “let him alone—hurry no man's cattle—let him take it of his own accord.”

In fact, the old Lord, who at first smiled, shook his head, and placed the untasted winecup before him, began presently, as if it were in absence of mind, to sip a little of the contents, and in doing so, fortunately recollected that it would be ill luck did he not drink a draught to the health of the gallant lad who had joined them this day. The pledge was filled, and answered, as may well be supposed, with many a joyous shout, when the old leader proceeded to acquaint them that he had possessed Master Oliver with an account of what had passed that day.

“And as,” he said, “the scraper of chins hath no great love for the stretcher of throats, he has joined me in obtaining from the King an order, commanding the Provost to suspend all proceedings, under whatever pretence, against Quentin Durward; and to respect, on all occasions, the privileges of the Scottish guard.”

Another shout broke forth, the cups were again filled till the wine sparkled on the brim, and there was an acclaim to the health of the noble Lord Crawford, the brave conservator of the privileges and rights of his countrymen. The good old Lord could not but in courtesy do reason to this pledge also, and gliding into the ready chair; as it were, without reflecting what he was doing, he caused Quentin to come up beside him, and assailed him with many more questions concerning the state of Scotland, and the great families there, than he was well able to answer, while ever and anon, in the course of his queries, the good Lord kissed the wine cup by way of parenthesis, remarking that sociality became Scottish gentlemen, but that young men, like Quentin, ought to practise it cautiously, lest it might degenerate into excess; upon which occasion he uttered many excellent things, until his own tongue, although employed in the praises of temperance, began to articulate something thicker than usual. It was now that, while the military ardour of the company augmented with each flagon which they emptied, Cunningham called on them to drink the speedy hoisting of the Oriflamme, the royal banner of France.

“And a breeze of Burgundy to fan it!” echoed Lindesay.

“With all the soul that is left in this worn body do I accept the pledge, bairns,” echoed Lord Crawford; “and as old as I am, I trust I may see it flutter yet. Hark ye, my mates,” (for wine had made him something communicative), “ye are all true servants to the French crown, and wherefore should ye not know there is an envoy come from Duke Charles of Burgundy, with a message of an angry favour?”

“I saw the Count of Crevecoeur's equipage, horses, and retinue,” said another of the guests, “down at the inn yonder at the Mulberry Grove. They say the King will not admit him into the Castle.”

“Now, Heaven send him an ungracious answer!” said Guthrie; “but what is it he complains of?”

“A world of grievances upon the frontier,” said Lord Crawford; “and latterly, that the King hath received under his protection a lady of his land, a young Countess, who hath fled from Dijon, because, being a ward of the Duke, he would have her marry his favourite, Campobasso.”

“And hath she actually come hither alone, my lord?” said Lindesay.

“Nay, not altogether alone, but with the old Countess, her kinswoman, who hath yielded to her cousin's wishes in this matter.”

“And will the King,” said Cunningham, “he being the Duke's feudal sovereign, interfere between the Duke and his ward, over whom Charles hath the same right, which, were he himself dead, the King would have over the heiress of Burgundy?”

“The King will be ruled as he is wont, by rules of policy, and you know,” continued Crawford, “that he hath not publicly received these ladies, nor placed them under the protection of his daughters, the Lady of Beaujeu, or the Princess Joan, so, doubtless, he will be guided by circumstances. He is our Master—but it is no treason to say, he will chase with the hounds, and run with the hare, with any prince in Christendom.”

“But the Duke of Burgundy understands no such doubling;” said Cunningham.

“No,” answered the old Lord; “and, therefore, it is likely to make work between them.”

“Well—Saint Andrew further the fray!” said Le Balafre. “I had it foretold me ten, ay, twenty years since, that I was to make the fortune of my house by marriage. Who knows what may happen, if once we come to fight for honour and ladies' love, as they do in the old romaunts.”

“Thou name ladies' love, with such a trench in thy visage!” said Guthrie.

“As well not love at all, as love a Bohemian woman of Heathenesse,” retorted Le Balafre.

“Hold there, comrades,” said Lord Crawford; “no tilting with sharp weapons, no jesting with keen scoffs—friends all. And for the lady, she is too wealthy to fall to a poor Scottish lord, or I would put in my own claim, fourscore years and all, or not very far from it. But here is her health, nevertheless, for they say she is a lamp of beauty.”

“I think I saw her,” said another soldier, “when I was upon guard this morning at the inner barrier; but she was more like a dark lantern than a lamp, for she and another were brought into the Chateau in close litters.”

“Shame! shame! Arnot!” said Lord Crawford; “a soldier on duty should say naught of what he sees. Besides,” he added after a pause, his own curiosity prevailing over the show of discipline which he had thought it necessary to exert, “why should these litters contain this very same Countess Isabelle de Croye?”

“Nay, my Lord,” replied Arnot, “I know nothing of it save this, that my coutelier was airing my horses in the road to the village, and fell in with Doguin the muleteer, who brought back the litters to the inn, for they belong to the fellow of the Mulberry Grove yonder—he of the Fleur de Lys, I mean—and so Doguin asked Saunders Steed to take a cup of wine, as they were acquainted, which he was no doubt willing enough to do.”

“No doubt—no doubt,” said the old Lord; “it is a thing I wish were corrected among you, gentlemen; but all your grooms, and couteliers, and jackmen as we should