The Talisman by Walter Scott (best novels of all time txt) 📕

thou hast struck but a good blow in our behalf, and get thee out of the camp with thy life and thy infamy!”

“You have called me liar, my Lord King,” replied Kenneth firmly; “and therein, at least, you have done me wrong. Know that there was no blood shed in defence of the Standard save that of a poor hound, which, more faithful than his master, defended the charge which he deserted.”

“Now, by Saint George!” said Richard, again heaving up his arm. But De Vaux threw himself between the King and the object of his vengeance, and spoke with the blunt truth of his character, “My liege, this must not be—here, nor by your hand. It is enough of folly for one night and day to have entrusted your banner to a Scot. Said I not they were ever fair and false?” [Such were the terms in which the English used to speak of their poor northern neighbours, forgetting that their own encroachments upon the independence of Scotland obliged the weaker nation to defend themselves by policy as well as force. The disgrace must be divided between Edward I. and Edward III., who enforced their domination over a free country, and the Scots, who were compelled to take compulsory oaths, without any purpose of keeping them.]

“Thou didst, De Vaux; thou wast right, and I confess it,” said Richard. “I should have known him better—I should have remembered how the fox William deceived me touching this Crusade.”

“My lord,” said Sir Kenneth, “William of Scotland never deceived; but circumstances prevented his bringing his forces.”

“Peace, shameless!” said the King; “thou sulliest the name of a prince, even by speaking it.—And yet, De Vaux, it is strange,” he added, “to see the bearing of the man. Coward or traitor he must be, yet he abode the blow of Richard Plantagenet as our arm had been raised to lay knighthood on his shoulder. Had he shown the slightest sign of fear, had but a joint trembled or an eyelid quivered, I had shattered his head like a crystal goblet. But I cannot strike where there is neither fear nor resistance.”

There was a pause.

“My lord,” said Kenneth—

“Ha!” replied Richard, interrupting him, “hast thou found thy speech? Ask grace from Heaven, but none from me; for England is dishonoured through thy fault, and wert thou mine own and only brother, there is no pardon for thy fault.”

“I speak not to demand grace of mortal man,” said the Scot; “it is in your Grace's pleasure to give or refuse me time for Christian shrift—if man denies it, may God grant me the absolution which I would otherwise ask of His church! But whether I die on the instant, or half an hour hence, I equally beseech your Grace for one moment's opportunity to speak that to your royal person which highly concerns your fame as a Christian king.”

“Say on,” said the King, making no doubt that he was about to hear some confession concerning the loss of the Banner.

“What I have to speak,” said Sir Kenneth, “touches the royalty of England, and must be said to no ears but thine own.”

“Begone with yourselves, sirs,” said the King to Neville and De Vaux.

The first obeyed, but the latter would not stir from the King's presence.

“If you said I was in the right,” replied De Vaux to his sovereign, “I will be treated as one should be who hath been found to be right—that is, I will have my own will. I leave you not with this false Scot.”

“How! De Vaux,” said Richard angrily, and stamping slightly, “darest thou not venture our person with one traitor?”

“It is in vain you frown and stamp, my lord,” said De Vaux; “I venture not a sick man with a sound one, a naked man with one armed in proof.”

“It matters not,” said the Scottish knight; “I seek no excuse to put off time. I will speak in presence of the Lord of Gilsland. He is good lord and true.”

“But half an hour since,” said De Vaux, with a groan, implying a mixture of sorrow and vexation, “and I had said as much for thee!”

“There is treason around you, King of England,” continued Sir Kenneth.

“It may well be as thou sayest,” replied Richard; “I have a pregnant example.”

“Treason that will injure thee more deeply than the loss of a hundred banners in a pitched field. The—the—” Sir Kenneth hesitated, and at length continued, in a lower tone, “The Lady Edith—”

“Ha!” said the King, drawing himself suddenly into a state of haughty attention, and fixing his eye firmly on the supposed criminal; “what of her? what of her? What has she to do with this matter?”

“My lord,” said the Scot, “there is a scheme on foot to disgrace your royal lineage, by bestowing the hand of the Lady Edith on the Saracen Soldan, and thereby to purchase a peace most dishonourable to Christendom, by an alliance most shameful to England.”

This communication had precisely the contrary effect from that which Sir Kenneth expected. Richard Plantagenet was one of those who, in Iago's words, would not serve God because it was the devil who bade him; advice or information often affected him less according to its real import, than through the tinge which it took from the supposed character and views of those by whom it was communicated. Unfortunately, the mention of his relative's name renewed his recollection of what he had considered as extreme presumption in the Knight of the Leopard, even when he stood high in the roll of chivalry, but which, in his present condition, appeared an insult sufficient to drive the fiery monarch into a frenzy of passion.

“Silence,” he said, “infamous and audacious! By Heaven, I will have thy tongue torn out with hot pincers, for mentioning the very name of a noble Christian damsel! Know, degenerate traitor, that I was already aware to what height thou hadst dared to raise thine eyes, and endured it, though it were insolence, even when thou hadst cheated us—for thou art all a deceit—into holding thee as of some name and fame. But now, with lips blistered with the confession of thine own dishonour—that thou shouldst NOW dare to name our noble kinswoman as one in whose fate thou hast part or interest! What is it to thee if she marry Saracen or Christian? What is it to thee if, in a camp where princes turn cowards by day and robbers by night—where brave knights turn to paltry deserters and traitors—what is it, I say, to thee, or any one, if I should please to ally myself to truth and to valour, in the person of Saladin?”

“Little to me, indeed, to whom all the world will soon be as nothing,” answered Sir Kenneth boldly; “but were I now stretched on the rack, I would tell thee that what I have said is much to thine own conscience and thine own fame. I tell thee, Sir King, that if thou dost but in thought entertain the purpose of wedding thy kinswoman, the Lady Edith—”

“Name her not—and for an instant think not of her,” said the King, again straining the curtal-axe in his gripe, until the muscles started above his brawny arm, like cordage formed by the ivy around the limb of