Ivanhoe by Walter Scott (reading books for 4 year olds txt) 📕

reason, I would myself resume---”

But he had no sooner let go her hand, on first observing that

Ivanhoe had disappeared, than Rowena, who had found her situation

extremely embarrassing, had taken the first opportunity to escape

from the apartment.

“Certainly,” quoth Athelstane, “women are the least to be trusted

of all animals, monks and abbots excepted. I am an infidel, if I

expected not thanks from her, and perhaps a kiss to boot---These

cursed grave-clothes have surely a spell on them, every one flies

from me.---To you I turn, noble King Richard, with the vows of

allegiance, which, as a liege-subject---”

But King Richard was gone also, and no one knew whither. At

length it was learned that he had hastened to the court-yard,

summoned to his presence the Jew who had spoken with Ivanhoe, and

after a moment’s speech with him, had called vehemently to horse,

thrown himself upon a steed, compelled the Jew to mount another,

and set off at a rate, which, according to Wamba, rendered the

old Jew’s neck not worth a penny’s purchase.

“By my halidome!” said Athelstane, “it is certain that Zernebock

hath possessed himself of my castle in my absence. I return in

my grave-clothes, a pledge restored from the very sepulchre, and

every one I speak to vanishes as soon as they hear my voice!

---But it skills not talking of it. Come, my friends---such of

you as are left, follow me to the banquet-hall, lest any more of

us disappear---it is, I trust, as yet tolerably furnished, as

becomes the obsequies of an ancient Saxon noble; and should we

tarry any longer, who knows but the devil may fly off with the

supper?”

CHAPTER XLIII

Be Mowbray’s sins so heavy in his bosom,

That they may break his foaming courser’s back,

And throw the rider headlong in the lists,

A caitiff recreant!

Richard II

Our scene now returns to the exterior of the Castle, or

Preceptory, of Templestowe, about the hour when the bloody die

was to be cast for the life or death of Rebecca. It was a scene

of bustle and life, as if the whole vicinity had poured forth its

inhabitants to a village wake, or rural feast. But the earnest

desire to look on blood and death, is not peculiar to those dark

ages; though in the gladiatorial exercise of single combat and

general tourney, they were habituated to the bloody spectacle of

brave men falling by each other’s hands. Even in our own days,

when morals are better understood, an execution, a bruising

match, a riot, or a meeting of radical reformers, collects, at

considerable hazard to themselves, immense crowds of spectators,

otherwise little interested, except to see how matters are to be

conducted, or whether the heroes of the day are, in the heroic

language of insurgent tailors, flints or dunghills.

The eyes, therefore, of a very considerable multitude, were bent

on the gate of the Preceptory of Templestowe, with the purpose of

witnessing the procession; while still greater numbers had

already surrounded the tiltyard belonging to that establishment.

This enclosure was formed on a piece of level ground adjoining to

the Preceptory, which had been levelled with care, for the

exercise of military and chivalrous sports. It occupied the brow

of a soft and gentle eminence, was carefully palisaded around,

and, as the Templars willingly invited spectators to be witnesses

of their skill in feats of chivalry, was amply supplied with

galleries and benches for their use.

On the present occasion, a throne was erected for the Grand

Master at the east end, surrounded with seats of distinction for

the Preceptors and Knights of the Order. Over these floated the

sacred standard, called “Le Beau-seant”, which was the ensign, as

its name was the battle-cry, of the Templars.

At the opposite end of the lists was a pile of faggots, so

arranged around a stake, deeply fixed in the ground, as to leave

a space for the victim whom they were destined to consume, to

enter within the fatal circle, in order to be chained to the

stake by the fetters which hung ready for that purpose. Beside

this deadly apparatus stood four black slaves, whose colour and

African features, then so little known in England, appalled the

multitude, who gazed on them as on demons employed about their

own diabolical exercises. These men stirred not, excepting now

and then, under the direction of one who seemed their chief, to

shift and replace the ready fuel. They looked not on the

multitude. In fact, they seemed insensible of their presence,

and of every thing save the discharge of their own horrible duty.

And when, in speech with each other, they expanded their blubber

lips, and showed their white fangs, as if they grinned at the

thoughts of the expected tragedy, the startled commons could

scarcely help believing that they were actually the familiar

spirits with whom the witch had communed, and who, her time being

out, stood ready to assist in her dreadful punishment. They

whispered to each other, and communicated all the feats which

Satan had performed during that busy and unhappy period, not

failing, of course, to give the devil rather more than his due.

“Have you not heard, Father Dennet,” quoth one boor to another

advanced in years, “that the devil has carried away bodily the

great Saxon Thane, Athelstane of Coningsburgh?”

“Ay, but he brought him back though, by the blessing of God and

Saint Dunstan.”

“How’s that?” said a brisk young fellow, dressed in a green

cassock embroidered with gold, and having at his heels a stout

lad bearing a harp upon his back, which betrayed his vocation.

The Minstrel seemed of no vulgar rank; for, besides the splendour

of his gaily braidered doublet, he wore around his neck a silver

chain, by which hung the “wrest”, or key, with which he tuned his

harp. On his right arm was a silver plate, which, instead of

bearing, as usual, the cognizance or badge of the baron to whose

family he belonged, had barely the word SHERWOOD engraved upon

it.---“How mean you by that?” said the gay Minstrel, mingling in

the conversation of the peasants; “I came to seek one subject for

my rhyme, and, by’r Lady, I were glad to find two.”

“It is well avouched,” said the elder peasant, “that after

Athelstane of Coningsburgh had been dead four weeks---”

“That is impossible,” said the Minstrel; “I saw him in life at

the Passage of Arms at Ashby-de-la-Zouche.”

“Dead, however, he was, or else translated,” said the younger

peasant; “for I heard the Monks of Saint Edmund’s singing the

death’s hymn for him; and, moreover, there was a rich death-meal

and dole at the Castle of Coningsburgh, as right was; and thither

had I gone, but for Mabel Parkins, who---”

“Ay, dead was Athelstane,” said the old man, shaking his head,

“and the more pity it was, for the old Saxon blood---”

“But, your story, my masters---your story,” said the Minstrel,

somewhat impatiently.

“Ay, ay---construe us the story,” said a burly Friar, who stood

beside them, leaning on a pole that exhibited an appearance

between a pilgrim’s staff and a quarter-staff, and probably acted

as either when occasion served,---“Your story,” said the stalwart

churchman; “burn not daylight about it---we have short time to

spare.”

“An please your reverence,” said Dennet, “a drunken priest came

to visit the Sacristan at Saint Edmund’s------”

“It does not please my reverence,” answered the churchman, “that

there should be such an animal as a drunken priest, or, if there

were, that a layman should so speak him. Be mannerly, my friend,

and conclude the holy man only wrapt in meditation, which makes

the head dizzy and foot unsteady, as if the stomach were filled

with new wine---I have felt it myself.”

“Well, then,” answered Father Dennet, “a holy brother came to

visit the Sacristan at Saint Edmund’s---a sort of hedge-priest is

the visitor, and kills half the deer that are stolen in the

forest, who loves the tinkling of a pint-pot better than the

sacring-bell, and deems a flitch of bacon worth ten of his

breviary; for the rest, a good fellow and a merry, who will

flourish a quarter-staff, draw a bow, and dance a Cheshire round,

with e’er a man in Yorkshire.”

“That last part of thy speech, Dennet,” said the Minstrel, “has

saved thee a rib or twain.”

“Tush, man, I fear him not,” said Dennet; “I am somewhat old and

stiff, but when I fought for the bell and ram at Doncaster---”

“But the story---the story, my friend,” again said the Minstrel.

“Why, the tale is but this---Athelstane of Coningsburgh was

buried at Saint Edmund’s.”

“That’s a lie, and a loud one,” said the Friar, “for I saw him

borne to his own Castle of Coningsburgh.”

“Nay, then, e’en tell the story yourself, my masters,” said

Dennet, turning sulky at these repeated contradictions; and it

was with some difficulty that the boor could be prevailed on, by

the request of his comrade and the Minstrel, to renew his tale.

---“These two ‘sober’ friars,” said he at length, “since this

reverend man will needs have them such, had continued drinking

good ale, and wine, and what not, for the best part for a

summer’s day, when they were aroused by a deep groan, and a

clanking of chains, and the figure of the deceased Athelstane

entered the apartment, saying, ‘Ye evil shep-herds!---’”

“It is false,” said the Friar, hastily, “he never spoke a word.”

“So ho! Friar Tuck,” said the Minstrel, drawing him apart from

the rustics; “we have started a new hare, I find.”

“I tell thee, Allan-a-Dale,” said the Hermit, “I saw Athelstane

of Coningsburgh as much as bodily eyes ever saw a living man. He

had his shroud on, and all about him smelt of the sepulchre---A

butt of sack will not wash it out of my memory.”

“Pshaw!” answered the Minstrel; “thou dost but jest with me!”

“Never believe me,” said the Friar, “an I fetched not a knock at

him with my quarter-staff that would have felled an ox, and it

glided through his body as it might through a pillar of smoke!”

“By Saint Hubert,” said the Minstrel, “but it is a wondrous tale,

and fit to be put in metre to the ancient tune, ‘Sorrow came to

the old Friar.’”

“Laugh, if ye list,” said Friar Tuck; “but an ye catch me singing

on such a theme, may the next ghost or devil carry me off with

him headlong! No, no---I instantly formed the purpose of

assisting at some good work, such as the burning of a witch, a

judicial combat, or the like matter of godly service, and

therefore am I here.”

As they thus conversed, the heavy bell of the church of Saint

Michael of Templestowe, a venerable building, situated in a

hamlet at some distance from the Preceptory, broke short their

argument. One by one the sullen sounds fell successively on the

ear, leaving but sufficient space for each to die away in distant

echo, ere the air was again filled by repetition of the iron

knell. These sounds, the signal of the approaching ceremony,

chilled with awe the hearts of the assembled multitude, whose

eyes were now turned to the Preceptory, expecting the approach of

the Grand Master, the champion, and the criminal.

At length the drawbridge fell, the gates opened, and a knight,

bearing the great standard of the Order, sallied from the castle,

preceded by six trumpets, and followed by the Knights Preceptors,

two and two, the Grand Master coming last, mounted on a stately

horse, whose furniture was of the simplest kind. Behind him came

Brian de Bois-Guilbert, armed cap-a-pie in bright armour, but

without his lance, shield, and sword,