Sir Scott - Ivanhoe

“I pray you, reverend father,” said Ivanhoe, “let Malkin be got ready instantly, and bid Gurth attend me with mine arms.”

“Nay, but, fair sir,” said the prior, “I pray you to remember that Malkin hath as little skill in arms as her master, and that I warrant not her enduring the sight or weight of your full panoply. O, Malkin, I promise you, is a beast of judgment, and will contend against any undue weight. I did not borrow the Fructus Temporum fy from the priest of St. Bee’s, and I promise you she would not stir from the gate until I had exchanged the huge volume for my little breviary.”

“Trust me, holy father,” said Ivanhoe, “I will not distress her with too much weight; and if she calls a combat with me, it is odds but she has the worst.”

This reply was made while Gurth was buckling on the knight’s heels a pair of large gilded spurs, capable of convincing any restive horse that his best safety lay in being conformable to the will of his rider.

The deep and sharp rowels with which Ivanhoe’s heels were now armed began to make the worthy prior repent of his courtesy, and ejaculate, “Nay but, fair sir, now I bethink me, my Malkin abideth not the spur. Better it were that you tarry for the mare of our manciple down at the grange, which may be had in little more than an hour, and cannot but be tractable, in respect that she draweth much of our winter firewood, and eateth no corn.”

“I thank you, reverend father, but will abide by your first offer, as I see Malkin is already led forth to the gate. Gurth shall carry mine armour; and for the rest, rely on it that, as I will not overload Malkin’s back, she shall not overcome my patience. And now, farewell!”

Ivanhoe now descended the stairs more hastily and easily than his wound promised, and threw himself upon the jennet, eager to escape the importunity of the prior, who stuck as closely to his side as his age and fatness would permit, now singing the praises of Malkin, now recommending caution to the knight in managing her.

“She is at the most dangerous period for maidens as well as mares,” said the old man, laughing at his own jest, “being barely in her fifteenth year.”

Ivanhoe, who had other web to weave than to stand canvassing a palfrey’s paces with its owner, lent but a deaf ear to the prior’s grave advices and facetious jests, and having leapt on his mare, and commanded his squire (for such Gurth now called himself) to keep close by his side, he followed the track of the Black Knight into the forest, while the prior stood at the gate of the convent looking after him, and ejaculating, “St. Mary! how prompt and fiery be these men of war! I would I had not trusted Malkin to his keeping, for, crippled as I am with the cold rheum, I am undone if aught but good befalls her. And yet,” said he, recollecting himself, “as I would not spare my own old and disabled limbs in the good cause of Old England, so Malkin must e’en run her hazard on the same venture; and it may be they will think our poor house worthy of some munificent guerdon; or, it may be, they will send the old prior a pacing nag. And if they do none of these, as great men will forget little men’s service, truly I shall hold me well repaid in having done that which is right. And it is now wellnigh the fitting time to summon the brethren to breakfast in the refectory. Ah! I doubt they obey that call more cheerily than the bells for primes and matins.”

So the prior of St. Botolph’s hobbled back again into the refectory, to preside over the stock-fish fzand ale which were just serving out for the friars’ breakfast. Pursy and important, he sat him down at the table, and many a dark word he threw out of benefits to be expected to the convent, and high deeds of service done by himself, which at another season would have attracted observation. But as the stock-fish was highly salted, and the ale reasonably powerful, the jaws of the brethren were too anxiously employed to admit of their making much use of their ears; nor do we read of any of the fraternity who was tempted to speculate upon the mysterious hints of their superior, except Father Diggory, who was severely afflicted by the toothache, so that he could only eat on one side of his jaws.

In the meantime, the Black Champion and his guide were pacing at their leisure through the recesses of the forest; the good Knight whiles humming to himself the lay of some enamoured troubadour, sometimes encouraging by questions the prating disposition of his attendant, so that their dialogue formed a whimsical mixture of song and jest, of which we would fain give our readers some idea. You are then to imagine this Knight, such as we have already described him, strong of person, tall, broad-shouldered, and large of bone, mounted on his mighty black charger, which seemed made on purpose to bear his weight, so easily he paced forward under it, having the visor of his helmet raised, in order to admit freedom of breath, yet keeping the beaver, or under part, closed, so that his features could be but imperfectly distinguished. But his ruddy, em-browned cheekbones could be plainly seen, and the large and bright blue eyes, that flashed from under the dark shade of the raised visor; and the whole gesture and look of the champion expressed careless gaiety and fearless confidence—a mind which was unapt to apprehend danger, and prompt to defy it when most imminent, yet with whom danger was a familiar thought, as with one whose trade was war and adventure.

The Jester wore his usual fantastic habit, but late accidents had led him to adopt a good cutting falchion, gainstead of his wooden sword, with a targe to match it; of both which weapons he had, notwithstanding his profession, shown himself a skilful master during the storming of Torquilstone. Indeed, the infirmity of Wamba’s brain consisted chiefly in a kind of impatient irritability, which suffered him not long to remain quiet in any posture, or adhere to any certain train of ideas, although he was for a few minutes alert enough to performing any immediate task, or in apprehending any immediate topic. On horseback, therefore, he was perpetually swinging himself backwards and forwards, now on the horse’s ears, then anon on the very rump of the animal; now hanging both his legs on one side, and now sitting with his face to the tail, moping, mowing, gband making a thousand apish gestures, until his palfrey took his freaks so much to heart as fairly to lay him at his length on the green grass—an incident which greatly amused the Knight, but compelled his companion to ride more steadily thereafter.

At the point of their journey at which we take them up, this joyous pair were engaged in singing a virelai, gcas it was called, in which the clown bore a mellow burden to the better-instructed Knight of the Fetterlock. And thus run the ditty:—

Anna Marie, love, up is the sun,

Anna Marie, love, morn is begun,

Mists are dispersing, love, birds singing free,

Up in the morning, love, Anna Marie.

Anna Marie, love, up in the morn,

The hunter is winding blythe sounds on his horn,

The echo rings merry from rock and from tree,

’Tis time to arouse thee, love, Anna Marie.

WAMBA.

O Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet,

Around my soft Pillow while softer dreams flit,

For what are the joys that in waking we prove,

Compared with these visions, O, Tybalt, my love?

Let the birds to the rise of the mist carol shrill,

Let the hunter blow out his loud horn on the hill,

Softer sounds, softer pleasures, in slumber I prove, —

But think not I dreamt of thee, Tybalt, my love.

“A dainty song,” said Wamba, when they had finished their carol, “and I swear by my bauble, a pretty moral! I used to sing it with Gurth, once my playfellow, and now, by the grace of God and his master, no less than a freeman; and we once came by the cudgel for being so entranced by the melody that we lay in bed two hours after sunrise, singing the ditty betwixt sleeping and waking: my bones ache at thinking of the tune ever since. Nevertheless, I have played the part of Anna Marie to please you, fair sir.”