Sir Scott - Ivanhoe

“Nor do I wish to mingle,” said the King, mildly, “unless in so far as you will admit me to have an interest. As yet you have known me but as the Black Knight of the Fetterlock. Know me now as Richard Plantagenet.”

“Richard of Anjou!” exclaimed Cedric, stepping backward with the utmost astonishment.

“No, noble Cedric—Richard of England! whose deepest interest—whose deepest wish, is to see her sons united with each other. And, how now, worthy thane! hast thou no knee for thy prince?”

“To Norman blood,” said Cedric, “it hath never bended.”

“Reserve thine homage then,” said the Monarch, “until I shall prove my right to it by my equal protection of Normans and English.”

“Prince,” answered Cedric, “I have ever done justice to thy bravery and thy worth. Nor am I ignorant of thy claim to the crown through thy descent from Matilda, niece to Edgar Atheling, and daughter to Malcolm of Scotland. But Matilda, though of the royal Saxon blood, was not the heir to the monarchy.”

“I will not dispute my title with thee, noble thane,” said Richard, calmly; “but I will bid thee look around thee, and see where thou wilt find another to be put into the scale against it.”

“And has thou wandered hither, Prince, to tell me so?” said Cedric—“to upbraid me with the ruin of my race, ere the grave has closed o’er the last scion of Saxon royalty?” His countenance darkened as he spoke. “It was boldly—it was rashly done!”

“Not so, by the holy rood!” replied the King; “it was done in the frank confidence which one brave man may repose in another, without a shadow of danger.”

“Thou sayest well, Sir King—for King I own thou art, and wilt be, despite of my feeble opposition. I dare not take the only mode to prevent it, though thou hast placed the strong temptation within my reach!”

“And now to my boon,” said the King, “which I ask not with one jot the less confidence, that thou hast refused to acknowledge my lawful sovereignty. I require of thee, as a man of thy word; on pain of being held faithless, man-sworn, and ‘nidering,’ to forgive and receive to thy paternal affection the good knight, Wilfred of Ivanhoe. In this reconciliation thou wilt own I have an interest—the happiness of my friend, and the quelling of dissension among my faithful people.”

“And this is Wilfred!” said Cedric, pointing to his son.

“My father!—my father!” said Ivanhoe, prostrating himself at Cedric’s feet, “grant me thy forgiveness!”

“Thou hast it, my son,” said Cedric, raising him up. “The son of Hereward knows how to keep his word, even when it has been passed to a Norman. But let me see thee use the dress and costume of thy English ancestry: no short cloaks, no gay bonnets, no fantastic plumage in my decent household. He that would be the son of Cedric must show himself of English ancestry. Thou art about to speak,” he added, sternly, “and I guess the topic. The Lady Rowena must complete two years’ mourning, as for a betrothed husband: all our Saxon ancestors would disown us were we to treat of a new union for her ere the grave of him she should have wedded—him so much the most worthy of her hand by birth and ancestry—is yet closed. The ghost of Athelstane himself would burst his bloody cerements, and stand before us to forbid such dishonour to his memory.”

It seemed as if Cedric’s words had raised a spectre; for scarce had he uttered them ere the door flew open, and Athelstane, arrayed in the garments of the grave, stood before them, pale, haggard, and like something arisen from the dead! 2

The effect of this apparition on the persons present was utterly appalling. Cedric started back as far as the wall of the apartment would permit, and, leaning against it as one unable to support himself, gazed on the figure of his friend with eyes that seemed fixed, and a mouth which he appeared incapable of shutting. Ivanhoe crossed himself, repeating prayers in Saxon, Latin, or Norman-French, as they occurred to his memory, while Richard alternately said “Benedicite,” and swore, “Mort de ma vie!” gk

In the meantime, a horrible noise was heard below stairs, some crying, “Secure the treacherous monks!”—others, “Down with them into the dungeon!”—others, “Pitch them from the highest battlements!”

“In the name of God!” said Cedric, addressing what seemed the spectre of his departed friend, “if thou art mortal, speak!—if a departed spirit, say for what cause thou dost revisit us, or if I can do aught that can set thy spirit at repose. Living or dead, noble Athelstane, speak to Cedric!”

“I will,” said the spectre, very composedly, “when I have collected breath, and when you give me time. Alive, saidst thou? I am as much alive as he can be who has fed on bread and water for three days, which seem three ages. Yes, bread and water, father Cedric! By Heaven, and all saints in it, better food hath not passed my weasand glfor three livelong days, and by God’s providence it is that I am now here to tell it.”

“Why, noble Athelstane,” said the Black Knight, “I myself saw you struck down by the fierce Templar towards the end of the storm at Torquilstone, and, as I thought, and Wamba reported, your skull was cloven through the teeth.”

“You thought amiss, Sir Knight,” said Athelstane, “and Wamba lied. My teeth are in good order, and that my supper shall presently find. No thanks to the Templar though, whose sword turned in his hand, so that the blade struck me flatlings, being averted by the handle of the good mace with which I warded the blow; had my steel-cap been on, I had not valued it a rush, and had dealt him such a counterbuff as would have spoilt his retreat. But as it was, down I went, stunned, indeed, but unwounded. Others, of both sides, were beaten down and slaughtered above me, so that I never recovered my senses until I found myself in a coffin—an open one, by good luck!—placed before the altar of the church of St. Edmund’s. I sneezed repeatedly—groaned—awakened, and would have arisen, when the sacristan and abbot, full of terror, came running at the noise, surprised, doubtless, and no way pleased, to find the man alive whose heirs they had proposed themselves to be. I asked for wine; they gave me some, but it must have been highly medicated, for I slept yet more deeply than before, and wakened not for many hours. I found my arms swathed down, my feet tied so fast that mine ankles ache at the very remembrance; the place was utterly dark—the oubliette, gmas I suppose, of their accursed convent, and from the close, stifled, damp smell I conceive it is also used for a place of sepulture. I had strange thoughts of what had befallen me, when the door of my dungeon creaked, and two villain monks entered. They would have persuaded me I was in purgatory, but I knew too well the pursy, short-breathed voice of the father abbot. St. Jeremy! how different from that tone with which he used to ask me for another slice of the haunch! the dog has feasted with me from Christmas to Twelfth Night.”

“Have patience, noble Athelstane,” said the King, “take breath—tell your story at leisure; beshrew me but such a tale is as well worth listening to as a romance.”

“Ay but, by the rood of Bromholme, there was no romance in the matter!” said Athelstane. “A barley loaf and a pitcher of water—that they gave me, the niggardly traitors, whom my father, and I myself, had enriched, when their best resources were the flitches of bacon and measures of corn out of which they wheedled poor serfs and bondsmen, in exchange for their prayers. The nest of foul, ungrateful vipers—barley bread and ditch water to such a patron as I had been! I will smoke them out of their nest, though I be excommunicated!”