The Betrothed

Chapter 9

"Oh, night of wo," she said, and wept,

"Oh, night foreboding sorrow!

"Oh, night of wo," she said and wept,

"But more I dread the morrow!"

SIR GILBERT ELLIOT.

The fatigue which had exhausted Flammock and the monk, was unfelt

by the two anxious maidens, who remained with their eyes bent, now

upon the dim landscape, now on the stars by which it was lighted,

as if they could have read there the events which the morrow was

to bring forth. It was a placid and melancholy scene. Tree and

field, and hill and plain, lay before them in doubtful light,

while at greater distance, their eye could with difficulty trace

one or two places where the river, hidden in general by banks and

trees, spread its more expanded bosom to the stars, and the pale

crescent. All was still, excepting the solemn rush of the waters,

and now and then the shrill tinkle of a harp, which, heard from

more than a mile's distance through the midnight silence,

announced that some of the Welshmen still protracted their most

beloved amusement. The wild notes, partially heard, seemed like

the voice of some passing spirit; and, connected as they were with

ideas of fierce and unrelenting hostility, thrilled on Eveline's

ear, as if prophetic of war and wo, captivity and death. The only

other sounds which disturbed the extreme stillness of the night,

were the occasional step of a sentinel upon his post, or the

hooting of the owls, which seemed to wail the approaching downfall

of the moonlight turrets, in which they had established their

ancient habitations.

The calmness of all around seemed to press like a weight on the

bosom of the unhappy Eveline, and brought to her mind a deeper

sense of present grief, and keener apprehension of future horrors,

than had reigned there during the bustle, blood, and confusion of

the preceding day. She rose up--she sat down--she moved to and fro

on the platform--she remained fixed like a statue to a single

spot, as if she were trying by variety of posture to divert her

internal sense of fear and sorrow.

At length, looking at the monk and the Fleming as they slept

soundly under the shade of the battlement, she could no longer

forbear breaking silence. "Men are happy," she said, "my beloved

Rose; their anxious thoughts are either diverted by toilsome

exertion, or drowned in the insensibility which follows it. They

may encounter wounds and death, but it is we who feel in the

spirit a more keen anguish than the body knows, and in the gnawing

sense of present ill and fear of future misery, suffer a living

death, more cruel than that which ends our woes at once."

"Do not be thus downcast, my noble lady," said Rose; "be rather

what you were yesterday, caring for the wounded, for the aged, for

every one but yourself--exposing even your dear life among the

showers of the Welsh arrows, when doing so could give courage to

others; while I--shame on me--could but tremble, sob, and weep,

and needed all the little wit I have to prevent my shouting with

the wild cries of the Welsh, or screaming and groaning with those

of our friends who fell around me."

"Alas! Rose," answered her mistress, "you may at pleasure indulge

your fears to the verge of distraction itself--you have a father

to fight and watch for you. Mine--my kind, noble, and honoured

parent, lies dead on yonder field, and all which remains for me is

to act as may best become his memory. But this moment is at least

mine, to think upon and to mourn for him."

So saying, and overpowered by the long-repressed burst of filial

sorrow, she sunk down on the banquette which ran along the inside

of the embattled parapet of the platform, and murmuring to

herself, "He is gone for ever!" abandoned herself to the extremity

of grief. One hand grasped unconsciously the weapon which she

held, and served, at the same time, to prop her forehead, while

the tears, by which she was now for the first time relieved,

flowed in torrents from her eyes, and her sobs seemed so

convulsive, that Rose almost feared her heart was bursting. Her

affection and sympathy dictated at once the kindest course which

Eveline's condition permitted. Without attempting to control the

torrent of grief in its full current, she gently sat her down

beside the mourner, and possessing herself of the hand which had

sunk motionless by her side, she alternately pressed it to her

lips, her bosom, and her brow--now covered it with kisses, now

bedewed it with tears, and amid these tokens of the most devoted

and humble sympathy, waited a more composed moment to offer her

little stock of consolation in such deep silence and stillness,

that, as the pale light fell upon the two beautiful young women,

it seemed rather to show a group of statuary, the work of some

eminent sculptor, than beings whose eyes still wept, and whose

hearts still throbbed. At a little distance, the gleaming corslet

of the Fleming, and the dark garments of Father Aldrovand, as they

lay prostrate on the stone steps, might represent the bodies of

those for whom the principal figures were mourning.

After a deep agony of many minutes, it seemed that the sorrows of

Eveline were assuming a more composed character; her convulsive

sobs were changed for long, low, profound sighs, and the course of

her tears, though they still flowed, was milder and less violent.

Her kind attendant, availing herself of these gentler symptoms,

tried softly to win the spear from her lady's grasp. "Let me be

sentinel for a while." she said, "my sweet lady--I will at least

scream louder than you, if any danger should approach." She

ventured to kiss her cheek, and throw her arms around Eveline's

neck while she spoke; but a mute caress, which expressed her sense

of the faithful girl's kind intentions to minister if possible to

her repose, was the only answer returned. They remained for many

minutes silent in the same posture,--Eveline, like an upright and

tender poplar,--Rose, who encircled her lady in her arms, like the

woodbine which twines around it.

At length Rose suddenly felt her young mistress shiver in her

embrace, and then Eveline's hand grasped her arm rigidly as she

whispered, "Do you hear nothing?"

"No--nothing but the hooting of the owl," answered Rose,

timorously.

"I heard a distant sound," said Eveline,--"I thought I heard it--

hark, it comes again!--Look from the battlements, Rose, while I

awaken the priest and thy father."

"Dearest lady," said Rose, "I dare not--what can this sound be

that is heard by one only?--You are deceived by the rush of the

river."

"I would not alarm the castle unnecessarily," said Eveline,

pausing, "or even break your father's needful slumbers, by a fancy

of mine--But hark--I hear it again--distinct amidst the

intermitting sounds of the rushing water--a low tremulous sound,

mingled with a tinkling like smiths or armourers at work upon

their anvils."

Rose had by this time sprung up on the banquette, and flinging

back her rich tresses of fair hair, had applied her hand behind

her ear to collect the distant sound. "I hear it," she cried, "and

it increases--Awake them, for Heaven's sake, and without a

moment's delay!"

Eveline accordingly stirred the sleepers with the reversed end of

the lance, and as they started to their feet in haste, she

whispered in a hasty but cautious voice, "To arms--the Welsh are

upon us!" "What--where?" said Wilkin Flammock,--"where be they?"

"Listen, and you will hear them arming," she replied.

"The noise is but in thine own fancy, lady," said the Fleming,

whose organs were of the same heavy character with his form and

his disposition. "I would I had not gone to sleep at all, since I

was to be awakened so soon."

"Nay, but listen, good Flammock-the sound of armour comes from the

north-east."

"The Welsh lie not in that quarter, lady," said Wilkin; "and

besides, they wear no armour."

"I hear it--I hear it!" said Father Aldrovand, who had been

listening for some time. "All praise to St. Benedict!--Our Lady of

the Garde Doloureuse has been gracious to her servants as ever!--

It is the tramp of horses--it is the clash of armour--the chivalry

of the Marches are coming to our relief-Kyrie Eleison!"

"I hear something too," said Flammock,--"something like the hollow

sound of the great sea, when it burst into my neighbour

Klinkerman's warehouse, and rolled his pots and pans against each

other. But it were an evil mistake, father, to take foes for

friends--we were best rouse the people."

"Tush!" said the priest, "talk to me of pots and kettles?--Was I,

squire of the body to Count Stephen Mauleverer for twenty years,

and do I not know the tramp of a war-horse, or the clash of a

mail-coat?--But call the men to the walls at any rate, and have me

the best drawn up at the base-court--we may help them by a sally."

"That will not be rashly undertaken with my consent," murmured the

Fleming; "but to the wall if you will, and 111 good time. But keep

your Normans and English silent, Sir Priest, else their unruly and

noisy joy will awaken the Welsh camp, and prepare them for their

unwelcome visitors."

The monk laid his finger on his lip in sign of obedience, and they

parted in opposite directions, each to rouse the defenders of the

castle, who were soon heard drawing from all quarters to their

posts upon the walls, with hearts in a very different mood from

that in which they had descended from them. The utmost caution

being used to prevent noise, the manning of the walls was

accomplished in silence, and the garrison awaited in, breathless

expectation the success of the forces who were rapidly advancing

to their relief.

The character of the sounds which now loudly awakened the silence

of this eventful night, could no longer be mistaken. They were

distinguishable from the rushing of a mighty river, or from the

muttering sound of distant thunder, by the sharp and angry notes

which the clashing of the rider's arms mingled with the deep bass

of the horses' rapid tread. From the long continuance of the

sounds, their loudness, and the extent of horizon from which they

seemed to come, all in the castle were satisfied that the

approaching relief consisted of several very strong bodies of

horse. [Footnote: Even the sharp and angry clang made by the iron

scabbards of modern cavalry ringing against the steel-tipp'd

saddles and stirrup, betrays their approach from a distance. The

clash of the armour of knights, armed _cap-a-pie_, must have

been much more easily discernible.] At once this mighty sound

ceased, as if the earth on which they trod had either devoured the

armed squadrons or had become incapable of resounding to their

tramp. The defenders of the Garde Doloureuse concluded that their

friends had made a sudden halt, to give their horses breath,

examine the leaguer of the enemy, and settle the order of attack

upon them. The pause, however was but momentary.

The British, so alert at surprising their enemies, were

themselves, on many occasions, liable to surprise. Their men were

undisciplined, and sometimes negligent of the patient duties of

the sentinel; and, besides, their foragers and flying parties, who

scoured the country during the preceding day, had brought back

tidings which had lulled them into fatal security. Their camp had

been therefore carelessly guarded, and confident in the smallness

of the garrison, they had altogether neglected the important

military duty of establishing patrols and outposts at a proper

distance from their main body. Thus the cavalry of the Lords

Marchers, notwithstanding the noise which accompanied their

advance, had approached very near the British camp without

exciting the least alarm. But while they were arranging their

forces into separate columns, in order to commence the assault, a

loud and increasing clamour among the Welsh announced that they

were at length aware of their danger. The shrill and discordant

cries by which they endeavoured to assemble their men, each under

the banner of his chief, resounded from their leaguer. But these

rallying shouts were soon converted into screams, and clamours of

horror and dismay, when the thundering charge of the barbed horses

and heavily armed cavalry of the Anglo-Normans surprised their

undefended camp.

Yet not even under circumstances so adverse did the descendants of

the ancient Britons renounce their defence, or forfeit their old

hereditary privilege, to be called the bravest of mankind. Their

cries of defiance and resistance were heard resounding above the

groans of the wounded, the shouts of the triumphant assailants,

and the universal tumult of the night-battle. It was not until the

morning light began to peep forth, that the slaughter or

dispersion of Gwenwyn's forces was complete, and that the

"earthquake voice of victory" arose in uncontrolled and unmingled

energy of exultation.

Then the besieged, if they could be still so termed, looking from

their towers over the expanded country beneath, witnessed nothing

but one widespread scene of desultory flight and unrelaxed

pursuit. That the Welsh had been permitted to encamp in fancied

security upon the hither side of the river, now rendered their

discomfiture more dreadfully fatal. The single pass by which they

could cross to the other side was soon completely choked by

fugitives, on whose rear raged the swords of the victorious

Normans. Many threw themselves into the river, upon the precarious

chance of gaining the farther side, and, except a few, who were

uncommonly strong, skilful, and active, perished among the rocks

and in the currents; others, more fortunate, escaped by fords,

with which they had accidentally been made acquainted; many

dispersed, or, in small bands, fled in reckless despair towards

the castle, as if the fortress, which had beat them off when

victorious, could be a place of refuge to them in their present

forlorn condition; while others roamed wildly over the plain,

seeking only escape from immediate and instant danger, without

knowing whither they ran.

The Normans, meanwhile, divided into small parties, followed and

slaughtered them at pleasure; while, as a rallying point for the

victors, the banner of Hugo de Lacy streamed from a small mount,

on which Gwenwyn had lately pitched his own, and surrounded by a

competent force, both of infantry and horsemen, which the

experienced Baron permitted on no account to wander far from it.

The rest, as we have already said, followed the chase with shouts

of exultation and of vengeance, ringing around the battlements,

which resounded with the cries, "Ha, Saint Edward!--Ha, Saint

Dennis!--Strike--slay--no quarter to the Welsh wolves--think on

Raymond Berenger!"

The soldiers on the walls joined in these vengeful and victorious

clamours, and discharged several sheaves of arrows upon such

fugitives, as, in their extremity, approached too near the castle.

They would fain have sallied to give more active assistance in the

work of destruction; but the communication being now open with the

Constable of Chester's forces, Wilkin Flammock considered himself

and the garrison to be under the orders of that renowned chief,

and refused to listen to the eager admonitions of Father

Aldrovand, who would, notwithstanding his sacerdotal character,

have willingly himself taken charge of the sally which he

proposed.

At length, the scene of slaughter seemed at an end. The retreat

was blown on many a bugle, and knights halted on the plain to

collect their personal followers, muster them under their proper

pennon, and then march them slowly back to the great standard of

their leader, around which the main body were again to be

assembled, like the clouds which gather around the evening sun--a

fanciful simile, which might yet be drawn farther, in respect of

the level rays of strong lurid light which shot from those dark

battalions, as the beams were flung back from their polished

armour.

The plain was in this manner soon cleared of the horsemen, and

remained occupied only by the dead bodies of the slaughtered

Welshmen. The bands who had followed the pursuit to a greater

distance were also now seen returning, driving before them, or

dragging after them, dejected and unhappy captives, to whom they

had given quarter when their thirst of blood was satiated.

It was then that, desirous to attract the attention of his

liberators, Wilkin Flammock commanded all the banners of the

castle to be displayed, under a general shout of acclamation from

those who had fought under them. It was answered by a universal

cry of joy from De Lacy's army, which rung so wide, as might even

yet have startled such of the Welsh fugitives, as, far distant

from this disastrous field of flight, might have ventured to halt

for a moment's repose.

Presently after this greeting had been exchanged, a single rider

advanced from the Constable's army towards the castle, showing,

even at a distance, an unusual dexterity of horsemanship and grace

of deportment. He arrived at the drawbridge, which was instantly

lowered to receive him, whilst Flammock and the monk (for the

latter, as far as he could, associated himself with the former in

all acts of authority) hastened to receive the envoy of their

liberator. They found him just alighted from the raven-coloured

horse, which was slightly flecked with blood as well as foam, and

still panted with the exertions of the evening; though, answering

to the caressing hand of its youthful rider, he arched his neck,

shook his steel caparison, and snorted to announce his unabated

mettle and unwearied love of combat. The young man's eagle look

bore the same token of unabated vigour, mingled with the signs of

recent exertion. His helmet hanging at his saddle-bow, showed a

gallant countenance, coloured highly, but not inflamed, which

looked out from a rich profusion of short chestnut-curls; and

although his armour was of a massive and simple form, he moved

under it with such elasticity and ease, that it seemed a graceful

attire, not a burden or encumbrance. A furred mantle had not sat

on him with more easy grace than the heavy hauberk, which complied

with every gesture of his noble form. Yet his countenance was so

juvenile, that only the down on the upper lip announced decisively

the approach to manhood. The females, who thronged into the court

to see the first envoy of their deliverers, could not forbear

mixing praises of his beauty with blessings on his valour; and one

comely middle-aged dame, in particular, distinguished by the

tightness with which her scarlet hose sat on a well-shaped leg and

ankle, and by the cleanness of her coif, pressed close up to the

young squire, and, more forward than, the rest, doubled the

crimson hue of his cheek, by crying aloud, that Our Lady of the

Garde Doloureuse had sent them news of their redemption by an

angel from the sanctuary;--a speech which, although Father

Aldrovand shook his head, was received by her companions with such

general acclamation, as greatly embarrassed the young man's

modesty.

"Peace, all of ye!" said Wilkin Flammock--"Know you no respects,

you women, or have you never seen a young gentleman before, that

you hang on him like flies on a honeycomb? Stand back, I say, and

let us hear in peace what are the commands of the noble Lord of

Lacy."

"These," said the young man, "I can only deliver in the presence

of the right noble demoiselle, Eveline Berenger, if I may be

thought worthy of such honour."

"That thou art, noble sir," said the same forward dame, who had

before expressed her admiration so energetically; "I will uphold

thee worthy of her presence, and whatever other grace a lady can

do thee."

"Now, hold thy tongue, with a wanion!" said the monk; while in the

same breath the Fleming exclaimed, "Beware the cucking-stool,

Dame Scant-o'-Grace!" while he conducted the noble youth across

the court. "Let my good horse be cared for," said the cavalier,

as he put the bridle into the hand of a menial; and in doing so

got rid of some part of his female retinue, who began to pat and

praise the steed as much as they had done the rider; and some, in

the enthusiasm of their joy, hardly abstained from kissing the

stirrups and horse furniture.

But Dame Gillian was not so easily diverted from her own point as

were some of her companions. She continued to repeat the word

_cucking-stool_, till the Fleming was out of hearing, and

then became more specific in her objurgation.--"And why

_cucking-stool_, I pray, Sir Wilkin Butterfirkin? You are the

man would stop an English mouth with a Flemish damask napkin, I

trow! Marry quep, my cousin the weaver! And why the cucking-stool,

I pray?--because my young lady is comely, and the young squire is

a man of mettle, reverence to his beard that is to come yet! Have

we not eyes to see, and have we not a mouth and a tongue?"

"In troth, Dame Gillian, they do you wrong who doubt it," said

Eveline's nurse, who stood by; "but I prithee, keep it shut now,

were it but for womanhood."

"How now, mannerly Mrs. Margery?" replied the incorrigible

Gillian; "is your heart so high, because you dandled our young

lady on your knee fifteen years since?--Let me tell you, the cat

will find its way to the cream, though it was brought up on an

abbess's lap."

"Home, housewife--home!" exclaimed her husband, the old huntsman,

who was weary of this public exhibition of his domestic termagant

--"home, or I will give you a taste of my dog lash--Here are both

the confessor and Wilkin Flammock wondering at your impudence."

"Indeed!" replied Gillian; "and are not two fools enough for

wonderment, that you must come with your grave pate to make up the

number three?"

There was a general laugh at the huntsman's expense, under cover

of which he prudently withdrew his spouse, without attempting to

continue the war of tongues, in which she had shown such a decided

superiority. This controversy, so light is the change in human

spirits, especially among the lower class, awakened bursts of idle

mirth among beings, who had so lately been in the jaws of danger,

if not of absolute despair.