The Talisman & The Betrothed (Illustrated Edition). Walter Scott
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should have appeared lined with armed men, would be an additional encouragement to the exertions of the assailants. He urged the Lady Eveline to set an example to this group of helpless, yet intractable mourners.
Preserving, at least endeavouring to preserve, even in the extremity of grief, that composure which the manners of the times enjoined—for chivalry had its stoicism as well as philosophy— Eveline replied in a voice which she would fain have rendered firm, and which was tremulous in her despite—”Yes, father, you say well—here is no longer aught left for maidens to look upon. Warlike meed and honoured deed sunk when yonder white plume touched the bloody ground.—Come, maidens, there is no longer aught left us to see—To mass, to mass—the tourney is over!”
There was wildness in her tone, and when she rose, with the air of one who would lead out a procession, she staggered, and would have fallen, but for the support of the confessor. Hastily wrapping her head in her mantle, as if ashamed of the agony of grief which she could not restrain, and of which her sobs and the low moaning sounds that issued from under the folds enveloping her face, declared the excess, she suffered Father Aldrovand to conduct her whither he would.
“Our gold,” he said, “has changed to brass, our silver to dross, our wisdom, to folly—it is His will, who confounds the counsels of the wise, and shortens the arm of the mighty. To the chapel—to the chapel, Lady Eveline; and instead of vain repining, let us pray to God and the saints to turn away their displeasure, and to save the feeble remnant from the jaws of the devouring wolf.”
Thus speaking, he half led, half supported Eveline, who was at the moment almost incapable of thought and action, to the castle-chapel, where, sinking before the altar, she assumed the attitude at least of devotion, though her thoughts, despite the pious words which her tongue faltered out mechanically, were upon the field of battle, beside the body of her slaughtered parent. The rest of the mourners imitated their young lady in her devotional posture, and in the absence of her thoughts. The consciousness that so many of the garrison had been cut off in Raymond’s incautious sally, added to their sorrows the sense of personal insecurity, which was exaggerated by the cruelties which were too often exercised by the enemy, who, in the heat of victory, were accustomed to spare neither sex nor age.
The monk, however, assumed among them the tone of authority which his character warranted, rebuked their wailing and ineffectual complaints, and having, as he thought, brought them to such a state of mind as better became their condition, he left them to their private devotions to indulge his own anxious curiosity by inquiring into the defences of the castle. Upon the outward walls he found Wilkin Flammock, who, having done the office of a good and skilful captain in the mode of managing his artillery, and beating back, as we have already seen, the advanced guard of the enemy, was now with his own hand measuring out to his little garrison no stinted allowance of wine.
“Have a care, good Wilkin,” said the father, “that thou dost not exceed in this matter. Wine is, thou knowest, like fire and water, an excellent servant, but a very bad master.”
“It will be long ere it overflow the deep and solid skulls of my countrymen,” said Wilkin Flammock. “Our Flemish courage is like our Flanders horses—the one needs the spur, and the other must have a taste of the winepot; but, credit me, father, they are of an enduring generation, and will not shrink in the washing.—But indeed, if I were to give the knaves a cup more than enough, it were not altogether amiss, since they are like to have a platter the less.”
“How do you mean!” cried the monk, starting; “I trust in the saints the provisions have been cared for?”
“Not so well as in your convent, good father,” replied Wilkin, with the same immoveable stolidity of countenance. “We had kept, as you know, too jolly a Christmas to have a very fat Easter. Yon Welsh hounds, who helped to eat up our victuals, are now like to get into our hold for the lack of them.”
“Thou talkest mere folly,” answered the monk; “orders were last evening given by our lord (whose soul God assoilzie!) to fetch in the necessary supplies from the country around!
“Ay, but the Welsh were too sharp set to permit us to do that at our ease this morning, which should have been done weeks and months since. Our lord deceased, if deceased he be, was one of those who trusted to the edge of the sword, and even so hath come of it. Commend me to a crossbow and a well-victualled castle, if I must needs fight at all.—You look pale, my good father, a cup of wine will revive you.”
The monk motioned away from him the untasted cup, which Wilkin pressed him to with clownish civility. “We have now, indeed,” he said, “no refuge, save in prayer!”
“Most true, good father;” again replied the impassible Fleming; “pray therefore as much as you will. I will content myself with fasting, which will come whether I will or no.”—At this moment a horn was heard before the gate.—”Look to the portcullis and the gate, ye knaves!—What news, Neil Hansen?”
“A messenger from the Welsh tarries at the Mill-hill, just within shot of the crossbows; he has a white flag, and demands admittance.”
“Admit him not, upon thy life, till we be prepared for him,” said Wilkin. “Bend the bonny mangonel upon the place, and shoot him if he dare to stir from the spot where he stands till we get all prepared to receive him,” said Flammock in his native language. “And, Neil, thou houndsfoot, bestir thyself—let every pike, lance, and pole in the castle be ranged along the battlements, and pointed through the shot-holes—cut up some tapestry into the shape of banners, and show them from the highest towers.—Be ready when I give a signal, to strike naker, [Footnote: Naker,—Drum. ] and blow trumpets, if we have any; if not, some cow-horns—anything for a noise. And hark ye, Neil Hansen, do you, and four or five of your fellows, go to the armoury and slip on coats-of-mail; our Netherlandish corslets do not appal them so much. Then let the Welsh thief be blindfolded and brought in amongst us—Do you hold up your heads and keep silence—leave me to deal with him—only have a care there be no English among us.”
The monk, who in his travels had acquired some slight knowledge of the Flemish language, had wellnigh started when he heard the last article in Wilkin’s instructions to his countryman, but commanded himself, although a little surprised, both at this suspicious circumstance, and at the readiness and dexterity with which the rough-hewn Fleming seemed to adapt his preparations to the rules of war and of sound policy.
Wilkin, on his part, was not very certain whether the monk had not heard and understood more of what he said to his countryman, than what he had intended. As if to lull asleep any suspicion which Father Aldrovand might entertain, he repeated to him in English most of the directions which he had given, adding, “Well, good father, what think you of it?”
“Excellent well,” answered the father, “and done as if you had practised war from the cradle, instead of weaving broadcloth.”
“Nay, spare not your jibes, father,” answered Wilkin.—”I know full well that you English think that Flemings have nought in their brainpan but sodden beef and cabbage; yet you see there goes wisdom to weaving of webs.”
“Right, Master Wilkin Flammock,” answered the father; “but, good Fleming, wilt thou tell me what answer thou wilt make to the Welsh Prince’s summons?”
“Reverend father, first tell me what the summons will be,” replied the Fleming.
“To surrender this castle upon the instant,” answered the monk. “What will be your reply?”
“My answer will be, Nay—unless upon good composition.”
“How, Sir Fleming! dare you mention composition and the castle of the Garde Doloureuse in one sentence?” said the monk.
“Not if I may do better,” answered the Fleming. “But would your reverence have me dally until the question amongst the garrison be, whether a plump priest or a fat Fleming will be the better flesh to furnish their shambles?”
“Pshaw!” replied Father Aldrovand, “thou canst not mean such folly. Relief must arrive within twentyfour hours at farthest.