The Talisman

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"The reverend impostor!" he exclaimed to himself; "the hoary
hypocrite! He spoke of the unbelieving husband converted by the
believing wife; and what do I know but that the traitor exhibited
to the Saracen, accursed of God, the beauties of Edith
Plantagenet, that the hound might judge if the princely Christian
lady were fit to be admitted into the haram of a misbeliever? If
I had yonder infidel Ilderim, or whatsoever he is called, again
in the gripe with which I once held him fast as ever hound held
hare, never again should HE at least come on errand disgraceful
to the honour of Christian king or noble and virtuous maiden.
But I--my hours are fast dwindling into minutes--yet, while I
have life and breath, something must be done, and speedily."

He paused for a few minutes, threw from him his helmet, then
strode down the hill, and took the road to King Richard's
pavilion.

CHAPTER XV.

The feather'd songster, chanticleer,
Had wound his bugle-horn,
And told the early villager
The coming of the morn.
King Edward saw the ruddy streaks
Of light eclipse the grey,
And heard the raven's croaking throat
Proclaim the fated day.
"Thou'rt right," he said, "for, by the God
That sits enthron'd on high,
Charles Baldwin, and his fellows twain,
This day shall surely die." CHATTERTON.

On the evening on which Sir Kenneth assumed his post, Richard,
after the stormy event which disturbed its tranquillity, had
retired to rest in the plenitude of confidence inspired by his
unbounded courage and the superiority which he had displayed in
carrying the point he aimed at in presence of the whole Christian
host and its leaders, many of whom, he was aware, regarded in
their secret souls the disgrace of the Austrian Duke as a triumph
over themselves; so that his pride felt gratified, that in
prostrating one enemy he had mortified a hundred.

Another monarch would have doubled his guards on the evening
after such a scene, and kept at least a part of his troops under
arms. But Coeur de Lion dismissed, upon the occasion, even his
ordinary watch, and assigned to his soldiers a donative of wine
to celebrate his recovery, and to drink to the Banner of Saint
George; and his quarter of the camp would have assumed a
character totally devoid of vigilance and military preparation,
but that Sir Thomas de Vaux, the Earl of Salisbury, and other
nobles, took precautions to preserve order and discipline among
the revellers.

The physician attended the King from his retiring to bed till
midnight was past, and twice administered medicine to him during
that period, always previously observing the quarter of heaven
occupied by the full moon, whose influences he declared to be
most sovereign, or most baleful, to the effect of his drugs. It
was three hours after midnight ere El Hakim withdrew from the
royal tent, to one which had been pitched for himself and his
retinue. In his way thither he visited the tent of Sir Kenneth
of the Leopard, in order to see the condition of his first
patient in the Christian camp, old Strauchan, as the knight's
esquire was named. Inquiring there for Sir Kenneth himself, El
Hakim learned on what duty he was employed, and probably this
information led him to Saint George's Mount, where he found him
whom he sought in the disastrous circumstances alluded to in the
last chapter.

It was about the hour of sunrise, when a slow, armed tread was
heard approaching the King's pavilion; and ere De Vaux, who
slumbered beside his master's bed as lightly as ever sleep sat
upon the eyes of a watch-dog, had time to do more than arise and
say, "Who comes?" the Knight of the Leopard entered the tent,
with a deep and devoted gloom seated upon his manly features.

"Whence this bold intrusion, Sir Knight?" said De Vaux sternly,
yet in a tone which respected his master's slumbers.

"Hold! De Vaux," said Richard, awaking on the instant; "Sir
Kenneth cometh like a good soldier to render an account of his
guard. To such the general's tent is ever accessible." Then
rising from his slumbering posture, and leaning on his elbow, he
fixed his large bright eye upon the warrior--"Speak, Sir Scot;
thou comest to tell me of a vigilant, safe, and honourable watch,
dost thou not? The rustling of the folds of the Banner of
England were enough to guard it, even without the body of such a
knight as men hold thee."

"As men will hold me no more," said Sir Kenneth. "My watch hath
neither been vigilant, safe, nor honourable. The Banner of
England has been carried off."

"And thou alive to tell it!" said Richard, in a tone of derisive
incredulity. "Away, it cannot be. There is not even a scratch
on thy face. Why dost thou stand thus mute? Speak the truth
--it is ill jesting with a king; yet I will forgive thee if thou
hast lied."

"Lied, Sir King!" returned the unfortunate knight, with fierce
emphasis, and one glance of fire from his eye, bright and
transient as the flash from the cold and stony flint. "But this
also must be endured. I have spoken the truth."

"By God and by Saint George!" said the King, bursting into fury,
which, however, he instantly checked. "De Vaux, go view the
spot. This fever has disturbed his brain. This cannot be. The
man's courage is proof. It CANNOT be! Go speedily--or send, if
thou wilt not go."

The King was interrupted by Sir Henry Neville, who came,
breathless, to say that the banner was gone, and the knight who
guarded it overpowered, and most probably murdered, as there was
a pool of blood where the banner-spear lay shivered.

"But whom do I see here?" said Neville, his eyes suddenly
resting upon Sir Kenneth.

"A traitor," said the King, starting to his feet, and seizing the
curtal-axe, which was ever near his bed--"a traitor! whom thou
shalt see die a traitor's death." And he drew back the weapon as
in act to strike.

Colourless, but firm as a marble statue, the Scot stood before
him, with his bare head uncovered by any protection, his eyes
cast down to the earth, his lips scarcely moving, yet muttering
probably in prayer. Opposite to him, and within the due reach
for a blow, stood King Richard, his large person wrapt in the
folds of his camiscia, or ample gown of linen, except where the
violence of his action had flung the covering from his right arm,
shoulder, and a part of his breast, leaving to view a specimen of
a frame which might have merited his Saxon predecessor's epithet
of Ironside. He stood for an instant, prompt to strike; then
sinking the head of the weapon towards the ground, he exclaimed,
"But there was blood, Neville--there was blood upon the place.
Hark thee, Sir Scot--brave thou wert once, for I have seen thee
fight. Say thou hast slain two of the thieves in defence of the
Standard--say but one--say thou hast struck but a good blow in
our behalf, and get thee out of the camp with thy life and thy
infamy!"

"You have called me liar, my Lord King," replied Kenneth firmly;
"and therein, at least, you have done me wrong. Know that there
was no blood shed in defence of the Standard save that of a poor
hound, which, more faithful than his master, defended the charge
which he deserted."

"Now, by Saint George!" said Richard, again heaving up his arm.
But De Vaux threw himself between the King and the object of his
vengeance, and spoke with the blunt truth of his character, "My
liege, this must not be--here, nor by your hand. It is enough of
folly for one night and day to have entrusted your banner to a
Scot. Said I not they were ever fair and false?" [Such were the
terms in which the English used to speak of their poor northern
neighbours, forgetting that their own encroachments upon the
independence of Scotland obliged the weaker nation to defend
themselves by policy as well as force. The disgrace must be
divided between Edward I. and Edward III., who enforced their
domination over a free country, and the Scots, who were compelled
to take compulsory oaths, without any purpose of keeping them.]

"Thou didst, De Vaux; thou wast right, and I confess it," said
Richard. "I should have known him better--I should have
remembered how the fox William deceived me touching this
Crusade."

"My lord," said Sir Kenneth, "William of Scotland never deceived;
but circumstances prevented his bringing his forces."

"Peace, shameless!" said the King; "thou sulliest the name of a
prince, even by speaking it.--And yet, De Vaux, it is strange,"
he added, "to see the bearing of the man. Coward or traitor he
must be, yet he abode the blow of Richard Plantagenet as our arm
had been raised to lay knighthood on his shoulder. Had he shown
the slightest sign of fear, had but a joint trembled or an eyelid
quivered, I had shattered his head like a crystal goblet. But I
cannot strike where there is neither fear nor resistance."

There was a pause.

"My lord," said Kenneth--

"Ha!" replied Richard, interrupting him, "hast thou found thy
speech? Ask grace from Heaven, but none from me; for England is
dishonoured through thy fault, and wert thou mine own and only
brother, there is no pardon for thy fault."

"I speak not to demand grace of mortal man," said the Scot; "it
is in your Grace's pleasure to give or refuse me time for
Christian shrift--if man denies it, may God grant me the
absolution which I would otherwise ask of His church! But
whether I die on the instant, or half an hour hence, I equally
beseech your Grace for one moment's opportunity to speak that to
your royal person which highly concerns your fame as a Christian
king."

"Say on," said the King, making no doubt that he was about to
hear some confession concerning the loss of the Banner.

"What I have to speak," said Sir Kenneth, "touches the royalty of
England, and must be said to no ears but thine own."

"Begone with yourselves, sirs," said the King to Neville and De
Vaux.

The first obeyed, but the latter would not stir from the King's
presence.

"If you said I was in the right," replied De Vaux to his
sovereign, "I will be treated as one should be who hath been
found to be right--that is, I will have my own will. I leave you
not with this false Scot."

"How! De Vaux," said Richard angrily, and stamping slightly,
"darest thou not venture our person with one traitor?"

"It is in vain you frown and stamp, my lord," said De Vaux; "I
venture not a sick man with a sound one, a naked man with one
armed in proof."

"It matters not," said the Scottish knight; "I seek no excuse to
put off time. I will speak in presence of the Lord of Gilsland.
He is good lord and true."

"But half an hour since," said De Vaux, with a groan, implying a
mixture of sorrow and vexation, "and I had said as much for
thee!"

"There is treason around you, King of England," continued Sir
Kenneth.

"It may well be as thou sayest," replied Richard; "I have a
pregnant example."

"Treason that will injure thee more deeply than the loss of a
hundred banners in a pitched field. The--the--" Sir Kenneth
hesitated, and at length continued, in a lower tone, "The Lady
Edith--"

"Ha!" said the King, drawing himself suddenly into a state of
haughty attention, and fixing his eye firmly on the supposed
criminal; "what of her? what of her? What has she to do with
this matter?"

"My lord," said the Scot, "there is a scheme on foot to disgrace
your royal lineage, by bestowing the hand of the Lady Edith on
the Saracen Soldan, and thereby to purchase a peace most
dishonourable to Christendom, by an alliance most shameful to
England."

This communication had precisely the contrary effect from that
which Sir Kenneth expected. Richard Plantagenet was one of those
who, in Iago's words, would not serve God because it was the
devil who bade him; advice or information often affected him less
according to its real import, than through the tinge which it
took from the supposed character and views of those by whom it
was communicated. Unfortunately, the mention of his relative's
name renewed his recollection of what he had considered as
extreme presumption in the Knight of the Leopard, even when he
stood high in the roll of chivalry, but which, in his present
condition, appeared an insult sufficient to drive the fiery
monarch into a frenzy of passion.

"Silence," he said, "infamous and audacious! By Heaven, I will
have thy tongue torn out with hot pincers, for mentioning the
very name of a noble Christian damsel! Know, degenerate traitor,
that I was already aware to what height thou hadst dared to raise
thine eyes, and endured it, though it were insolence, even when
thou hadst cheated us--for thou art all a deceit--into holding
thee as of some name and fame. But now, with lips blistered with
the confession of thine own dishonour--that thou shouldst NOW
dare to name our noble kinswoman as one in whose fate thou hast
part or interest! What is it to thee if she marry Saracen or
Christian? What is it to thee if, in a camp where princes turn
cowards by day and robbers by night--where brave knights turn to
paltry deserters and traitors--what is it, I say, to thee, or any
one, if I should please to ally myself to truth and to valour, in
the person of Saladin?"

"Little to me, indeed, to whom all the world will soon be as
nothing," answered Sir Kenneth boldly; "but were I now stretched
on the rack, I would tell thee that what I have said is much to
thine own conscience and thine own fame. I tell thee, Sir King,
that if thou dost but in thought entertain the purpose of wedding
thy kinswoman, the Lady Edith--"

"Name her not--and for an instant think not of her," said the
King, again straining the curtal-axe in his gripe, until the
muscles started above his brawny arm, like cordage formed by the
ivy around the limb of an oak.

"Not name--not think of her!" answered Sir Kenneth, his spirits,
stunned as they were by self-depression, beginning to recover
their elasticity from this species of controversy. "Now, by the
Cross, on which I place my hope, her name shall be the last word
in my mouth, her image the last thought in my mind. Try thy
boasted strength on this bare brow, and see if thou canst prevent
my purpose."

"He will drive me mad!" said Richard, who, in his despite, was
once more staggered in his purpose by the dauntless determination
of the criminal.

Ere Thomas of Gilsland could reply, some bustle was heard
without, and the arrival of the Queen was announced from the
outer part of the pavilion.

"Detain her--detain her, Neville," cried the King; "this is no
sight for women.--Fie, that I have suffered such a paltry traitor
to chafe me thus!--Away with him, De Vaux," he whispered,
"through the back entrance of our tent; coop him up close, and
answer for his safe custody with your life. And hark ye--he is
presently to die--let him have a ghostly father--we would not
kill soul and body. And stay--hark thee--we will not have him
dishonoured--he shall die knightlike, in his belt and spurs; for
if his treachery be as black as hell, his boldness may match that
of the devil himself."

De Vaux, right glad, if the truth may be guessed, that the scene
ended without Richard's descending to the unkingly act of himself
slaying an unresisting prisoner, made haste to remove Sir Kenneth
by a private issue to a separate tent, where he was disarmed, and
put in fetters for security. De Vaux looked on with a steady and
melancholy attention, while the provost's officers, to whom Sir
Kenneth was now committed, took these severe precautions.

When they were ended, he said solemnly to the unhappy criminal,
"It is King Richard's pleasure that you die undegraded--without
mutilation of your body, or shame to your arms--and that your
head be severed from the trunk by the sword of the executioner."

"It is kind," said the knight, in a low and rather submissive
tone of voice, as one who received an unexpected favour; "my
family will not then hear the worst of the tale. Oh, my father
--my father!"

This muttered invocation did not escape the blunt but kindly-natured Englishman, and he brushed the back
of his large hand
over his rough features ere he could proceed.

"It is Richard of England's further pleasure," he said at length,
"that you have speech with a holy man; and I have met on the
passage hither with a Carmelite friar, who may fit you for your
passage. He waits without, until you are in a frame of mind to
receive him."

"Let it be instantly," said the knight. "In this also Richard is
kind. I cannot be more fit to see the good father at any time
than now; for life and I have taken farewell, as two travellers
who have arrived at the crossway, where their roads separate."

"It is well," said De Vaux slowly and solemnly; "for it irks me
somewhat to say that which sums my message. It is King Richard's
pleasure that you prepare for instant death."

"God's pleasure and the King's be done," replied the knight
patiently. "I neither contest the justice of the sentence, nor
desire delay of the execution."

De Vaux began to leave the tent, but very slowly--paused at the
door, and looked back at the Scot, from whose aspect thoughts of
the world seemed banished, as if he was composing himself into
deep devotion. The feelings of the stout English baron were in
general none of the most acute, and yet, on the present occasion,
his sympathy overpowered him in an unusual manner. He came
hastily back to the bundle of reeds on which the captive lay,
took one of his fettered hands, and said, with as much softness
as his rough voice was capable of expressing, "Sir Kenneth, thou
art yet young--thou hast a father. My Ralph, whom I left
training his little galloway nag on the banks of the Irthing, may
one day attain thy years, and, but for last night, would to God I
saw his youth bear such promise as thine! Can nothing be said or
done in thy behalf?"

"Nothing," was the melancholy answer. "I have deserted my
charge--the banner entrusted to me is lost. When the headsman
and block are prepared, the head and trunk are ready to part
company."

"Nay, then, God have mercy!" said De Vaux. "Yet would I rather
than my best horse I had taken that watch myself. There is
mystery in it, young man, as a plain man may descry, though he
cannot see through it. Cowardice? Pshaw! No coward ever fought
as I have seen thee do. Treachery? I cannot think traitors die
in their treason so calmly. Thou hast been trained from thy post
by some deep guile--some well-devised stratagem--the cry of some
distressed maiden has caught thine ear, or the laughful look of
some merry one has taken thine eye. Never blush for it; we have
all been led aside by such gear. Come, I pray thee, make a clean
conscience of it to me, instead of the priest. Richard is
merciful when his mood is abated. Hast thou nothing to entrust
to me?"

The unfortunate knight turned his face from the kind warrior, and
answered, "NOTHING."

And De Vaux, who had exhausted his topics of persuasion, arose
and left the tent, with folded arms, and in melancholy deeper
than he thought the occasion merited--even angry with himself to
find that so simple a matter as the death of a Scottish man could
affect him so nearly.

"Yet," as he said to himself, "though the rough-footed knaves be
our enemies in Cumberland, in Palestine one almost considers them
as brethren."

CHAPTER XVI.

'Tis not her sense, for sure in that
There's nothing more than common;
And all her wit is only chat,
Like any other woman. SONG.

The high-born Berengaria, daughter of Sanchez, King of Navarre,
and the Queen-Consort of the heroic Richard, was accounted one of
the most beautiful women of the period. Her form was slight,
though exquisitely moulded. She was graced with a complexion not
common in her country, a profusion of fair hair, and features so
extremely juvenile as to make her look several years younger than
she really was, though in reality she was not above one-and-twenty. Perhaps it was under the consciousness
of this extremely
juvenile appearance that she affected, or at least practised, a
little childish petulance and wilfulness of manner, not
unbefitting, she might suppose, a youthful bride, whose rank and
age gave her a right to have her fantasies indulged and attended
to. She was by nature perfectly good-humoured, and if her due
share of admiration and homage (in her opinion a very large one)
was duly resigned to her, no one could possess better temper or a
more friendly disposition; but then, like all despots, the more
power that was voluntarily yielded to her, the more she desired
to extend her sway. Sometimes, even when all her ambition was
gratified, she chose to be a little out of health, and a little
out of spirits; and physicians had to toil their wits to invent
names for imaginary maladies, while her ladies racked their
imagination for new games, new head-gear, and new court-scandal,
to pass away those unpleasant hours, during which their own
situation was scarce to be greatly envied. Their most frequent
resource for diverting this malady was some trick or piece of
mischief practised upon each other; and the good Queen, in the
buoyancy of her reviving spirits, was, to speak truth, rather too
indifferent whether the frolics thus practised were entirely
befitting her own dignity, or whether the pain which those
suffered upon whom they were inflicted was not beyond the
proportion of pleasure which she herself derived from them. She
was confident in her husband's favour, in her high rank, and in
her supposed power to make good whatever such pranks might cost
others. In a word, she gambolled with the freedom of a young
lioness, who is unconscious of the weight of her own paws when
laid on those whom she sports with.

The Queen Berengaria loved her husband passionately, but she
feared the loftiness and roughness of his character; and as she
felt herself not to be his match in intellect, was not much
pleased to see that he would often talk with Edith Plantagenet in
preference to herself, simply because he found more amusement in
her conversation, a more comprehensive understanding, and a more
noble cast of thoughts and sentiments, than his beautiful consort
exhibited. Berengaria did not hate Edith on this account, far
less meditate her any harm; for, allowing for some selfishness,
her character was, on the whole, innocent and generous. But the
ladies of her train, sharpsighted in such matters, had for some
time discovered that a poignant jest at the expense of the Lady
Edith was a specific for relieving her Grace of England's low
spirits, and the discovery saved their imagination much toil.

There was something ungenerous in this, because the Lady Edith
was understood to be an orphan; and though she was called
Plantagenet, and the fair Maid of Anjou, and admitted by Richard
to certain privileges only granted to the royal family, and held
her place in the circle accordingly, yet few knew, and none
acquainted with the Court of England ventured to ask, in what
exact degree of relationship she stood to Coeur de Lion. She had
come with Eleanor, the celebrated Queen Mother of England, and
joined Richard at Messina, as one of the ladies destined to
attend on Berengaria, whose nuptials then approached. Richard
treated his kinswoman with much respectful observance, and the
Queen made her her most constant attendant, and, even in despite
of the petty jealousy which we have observed, treated her,
generally, with suitable respect.

The ladies of the household had, for a long time, no further
advantage over Edith than might be afforded by an opportunity of
censuring a less artfully disposed head attire or an unbecoming
robe; for the lady was judged to be inferior in these mysteries.
The silent devotion of the Scottish knight did not, indeed, pass
unnoticed; his liveries, his cognizances, his feats of arms, his
mottoes and devices, were nearly watched, and occasionally made
the subject of a passing jest. But then came the pilgrimage of
the Queen and her ladies to Engaddi, a journey which the Queen
had undertaken under a vow for the recovery of her husband's
health, and which she had been encouraged to carry into effect by
the Archbishop of Tyre for a political purpose. It was then, and
in the chapel at that holy place, connected from above with a
Carmelite nunnery, from beneath with the cell of the anchorite,
that one of the Queen's attendants remarked that secret sign of
intelligence which Edith had made to her lover, and failed not
instantly to communicate it to her Majesty. The Queen returned
from her pilgrimage enriched with this admirable recipe against
dullness or ennui; and her train was at the same time augmented
by a present of two wretched dwarfs from the dethroned Queen of
Jerusalem, as deformed and as crazy (the excellence of that
unhappy species) as any Queen could have desired. One of
Berengaria's idle amusements had been to try the effect of the
sudden appearance of such ghastly and fantastic forms on the
nerves of the Knight when left alone in the chapel; but the jest
had been lost by the composure of the Scot and the interference
of the anchorite. She had now tried another, of which the
consequences promised to be more serious.

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