Part 14

The dancing being ended, Pierre, a Norman and the Queen’s chief minstrel, apparelled in the guise of his country, sang some of his ballads on the harp, in his own tongue, which, albeit, they were not esteemed like unto Maister Henry’s, yet did they not displease. The first tuning was in words which have been thus rendered into English by one, who had learned much of the new speech, not then familiar, except with some few.

THE BRIDAL.

Lightly, lightly, bounded the roe, The hind o’er the forest was fleeing; The small birds tuned on every bough, In sun and shade their gleeing.

And purple cups, and silver bells From the green leaves were peeping; The wild-rose smiled in the mossy dells: Nought but the thorn was weeping.

And so bright in the sun its tears did shine, They showed like tears of pleasure; And the airs of May, through the budding spray, Breathed joyance, without measure.

For this was Isabel’s bridal morn Who loved each bud and flower, The wild-wood shade, the mountain head, The deep vale’s mead and bower.

And now was her festival gaily kept By hagled brook and fountain, From the low green bank, where the violet slept, To the blue hill-top and mountain.

And lightly, lightly, bounded the roe, His footstep wing’d with pleasure, And small birds sang from every bough, Welcomes beyond all measure.

At the end of this ballad, the minstrel rang out his harp in full joyance; and then, falling note by note, he dropped into a faltering murmur, as of deep sorrow, and so continued for some space, till those who heard him, perceived the witch of melancholy stealing upon them.

The Queen, deeming such strain unsuitable to the time, commanded him to change the measure, and sound forth one more gay, a lay of Provence, her native land, whither she knew he had been for his learning; but he, enthralled by the magic of his own mood, loving not to be commanded, still hung his head over the harp, listening to that pleasure-full melancholy and heeding nothing but its sweet sound.

At last, being made to know fully her Highness’s will, he sang the song of a Troubadour; for, though he loved best the ditties of Normandy, his own land, there was scarce one of Provence, which he had not gained; and the Queen did not let him forget them, so often did she command those, which she affected best. And now he sang forth to his harp a “roundel” in the Provençal tongue, made by a knight of the “Order of Fine Eyes.” They, who then heard him, would have thought he loved any thing less than melancholy, so light and debonnaire was the music he rang out; and many could hardly keep their steps from dancing to that gallant measure. But it lasted not long; for, making a pause and looking wistfully at the Lady Barbara, he struck forth, on a sudden, some of his deepest tones, with a wild yet solemn grace, such as brought tears into the eyes of many a fair lady, and darted dread into the heart of one there present. It seemed as if the shadows of prophecy were moving over the strings, and calling from them some strange and fearful story yet to be. And then again did the harper’s voice steal trembling forth, as do the moon’s beams, when pale clouds pass over, saddening, but not fully obscuring their brightness: yet might every one hear plainly all his words. Here it is done into English by the same hand; but the verses be not all divided into equal numbers:—

I. O’er the high western wolds afar, Glimmer’d some lights of yesterday; And there, one bright, but trembling star Among the streaky shadows lay, The traveller’s lonely warning. But soon the winds, that sing day’s dirge, Did o’er that star the shadows urge, And hung the night with mourning!

II.

“What steps on the waste are beating?” He listened not long on the ground, ’Ere he fearfully heard a sound, As of trampling hoofs retreating: And a dismal cry and a foot draw nigh; “Stand ho!” ’twas an armed man passed by: But he spoke no sound of greeting, And seemed like a death-shade fleeting.

III.

O’er the lone mountains riding, He gallop’d by gloomsome ways, Where night-mists were abiding, Round the witch of evil days: Her name is written on the wind, That speaks in cliffs and caves confin’d. List there when the waning moon goes down, And thou’lt hear the call her spirits own; But as they pass, hold a chrystal glass, Or thou’lt sorely rue the wild witch-tone.

IV.

O’er the lone mountains riding, From a distant land he came, No step his dark step guiding; But he thought he saw a flame, That bright, or dim, would sport awhile; Then vanish, as in very guile; He heard, as he passed, the witch-name sound; And his startled steed, at a single bound, Bore him away from that evil ground.

V.

But o’er the mountains pacing As fast as he can flee, Strange steps his steps are tracing, And a shape he cannot see; And, though he flee away, so prest, Whether to north, or south or west, Toward the past, or coming day, (So dim the night he may not say) Still oft by fits did ghastly gleam, A corpse-light, all unknown to him.

VI.

He followed the light o’er deserts wide, Down in deep glens, where wild becks wail; He followed by darkened forest side; He followed with dread, though link’d in mail; Till it stayed before an iron gate, Where battled turrets kept their state, O’er towers so high and massy strong, They seemed to giant-king belong.

VII.

Sir Adomar looked him all around: Turret on turret hung on high, Shaping black lines on the dim sky; Sir Adomar looked him all around; Nought, save this castle, could he spy, Though, heavily clanged a death-bell’s sound; And in each pause of the shuddering blast, Moans were heard as of one from ’neath the ground!

VIII.

He struck on the gate with his good sword: “Ho! wardour, ho!” but never a word Return’d the wardour from within. “The storm is loud, the night is dark, I hear from the woods the dog-wolf bark. Up, wardour, up! it were a sin To turn a traveller from your tower, At such a lone and dreary hour; A Saracen would let me in!”

IX.

The wardour was watching through the loop, How many were of the stranger’s troop. He had left his torch in the cullis’ bar, And it let down a light on the lonely night, That showed him harnessed, as for war. His coat was mail, his helm was steel; His visor did his look reveal; Yet o’er his brow it cast a shade, That made the wardour more afraid, Than did the crimsoned plume above, Or the mighty grasp of his iron glove. He would not let the stranger in, Till one, awakened by the din— One whom the wardour need obey— Seeing a lonely knight stand there, Bade the wardour nought to fear: He feared still, but he said not Nay: Yet he would not ope the portal gate To an unknown knight, without his state; For neither squire, nor page, he saw: He bade him then to the postern draw.

X.

The knight dismounted at the call; The porter let him through the wall; He turned the weary steed to stall, And led the knight to the lordly hall. I’ the lordly hall, so wide and dim, One drowsy squire awaited him. The ashy wood lay, white and cold, On the raised hearth, where late was told, With fiery eye and accent loud, The deed of martial prowess proud; Where late was told, in whispers low, Some tale of terror and of woe, The while each listener bent his head, Nor lost a word the trouveur said: Till fear crept o’er each nerve and vein, That late had swell’d to martial strain; And shadows crept along the wall, Such as the sinful soul appal: Till each, who heard, look’d round with dread, And saw some phantom of the dead.

XI.

Now silent was the hearth and lone, Save that a stag-hound slumber’d there. The tables in disorder were, With relics of the evening fare; The household to their rest were gone, And now no light was seen but one, The light that led the stranger on; That show’d above steel armour gleaming, And many a dusky banner streaming, From the black rafters of the roof, In the night-wind, far aloof, Like to some flitting phantom seeming; And, stalking o’er the rushy floor, It showed the knight where steps of gore Had stain’d its green, with foot-prints red. And the stag-hound, as the knight passed by, Sent forth a mournful fearful cry.

XII.

The drowsy squire the stranger led; (The wardour to his post was sped.) They traversed the hall in silent march: At the end was a door in a mitred arch. The knight stood before that mitred door, And gazed on a warrior shape above, That seem’d to watch the passage o’er. In his altered look strange passions strove! The armoured shape leaned on its sword, And downward bent its steely face, As jealous who below might pace, Or about to speak the challenge-word; And it seemed the very form of one, The knight perforce must look upon.

XIII.

Thus, while he stood in wonder-trance, The squire upheld the torch on high, Viewing the guest with watchful eye; And marvelling what strange mischance So check’d his step, and fix’d his glance:— “Sir knight, why gaze you on that steel? It is a baron’s good and bold; Had he been here, no welcome cold Would he have shown a stranger-knight, Who trusted to his towers at night.”

XIV.

The spell of fant’sie loos’d awhile, The knight return’d a grateful smile, With thanks for this so courteous style; And, then with thoughtful accent said, While yet he stood, that shape before, “The armour some resemblance had To that of a dear friend no more! A friend!”—he paus’d,—“a friend long dead!” This, while he said, his colour fled. The squire seem’d not to note his pain, But, with fair speech, began again Excuse to make for slender fare, That it was night, and, not aware Of honour’d guest approaching there, The menials to their rest had gone; A chamber should be fitted soon. His squire and page should welcom’d be; Right well he longed that squire to see.

XV.

The wearied knight a gesture made, And looked his thanks, but nothing said; Save that, for rest alone he prayed. He sighed, as through that guarded arch, And vaulted gloom, he held his march; And there, before his doubting sight, Glided again a pale sad light, Full often he had seen with fear, Yet more he felt to meet it here. Then came they to an iron door, And the knight beheld that flame no more. It opened to a second hall, Where warriors frowned upon the wall; And ladies smiled in portraiture, With downcast eye and look demure. An umbered flash the red torch threw, Athwart each warrior’s steadfast brow; And hardly might the gleam declare A baron grim from lady fair.

XVI.

There is no need that I should tell, What hasty fare the stranger took; Nor how the squire, with silent look, Watched, wondering, what had him befell; So strangely gleamed his hollow eyes, From forth the lifted beaver’s shade So wan his lips, like one that dies, So few the words and thanks he paid!

XVII.

Though round the hall his looks would steal, Not well did torch or lamp reveal The portraiture of warriors grim, Or noble dames hung there so dim; Their frowns and smiles were lost to him. But once, when that he turned his head Where the fix’d torch a gleaming shed, A sable form, ill seen at most, Went gliding up a stair, on high, Passed through an open gallery, And through a door-way there was lost, That seemed to lead to antient rooms, Such as where silence dwells, and glooms. The knight, he felt a sudden chill, Though nought he said of what had sped; But the spicy draught he deeply quaff’d, Whenever the page his cup did fill. And from his spirits chaced the ill.

XVIII.

The night-cheer o’er, the page led on The stranger to his resting-place. He led the way, that form had gone: On the high stair he stood a space, Waiting the knight’s reluctant pace, Then, with mute reverence, marshalled him Through many a gallery, long and dim, Where helmets watched, in order grim; Through many a chamber, wide and lorn, Where wint’ry damps had half withdrawn The storied paintings on the wall. Electra, o’er her brother’s urn, There bent the head, and seemed to mourn; There, too, as meet in room and hall, Troy’s tale[2] and Hector’s piteous fall: Here Priam’s Court, in purple and pall, Its golden splendour now had lost; But Helen, on the rampart stood, And pointed to the Grecian host, Out-stretching to the briny flood. Here Hector’s wife sat in her bower, Waiting her lord’s returning hour; And ‘broidering ’midst her maiden train, While her infant played with silken skein. There—but it boots not that I say, What stories once, in long array, Lived on those walls, now ghastly clay.

Footnote 2:

The “Tale of Troy” appears to have been a very favourite subject in ancient tapestry. It occurs often in old castles, and is mentioned twice in this “Trew Chronique,” as adorning the walls of stately chambers.

XIX.

The knight would oft, as he strode by, Cast on their shade a searching eye; And pause, as list’ning some drear sound, That rose within the glimmering bound: And start, as though some fearful sight Passed along this gloom of night; But, at a lesser winding stair, (The long drawn chambers ended there,) When to that narrow stair he drew, He thought a robe of mourning hue Went fleeting up that winding way; No glimpse had he of shape or ray; No foot he heard the stair ascend. Yet still that seeming garment passed, As though some fiend, with evil haste, Did up that lonely tower wend.

XX.

The knight, he stood on the step below— “Whither, my young page, dost thou go? Who dwells within this lonely tower, Passing with speed, in sable weed— Passing with speed, at this dead hour?” “Nobody, save the raven-crow, Dwells within this lonely tower; And here, Sir knight, is your resting-bower!” “But in this tower I may not rest, Till I know who that stair has pressed; Did you not see that black weed wave?” “Yes, knight, I saw the raven’s wing, Glint up that wall with sudden spring: And hark! you now may hear him crave!”

XXI.

“It is not courteous, that my bower Should be within this ruin’d tower!” “But see, knight, ’tis not in decay; The storm hath blown a bar away, And the raven through the loop doth stray; His nest is wet on the battlement grey: Your chamber is a stately room, Hung round with work of choicest loom; And erst it was the resting-place Of our dear Lady Baroness, Before she went to stranger-land. My lord yet strays on foreign strand. The chamber has another stair, Leading to many chambers fair; But no step goes by night so far, Since my lord baron went to war.”

XXII.

The page stept on with torch before, Far as that stately chamber’s door. “Page! lift that light—fain would I know, Whither that second flight doth go?” “It goes to a battlement up on high, And to a turret perching by.” “Doth none keep watch on that turret high?” “None, but the raven with his cry! Your rest, Sir knight, he will not break; To traitors only doth he speak. They say he scents the new spilt blood.” Upon the stair the raven stood! He turn’d his dark eye on the knight, And, screaming, upward winged his flight. The wondering page looked back with fright, And met the stranger’s fiery glance; Then, hardly daring to advance, Lingered he at that chamber-door; “On,” said the knight, “with torch before!” Scarce was the page the threshhold o’er, When check he made, and pale he turn’d; Dim and more dim the torch-flame burn’d. The knight look’d on, but nothing saw, That might explain this sudden awe.

XXIII.

A spacious chamber there was spread, And, for his rest, a stately bed; Fresh rushes on the floor were strewn; Faint on the arras’d walls were shown The heroes of some antient story, Now faded, like their mortal glory. Another form, as dark as doom, Stood within that chamber’s gloom, Unseen by those who entered there. His cause of dread the page thus said: “Methought I saw, within that chair, The baron’s self, my very lord; I saw it, on a true man’s word: I saw my lord return’d from far, Arrayed, as he went forth to war! He fixed his very eyes on me, But looked not, as he wont to look. Yet now no living shape I see, And know that here he could not be; For, long since, he these walls forsook: Yet is it strange such visions pale, Should o’er my waking sight prevail.”

XXIV.

“Whose are these antient walls, I pray?” The sullen stranger ’gan to say: “Sir, know you not these towers and halls Watch where the foaming Conway falls? Who should these walls and towers own? And the wide woods and forest round, Even to Snowdon’s utmost bound, Save the brave lord of Eglamore?” The knight explained his ignorance, He was a wanderer late from France. The page surveyed him o’er again; He thought the wily knight did feign: A deadly hue was on his cheek; His looks spoke more than words may speak. Yet to the page, though much it told, He read not all it might unfold.

XXV.

The knight perceived his doubting thought, And drew a badge forth from his breast; Some noble Order’s golden crest, Upon a field of silver wrought. “This badge,” he said, “with blood was bought.” He turn’d with haughty frown away. The page did not more doubt betray; But service offered to undo His casque and linked harness true; But the stranger gravely said him Nay, And refused that night to disarray.

XXVI.

Wondering, yet fearing to demand, Why to these towers from distant land, The knight had come, without his train, Pondered the youth his doubts again; Again, as though his thoughts he read, The knight look’d sternly down and said, “My squire and my foot-page I missed At night-fall, when the woods betwixt. But they perchance may shelter find, From this bitter-blowing wind, In the deep hollow of some hill, Till the dawn break, and the storm be still.”

XXVII.

“But the wolf bays in the blast afar; Sir knight, how may they scape such war? I hear him now—he nearer howls! Mercy! mercy! save their souls!” “Hark!” said the knight, and stood aghast; It was no wolf-howl in the blast; It was a blood-hound’s dreadful bay, The stranger heard, with such dismay— The blood-hound at the tower below; That over pathless hill and dale, Had tracked a murderer in the gale, And came to claim his master’s foe. While listening to the lengthen’d yell, The stranger seemed to hear his knell. “A blood-hound loose, and at this hour! Your rest, sir knight, had ill been kept; Nor one within these gates had slept, Had I been in my distant tower.” The page he lighted a lamp on high; The stranger stifled scarce a sigh, That heavily for utterance pressed. He heard the page’s steps descend, And go where the long chambers bend, Down to the halls, and th’ outer walls. The page knew not the chance he ran; He was marked with the blood of a murder’d man!

XXVIII.

The knight, he listened in silent dread, Till now, the blood-hound’s voice was stilled; But soon a low voice near him sped, That every nerve with horror thrilled. He looked the way that lone voice came, And saw, by the lamp’s tall spiring flame, A portraiture on the wall beneath, Of noble dame, that seemed to breathe. Robed in sable weeds was she: The gleam fell on that lady’s brow; There, written dimly, you might see, The characters of hopeless woe.

XXIX.