The Prose Marmion

Well might she grow pale! In the dark wall were two niches narrow and high. In each was laid a slender meal of roots, bread, and water. Close to each cell, motionless, stood two haggard monks holding a blazing torch, and displaying the cement, stones, and implements with which the culprits were to be immured.

Now the blind old Abbot rose to speak the doom of those to be enclosed in the new made tombs. Twice he stopped, as the woeful maiden, gathering her powers, tried to make audible the words which died in murmurs on her quivering lips. At length, by superhuman effort, she sent the blood, curdled at her heart, coursing through every vein. Light came to her eye, color to her cheek, and when the silence was broken, she gathered strength at every word. It was a strange sight to see resolution so high in a form so weak, so soft, so fair.

"I speak," she said, "not to implore mercy, for full well I know it would be vain. Neither do I speak to gain your prayers, for a lingering, living death within these walls will be a penance fit to cleanse my soul of every sin. I speak not for myself, but for one whom I have wronged though he never did me wrong; one who, if living, is now an exile under the ban of the King. I speak to clear the fair name of Ralph de Wilton, and to accuse Lord Marmion of Fontenaye, the traitor, to whose false words of love I listened when I left my veil and convent dear.

"Long, weary days, I bowed my pride, and humbled my honor, to ride as squire to this false knight, who daily promised me marriage. To be his slave, hoping to be his wife, I forfeited all peace on earth, all hope beyond the grave; but when he met the betrothed of Ralph de Wilton, the Lady Clare, when he learned of her vast wealth and broad lands, when he saw her face more fair than mine, he foreswore his faith. I, Constance, was beloved no more. It is an old story, often told.

"The King approved the scheme of Marmion. Vainly de Wilton pleaded his right to the hand of Clare, and when all fair means were exhausted, Ralph was accused of treason. By my woman's unworthy hand, at the command of Marmion, was forged the papers which sealed de Wilton's fate. The two men fought in mortal combat.

    "'Their prayers are prayed,      Their lances in the rest are laid.'

"The result was told by the loud cry, 'Marmion! Marmion! De Wilton to the block!' Justice seemed dead, for he, ever loyal in love and in faith, was overthrown by the falsehearted. This packet will prove de Wilton innocent of treason, how innocent, these letters alone can tell, and I now give them to the sacred care of the Abbess of St. Hilda. Guard them with your life, till they rest in the hands of the King."

She paused, gathered voice and strength and proceeded:

"The Lady Clare hated the name of Marmion, mourned her dishonored lover, and fled to the convent of Whitby. The King, incensed at her action, declared she should be his favorite's bride even though she were a nun confessed. Marmion was sent to Scotland and I, cast off, determined to plan a sure escape for Clare and for myself. This false monk, whom you are about to condemn with me, promised to carry to Clare the drugs by means of which she would soon have been the bride of heaven. His cowardice has undone us both, and I now reveal the story of the crime, that none may wed with Marmion, that his perfidy may be made known to the King, who, when he reads these letters, will see his favorite deserves the headsman's axe. Now, men of death, do your worst. I can suffer and be still.

    "'And come he slow, or come he fast,      It is but death who comes at last.'"

The old Abbot raised his sightless eyes to heaven and said:

    "'Sister, let thy sorrows cease;      Sinful brother, part in peace!'"

Up from the direful place of doom, to the light of day and to the fresh air, passed those who had held this awful trial. Shrieks and groans followed the winding steps. The peasant who heard the unearthly cries bowed his head, the hermit told his beads, the brother crossed himself, even the stag on Cheviot hills bounded to his feet, listened and then trembling lay down to hide among the mountain ferns.

CHAPTER III

We now return to Lord Marmion, who, led by the Palmer, was hastening on to Holyrood. When the heights of Lammermoor were reached, noon had long passed, and at early nightfall, old Gifford's towers lay before them. Here they had expected hospitality, but the lord of the Castle had gone to Scotland's camp, where were gathered the noblest and bravest of her sons. No friendly summons called them to the hall, for in her lord's absence, the lady refused admittance alike to friend and foe.

On through the hamlet rode the train until it drew rein at the inn. Now down from their seats sprang the horsemen. The courtyard rang with jingling spurs, horses were led to the stalls, and the bustling host gave double the orders that could be obeyed. The building was large, and though rudely built, its cheerful fire and savory food were most welcome to the weary men. Soon by the wide chimney's roaring blaze, and in the place of state, sat Marmion. He watched his followers as they mixed the brown ale, and enjoyed the bountiful repast. Oft the lordly warrior mingled in the mirth they made.

    "For though, with men of high degree,     The proudest of the proud was he,     Yet, trained in camp, he knew the art     To win the soldier's hardy heart.     Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May,     With open hand and brow as free,     Lover of wine and minstrelsy."

Directly opposite, resting on his staff, stood the Palmer, the thin, dark visage half seen, half hidden by his hood. Steadily he gazed on Marmion, who by frown and gesture gave evidence that he could ill bear so close a scrutiny.

As squire and archer looked at the stern, dark face of the Pilgrim, their bursts of laughter grew less loud, less frequent, and gradually their mirth declined. They whispered one to another: "Sawest thou ever such a face? How pale his cheek! How bright his eye! His heart must be set only on his soul's salvation."

To chase away the gloom gradually stealing over the company, and to draw from himself the sullen scowl of the Palmer, Marmion called upon his favorite squire:

    "'Fitz-Eustace, knows't thou not some lay      To speed the lingering night away?'"

The youth made an unhappy choice. He had a rich, mellow voice, and chose the wild, sad ballad often sung to Marmion by the unfortunate Constance de Beverley. When all was quiet, quiveringly the notes fell upon the air:

SONG    "Where shall the lover rest,       Whom the fates sever     From his true maiden's breast,       Parted forever?     Where early violets die       Under the willow.    "There through the summer day,       Cool streams are laving     There while the tempests sway,       Scarce are boughs waving;     There thy rest shalt thou take,     Never again to awake,       Never, O never!    "Where shall the traitor rove,       He, the deceiver,     Who could win maiden's love,       Win and then leave her?     In the lost battle,       Borne down by the flying,     Where mingles war's rattle       With groans of the dying.    "His warm blood the wolf shall lap,       Ere life be parted.     Shame and dishonor sit       By his grave ever;     Blessing shall hallow it —       Never, O never!"

The melancholy sound ceased. The song was sad, and bitterly it fell on the false-hearted Marmion. Well he knew that at his request the faithful but misguided Constance had been taken to Lindisfarne to be punished for crime committed through her mistaken love for him. As if he already saw disgrace for himself and death for her, he drew his mantle before his face, and bent his head upon his hands. Constance de Beverley at that moment was dying in her cell.

The meanest groom in all the train could scarce have wished to exchange places with the proud Marmion, could his thoughts have been known. Controlling himself, and raising his head, he said:

"As you sang, it seemed that I heard a death knell rung in mine ear.

What is the meaning of this weird sound?"

Then for the first time the Palmer broke his silence, and said in reply:

"It foretells the death of a loved friend."

Utterance, for once, failed the haughty Marmion, whose pride heretofore could scarcely brook a word even from his King. His glance fell, his brow flushed, for something familiar in the tone or look of the speaker so struck the false heart that he was speechless.

Before his troubled imagination rose a vision of the lovely Constance, beautiful and pure as when, trusting his treacherous words, she left the peaceful walls of her convent. He knew she was now a captive in convent cell, and the strange words of the Palmer, added to the song of the squire, had made him unhappy. "Alas!" he thought, "would that I had left her in purity to live, in holiness to die." Twice he was ready to order, "To horse," that he might fly to Lindisfarne and command that not one golden ringlet of her fair head be harmed, and twice he thought, "They dare not. I gave orders that she should be safe, though not at large."

While thus love and repentance strove in the breast of the lord, the landlord began a weird tale, suggested by the speech of the Palmer. As Marmion listened, he gathered from the legend that not far from where they sat, a knight might learn of future weal or woe. He might, perchance, meet "in the charmed ring" his deadliest foe, in the form of a spectre, and with it engage in mortal combat. If victorious over this supernatural antagonist, the omen was victory in all future undertakings.

    "Marmion longed to prove his chance;     In charmed ring to break a lance."

The yeomen had drunk deep; the ale was strong, and at a sign from their master, all sought rest on the hostel floor before the now dying embers. For pillow, under each head, was quiver or targe. The flickering fire threw fitful shadows on the strange group. Marmion and his squires retired to other quarters. Where the Palmer had disappeared, none knew or cared.

Alone, folded in his green mantle and nestling in the hay of a waste loft, lay Fitz-Eustace, the pale moonlight falling upon his youthful face and form. He was dreaming happy dreams of hawk and hound, of ring and glove, of lady's eyes, when suddenly he woke. A tall form, half in the moonbeams, half in the gloom, stood beside him; but before he could draw his dagger, he recognized the voice of Marmion, who said:

"Fitz-Eustace, rise, and saddle Bevis! I cannot rest. The air must cool my brow. I fain would ride to view the elfin scene of chivalry of which we heard to-night. Rouse none from their slumbers, for I would not have those prating knaves know that I could credit so wild a tale as our landlord has told."

Softly down the steps they stole. Eustace led forth the steed arrayed for the ride, and Marmion, armed to meet the elfin foe, sprang into the saddle. The young squire listened to the resounding hoof-beats as they grew more and more faint, and wondered as he fell asleep that one held to be so wary, so wise, so incredulous, should ride forth at midnight to meet a ghost in mail and plate.

The moon was bright, and as Marmion reached the elfin camp, halting, he fearlessly blew his bugle. An answer came, so faint and hollow, that it might have been an echo; but suddenly he saw a distinct form appear, a mounted champion. The sight of the unexpected foe made to tremble with horror him who never had feared knight or noble. His hand so shook, he could scarce couch spear aright. The combat began; the two horsemen ran their course; and in the third attack Marmion's steed could not resist the unearthly shock – he fell, and the flower of England's chivalry rolled in the dust.

High over the head of the fallen foe, the supposed spectre shook his sword. Full on his face fell the moonlight, a face never to be mistaken. It was the wraith of Ralph de Wilton, who had been sent by Marmion to exile and to death. Thrice over his victim did the grim, ghast spectre shake his blade, but when Marmion, white with terror, prayed for life, the seeming vision dashed his sword into its sheath, sprang lightly to his saddle, and vanished as he came. The moon sank from sight, and the poor, shivering, wretched English knight lay groveling on the plain. Could it be his mortal enemy had left the grave to strike down a living foe, and to stare in derisive hatred from a raised visor? Whether dead or alive, the elfin foe had little reason to spare the life of so dastardly an enemy!

Sweetly sleeping, or patiently listening, Eustace waited for the return of his knight, waited till he heard a horse coming, spurred to its utmost speed. The rider hastily threw the rein to his squire, but spoke not a word. In the dim light the youth plainly saw that the armor and the falcon crest on his lord's helmet were covered with clay, that the knees and sides of the noble charger were in sad plight. It was evident the beast and his rider had been overthrown. To broken and brief rest Eustace returned and never did he more gladly welcome the light of day.

    "Eustace did ne'er so blithely mark     The first notes of the morning lark."

CHAPTER IV

    "The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew,     And loudly Marmion's bugles blew,     And with their light and lively call,     Brought groom and yeoman to the stall."

Light of heart they came, but soon their mood was changed. Complaint was heard on every side. One declared his armor had been used, another that his spear had been taken. Young Blount, Marmion's second squire, found his steed covered with foam, though the stable boy swore he had left the beautiful creature well groomed on the previous evening.

While the impatient squire raged and fumed, old Hubert cried:

"Ho, comrades, help! Bevis lies dying in his stall! To our lord this will bring sorrow indeed. Who will dare tell him of the horse he loved so well?"

Fitz-Eustace, who knew of the midnight ride, of the condition of horse and rider on their return, offered to bear the unwelcome message. Marmion, sitting plunged in deep thought, received the tidings unmoved, gave little attention, passed the matter as if it were a mere accident and ordered the clarions sound "To horse."

Young Blount was less easily dealt with. He declared he would pay no fee for food or care. Man or demon, he said, had ridden his steed all night and left him in sorry condition for the day's journey. Marmion gave the signal to set forth, and led by the calm, gloomy Palmer, they journeyed all the morning.

Who can picture the thoughts of Palmer and of knight? Could one have looked beneath the Palmer's cowl there might have been seen a smile almost sardonic playing upon his features. In passing Blount's horse the pious man's thin brown hand stole from beneath the long gown and lovingly caressed the animal, while were muttered the words, "Noble, noble beast!"

On rode the train through the lovely country, over the smooth greensward, and under the vaulted screen of branches.

    "'A pleasant path,' Fitz-Eustace said,     'Such as where errant-knights might see     Adventures of high chivalry;     Might meet some damsel flying fast,     With hair unbound, and looks aghast;     And smooth and level course were here,     In her defence to break a spear."

He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's mind, but spoke in vain, for no reply was given.

Suddenly distant trumpets were heard in prolonged notes over hill and dale. Each ready archer seized his bow, and Marmion ordered all to spur on to more open ground. Scarce a furlong had they ridden, when, from an opposite woodland, they saw approaching a gallant train.

First on prancing steeds came the trumpeters,

    "With scarlet mantle, azure vest;     Each at his trump a banner wore,     Which Scotland's royal scutcheon bore:     Heralds and pursuivants, by name     Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, came,     In painted tabards, proudly showing     Gules argent, or, and azure glowing,       Attendant on a king-at-arms,     Whose hand the armorial truncheon held,     That feudal strife had often quelled,       When wildest its alarms."

The king-at-arms was of grave, wise, and manly appearance, as became him who bore a king's welcome, but his expression was keen, sly, and penetrating.

    "On milk-white palfrey forth he paced;     His cap of maintenance was graced       With the proud heron-plume.     From his steed's shoulder, loin, and breast,       Silk housings swept the ground,     With Scotland's arms, device, and crest,       Embroidered round and round.     The double treasure might you see,       First by Achaius borne,     The thistle and the fleur-de-lis,       And gallant unicorn.     So bright the King's amorial coat,     That scarce the dazzled eye could note.     In living colors, blazoned brave,     The Lion, which his title gave;     A train, which well beseemed his state,     But all unarmed, around him wait.       Sir David Lindesay of the Mount,       Lord Lion, King-at-arms!"

Marmion sprang from his horse, and as soon as their mutual greetings had been made, Sir David delivered his message:

"As King-at-arms, I have been sent by James's command to meet you, Lord Marmion, and to provide fit lodging, until the King himself shall find time to see the famed, the honored Lord of Fontenaye, the flower of English chivalry."

Though angry at this reception, Marmion disguised his feelings. The Palmer, seeing his place as guide taken by the King's messenger, begged to be permitted to leave the service. But orders had been strictly given that no one following Marmion should be permitted to separate from the English band. They therefore set forth together and at length halted before a noble castle on the side of the valley of the Tyne. It was Crichtoun Hall, near the city of Edinburgh, and was a lodging meet for one of highest rank. Tower after tower rose to view, each built in a different age and each displaying a different style of architecture.

    "A mighty mass that could oppose,     When deadliest hatred fired its foes."

Through the gate rode the English ambassador, but met by none of the rank and file usual on such occasions. Only women, old men, and children occupied the castle. The sorrowing mistress of the hall gave welcome, and a stripling of twelve years offered his best service. Every man that could draw a sword had marched that morning to conquer or to die on Flodden Field. Long would the lady look in vain to see her husband and his gallant band return.

Here Marmion and his men rested for two days, attended as became a King's guest, yet practically a prisoner. This was by the royal command. James did not choose that English eyes should look upon Scotland's gathering forces until they were ready to march against the foe. When Marmion was moody Lindesay's wit cheered; policies of war and of peace were discussed, and the lore of Rome and Greece was reviewed.

The second night, as they walked by the fading light on the battlements of Crichtoun Castle, Lindesay carelessly remarked that the journey of Marmion, the toil of travel, might as well have been spared, for no power on earth or from heaven could dissuade James from war. A holy messenger sent by divine command had appeared in spirit, and vainly counselled the King against the impending conflict.

More closely questioned, Sir David told the following tale:

"When the King was but a lad, a thoughtless prince, traitors had set the boy in the army hostile to his royal father. The King, seeing his own banner displayed against him, and his son in the opposing faction, lost courage, fled from the field, and in fleeing fell and was slain. After the battle, James returned to Stirling Castle, seized with deep remorse. Ever after, he inflicted upon himself most severe penance.

"While engaged one day in self-imposed penitential devotions, there appeared to him, in the chapel of Linlithgow, a vision. At the time, around him in their stalls, sat the Knights of the Thistle, chanters sung, and bells tolled. The monarch in sackcloth, and wearing the painful iron belt which constantly reminded him of his father's death, was kneeling in prayer, when there appeared the loved disciple, John, who in these words warned the King against warfare:

    "'Sir King, to warn thee not to war —        Woe waits on thine array;      James Stuart, doubly warn'd, beware,        God keep thee as he may!'

"When the King raised his head, the monitor had vanished.

    "'The Marshal and myself had cast      To stop him as he outward pass'd;      But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast,        He vanish'd from our eyes,      Like sunbeam on the billow cast      That glances but, and dies.'"

While telling the strange story, Sir David had not marked in the dim twilight the pallor that had overspread the countenance of Marmion, who, after a pause, said:

"Three days ago, I had judged your tale a myth, but since crossing the Tweed, I have seen that which makes me credit the miracle you relate."

He hesitated, and evidently wished his remark unmade, but pressed by the strong impulse that prompts man to reveal a secret to some listening ear, he told of the midnight ride and the tilt with the elfin knight at Gifford's Court. The same sly expression crept over the face of the King-at-arms as he asked, "Where lodged the Palmer on that fateful night?"

Here their conversation was interrupted. By the King's command, each train on the following day was to proceed by its own way to Scotland's camp, near Edinburgh. Early they set out for the moor surrounding the city, where lay the Scotch hosts.

From the crown of Blackford, Marmion gazed on the martial scene. It was a Kingdom's vast array. Thousands on thousands of pavilions, white as snow, dotted the upland, dale, and down, and checkered the heath between town and forest. The relics of the old oaks softened the glaring white with a background of restful green.

From north, from south, from east, from west, had gathered Scotland's warriors. All between the ages of sixteen and sixty, from king to vassal, stood ready to fight for the beloved land. Marmion heard the mingled hum of myriads of voices float up the mountain side. He saw the shifting lines, and marked the flashing of shield and lance. Nor did he mark less that in the air,

    "A thousand streamers flaunted fair,       Various in shape, device and hue,       Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue,     Broad, narrow, swallow-tailed, and square,     Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there       O'er the pavilions flew.     Highest and midmost, was descried     The royal banner floating wide;       The staff, a pine-tree, strong and straight,     Pitch'd deeply in a massive stone,       Yet bent beneath the standard's weight       Whene'er the western wind unroll'd,       With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold,     And gave to view the dazzling field,     Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield,       The ruddy lion ramped in gold.    "Lord Marmion view'd the landscape bright, —     He viewed it with a chief's delight, —       Until within him burn'd his heart,         As on the battle-day;       Such glance did falcon never dart,       When stooping on his prey.     'Oh! well, Lord Lion, hast thou said,     Thy King from warfare to dissuade       Were but a vain essay;     For, by St. George, were that host mine,     Nor power infernal, nor divine,     Should once to peace my soul incline,     Till I had dimmed their armor's shine       In glorious battle-fray!'"

A bard near at hand replied:

"'Tis better to sit still, than rise, perchance to fall."

From this scene of preparation for battle, their eyes wandered to the fairest scene of peace. The distant city glowed in gloomy splendor. The sun's morning beams tinged turret and tower. The wreaths of rising smoke turned to clouds of red and gold. Dusky grandeur clothed the height where the huge castle stood in state. Far to the north, ridge on ridge, rose the mountains, the rosy morning light bathing their sides in floods of sunshine, and turning each heather bell at their feet into an amethyst. Yonder could be seen the shores of Fife, nearer Preston Bay and Berwick. Between them rolled the broad Firth, islands floating on its bosom like emeralds on a chain of gold.

    "Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent;     As if to give his rapture vent,     The spur he to his charger lent,       And raised his bridle hand,     And making demivolte in air,     Cried, 'Where's the coward that would not dare       To fight for such a land!'"

While they gazed the time arrived for King James to take his way to a solemn mass. The distant bells chimed the hour, the fife, the sackbut, the psaltery, the cymbal, the war-pipe, in discordant cry took up the note, and together the sounds rolled up the hillside.