The Dragon of Wantley: His Tale

“Here’s a good one,” said Mistletoe. “Number 39, in the Appendix to Part Fourth. Chop two pounds of leeks and – ”

“But I may not be here to taste it,” said Elaine.

“Bless the child!” said Mistletoe. “And where else would you be on Christmas-day but in your own house?”

“Perhaps far away. Who knows?”

“You haven’t gone and seen a young man and told him – ”

“A young man, indeed!” said Elaine, with a toss of her head. “There’s not a young man in England I would tell anything save to go about his business.”

Miss Elaine had never seen any young men except when they came to dine on Sir Godfrey’s invitation; and his manner on those occasions so awed them that they always sat on the edge of their chairs, and said, “No, thank you,” when the Baron said, “Have some more capon?” Then the Baron would snort, “Nonsense! Popham, bring me Master Percival’s plate,” upon which Master Percival invariably simpered, and said that really he did believe he would take another slice. After these dinners, Miss Elaine retired to her own part of the house; and that was all she ever saw of young men, whom she very naturally deemed a class to be despised as silly and wholly lacking in self-assertion.

“Then where in the name of good saints are you going to be?” Mistletoe went on.

“Why,” said Elaine, slowly (and here she looked very slyly at the old Governess, and then quickly appeared to be considering the lace on her dress), “why, of course, papa would not permit me to sacrifice myself for one dragon or twenty dragons.”

“What!” screamed Mistletoe, all in a flurry (for she was a fool). “What?”

“Of course, I know papa would say that,” said Miss Elaine, demure as possible.

“Oh, mercy me!” squeaked Mistletoe; “we are undone!”

“To be sure, I might agree with papa,” said the artful thing, knowing well enough she was on the right track.

“Oo – oo!” went the Governess, burying her nose in the household cookery-book and rocking from side to side.

“But then I might not agree with papa, you know. I might think, – might think – ” Miss Elaine stopped at what she might think, for really she hadn’t the slightest idea what to say next.

“You have no right to think, – no right at all!” burst out Mistletoe. “And you sha’n’t be allowed to think. I’ll tell Sir Godfrey at once, and he’ll forbid you. Oh, dear! oh, dear! just before Christmas Eve, too! The only night in the year! She has no time to change her mind; and she’ll be eaten up if she goes, I know she will. What villain told you of this, child? Let me know, and he shall be punished at once.”

“I shall not tell you that,” said Elaine.

“Then everybody will be suspected,” moaned Mistletoe. “Everybody. The whole household. And we shall all be thrown to the Dragon. Oh, dear! was there ever such a state of things?” The Governess betook herself to weeping and wringing her hands, and Elaine stood watching her and wondering how in the world she could find out more. She knew now just enough to keep her from eating or sleeping until she knew everything.

“I don’t agree with papa, at all,” she said, during a lull in the tears. This was the only remark she could think of.

“He’ll lock you up, and feed you on bread and water till you do – oo – oo!” sobbed Mistletoe; “and by that time we shall all be ea – ea – eaten up!”

“But I’ll talk to papa, and make him change his mind.”

“He won’t. Do you think you’re going to make him care more about a lot of sheep and cows than he does about his only daughter? Doesn’t he pay the people for everything the Dragon eats up? Who would pay him for you, when you were eaten up?”

“How do you know that I should be eaten up?” asked Miss Elaine.

“Oh, dear! oh, dear! and how could you stop it? What could a girl do alone against a dragon in the middle of the night?”

“But on Christmas Eve?” suggested the young lady. “There might be something different about that. He might feel better, you know, on Christmas Eve.”

“Do you suppose a wicked, ravenous dragon with a heathen tail is going to care whether it is Christmas Eve or not? He’d have you for his Christmas dinner, and that’s all the notice he would take of the day. And then perhaps he wouldn’t leave the country, after all. How can you be sure he would go away, just because that odious, vulgar legend says so? Who would rely on a dragon? And so there you would be gone, and he would be here, and everything!”

Mistletoe’s tears flowed afresh; but you see she had said all that Miss Elaine was so curious to know about, and the fatal secret was out.

The Quarter-Bell rang for dinner, and both the women hastened to their rooms to make ready; Mistletoe still boo-hooing and snuffling, and declaring that she had always said some wretched, abominable villain would tell her child about that horrid, ridiculous legend, that was a perfect falsehood, as anybody could see, and very likely invented by the Dragon himself, because no human being with any feelings at all would think of such a cruel, absurd idea; and if they ever did, they deserved to be eaten themselves; and she would not have it.

She said a great deal more that Elaine, in the next room, could not hear (though the door was open between), because the Governess put her fat old face under the cold water in the basin, and, though she went on talking just the same, it only produced an angry sort of bubbling, which conveyed very little notion of what she meant.

So they descended the stairway, Miss Elaine walking first, very straight and solemn; and that was the way she marched into the banquet-hall, where Sir Godfrey waited.

“Papa,” said she, “I think I’ll meet the Dragon on Christmas Eve!”

CHAPTER III.

Reveals the Dragon in his Den

Around the sullen towers of Oyster-le-Main the snow was falling steadily. It was slowly banking up in the deep sills of the windows, and Hubert the Sacristan had given up sweeping the steps. Patches of it, that had collected on the top of the great bell as the slanting draughts blew it in through the belfry-window, slid down from time to time among the birds which had nestled for shelter in the beams below. From the heavy main outer-gates, the country spread in a white unbroken sheet to the woods. Twice, perhaps, through the morning had wayfarers toiled by along the nearly-obliterated high-road.

“Good luck to the holy men!” each had said to himself as he looked at the chill and austere walls of the Monastery. “Good luck! and I hope that within there they be warmer than I am.” Then I think it very likely that as he walked on, blowing the fingers of the hand that held his staff, he thought of his fireside and his wife, and blessed Providence for not making him pious enough to be a monk and a bachelor.

This is what was doing in the world outside. Now inside the stone walls of Oyster-le-Main, whose grim solidity spoke of narrow cells and of pious knees continually bent in prayer, not a monk paced the corridors, and not a step could be heard above or below in the staircase that wound up through the round towers. Silence was everywhere, save that from a remote quarter of the Monastery came a faint sound of music. Upon such a time as Christmas Eve, it might well be that carols in plenty would be sung or studied by the saintly men. But this sounded like no carol. At times the humming murmur of the storm drowned the measure, whatever it was, and again it came along the dark, cold entries, clearer than before. Away in a long vaulted room, whose only approach was a passage in the thickness of the walls, safe from the intrusion of the curious, a company is sitting round a cavernous chimney, where roars and crackles a great blazing heap of logs. Surely, for a monkish song, their melody is most odd; yet monks they are, for all are clothed in gray, like Father Anselm, and a rope round the waist of each. But what can possibly be in that huge silver rundlet into which they plunge their goblets so often? The song grows louder than ever.

We are the monks of Oyster-le-Main,Hooded and gowned as fools may see;Hooded and gowned though we monks be,Is that a reason we should abstainFrom cups of the gamesome Burgundie?Though our garments make it plainThat we are Monks of Oyster-le-Main,That is no reason we should abstainFrom cups of the gamesome Burgundie.

“I’m sweating hot,” says one. “How for disrobing, brothers? No danger on such a day as this, foul luck to the snow!”

Which you see was coarse and vulgar language for any one to be heard to use, and particularly so for a godly celibate. But the words were scarce said, when off fly those monks’ hoods, and the waist-ropes rattle as they fall on the floor, and the gray gowns drop down and are kicked away.

Every man jack of them is in black armour, with a long sword buckled to his side.

“Long cheer to the Guild of Go-as-you-Please!” they shouted, hoarsely, and dashed their drinking-horns on the board. Then filled them again.

“Give us a song, Hubert,” said one. “The day’s a dull one out in the world.”

“Wait a while,” replied Hubert, whose nose was hidden in his cup; “this new Wantley tipple is a vastly comfortable brew. What d’ye call the stuff?”

“Malvoisie, thou oaf?” said another; “and of a delicacy many degrees above thy bumpkin palate. Leave profaning it, therefore, and to thy refrain without more ado.”

“Most unctuous sir,” replied Hubert, “in demanding me this favour, you seem forgetful that the juice of Pleasure is sweeter than the milk of Human Kindness. I’ll not sing to give thee an opportunity to outnumber me in thy cups.”

And he filled and instantly emptied another sound bumper of the Malvoisie, lurching slightly as he did so. “Health!” he added, preparing to swallow the next.

“A murrain on such pagan thirst!” exclaimed he who had been toasted, snatching the cup away. “Art thou altogether unslakable? Is thy belly a lime-kiln? Nay, shalt taste not a single drop more, Hubert, till we have a stave. Come, tune up, man!”

“Give me but leave to hold the empty vessel, then,” the singer pleaded, falling on one knee in mock supplication.

“Accorded, thou sot!” laughed the other. “Carol away, now!”

They fell into silence, each replenishing his drinking-horn. The snow beat soft against the window, and from outside, far above them, sounded the melancholy note of the bell ringing in the hour for meditation.

So Hubert began:

When the sable veil of nightOver hill and glen is spread,The yeoman bolts his door in fright,And he quakes within his bed.Far away on his earThere strikes a sound of dread:Something comes! it is here!It is passed with awful tread.There’s a flash of unholy flame;There is smoke hangs hot in the air:’Twas the Dragon of Wantley came:Beware of him, beware!But we beside the fireSit close to the steaming bowl;We pile the logs up higher,And loud our voices roll.When the yeoman wakes at dawnTo begin his round of toil,His garner’s bare, his sheep are gone,And the Dragon holds the spoil.All day long through the earthThat yeoman makes his moan;All day long there is mirthBehind these walls of stone.For we are the Lords of Ease,The gaolers of carking Care,The Guild of Go-as-you-Please!Beware of us, beware!So we beside the fireSit down to the steaming bowl;We pile the logs up higher,And loud our voices roll.

The roar of twenty lusty throats and the clatter of cups banging on the table rendered the words of the chorus entirely inaudible.

“Here’s Malvoisie for thee, Hubert,” said one of the company, dipping into the rundlet. But his hand struck against the dry bottom. They had finished four gallons since breakfast, and it was scarcely eleven gone on the clock!

“Oh, I am betrayed!” Hubert sang out. Then he added, “But there is a plenty where that came from.” And with that he reached for his gown, and, fetching out a bunch of great brass keys, proceeded towards a tall door in the wall, and turned the lock. The door swung open, and Hubert plunged into the dark recess thus disclosed. An exclamation of chagrin followed, and the empty hide of a huge crocodile, with a pair of trailing wings to it, came bumping out from the closet into the hall, giving out many hollow cracks as it floundered along, fresh from a vigourous kick that the intemperate minstrel had administered in his rage at having put his hand into the open jaws of the monster instead of upon the neck of the demijohn that contained the Malvoisie.

“Beshrew thee, Hubert!” said the voice of a new-comer, who stood eyeing the proceedings from a distance, near where he had entered; “treat the carcase of our patron saint with a more befitting reverence, or I’ll have thee caged and put upon bread and water. Remember, that whosoever kicks that skin in some sort kicks me.”

“Long life to the Dragon of Wantley!” said Hubert, reappearing, very dusty, but clasping a plump demijohn.

“Hubert, my lad,” said the new-comer, “put back that vessel of inebriation; and, because I like thee well for thy youth and thy sweet voice, do not therefore presume too far with me.”

A somewhat uneasy pause followed upon this; and while Hubert edged back into the closet with his demijohn, Father Anselm frowned slightly as his eyes turned upon the scene of late hilarity.

But where is the Dragon in his den? you ask. Are we not coming to him soon? Ah, but we have come to him. You shall hear the truth. Never believe that sham story about More of More Hall, and how he slew the Dragon of Wantley. It is a gross fabrication of some unscrupulous and mediocre literary person, who, I make no doubt, was in the pay of More to blow his trumpet so loud that a credulous posterity might hear it. My account of the Dragon is the only true one.

CHAPTER IV.

Tells you more about Him than was ever told before to Anybody

In those days of shifting fortunes, of turbulence and rapine, of knights-errant and minstrels seeking for adventure and love, and of solitary pilgrims and bodies of pious men wandering over Europe to proclaim that the duty of all was to arise and quell the pagan defilers of the Holy Shrine, good men and bad men, undoubted saints and unmistakable sinners, drifted forward and back through every country, came by night and by day to every household, and lived their lives in that unbounded and perilous freedom that put them at one moment upon the top limit of their ambition or their delight, and plunged them into violent and bloody death almost ere the moment was gone. It was a time when “fatten at thy neighbour’s expense” was the one commandment observed by many who outwardly maintained a profound respect for the original ten; and any man whose wit taught him how this commandment could be obeyed with the greatest profit and the least danger was in high standing among his fellows.

Hence it was that Francis Almoign, Knight of the Voracious Stomach, cumbered with no domestic ties worthy of mention, a tall slim fellow who knew the appropriate hour to slit a throat or to wheedle a maid, came to be Grand Marshal of the Guild of Go-as-you-Please.

This secret band, under its Grand Marshal, roved over Europe and thrived mightily. Each member was as stout hearted a villain as you could see. Sometimes their doings came to light, and they were forced to hasten across the borders of an outraged territory into new pastures. Yet they fared well in the main, for they could fight and drink and sing; and many a fair one smiled upon them, in spite of their perfectly outrageous morals.

So, one day, they came into the neighbourhood of Oyster-le-Main, where much confusion reigned among the good monks. Sir Godfrey Disseisin over at Wantley had let Richard Lion Heart depart for the Holy Wars without him. “Like father like son,” the people muttered in their discontent. “Sure, the Church will gravely punish this second offence.” To all these whisperings of rumour the Grand Marshal of the Guild paid fast attention; for he was a man who laid his plans deeply, and much in advance of the event. He saw the country was fat and the neighbours foolish. He took note of the handsome tithes that came in to Oyster-le-Main for the support of the monks. He saw all these things, and set himself to thinking.

Upon a stormy afternoon, when the light was nearly gone out of the sky, a band of venerable pilgrims stood at the great gates of the Monastery. Their garments were tattered, their shoes were in sad disrepair. They had walked (they said) all the way from Jerusalem. Might they find shelter for the night? The tale they told, and the mere sight of their trembling old beards, would have melted hearts far harder than those which beat in the breasts of the monks of Oyster-le-Main. But above all, these pilgrims brought with them as convincing proofs of their journey a collection of relics and talismans (such as are to be met with only in Eastern countries) of great wonder and virtue. With singular generosity, which they explained had been taught them by the Arabs, they presented many of these treasures to the delighted inmates of the Monastery, who hastened to their respective cells, – this one reverently cherishing a tuft of hair from the tail of one of Daniel’s lions; another handling with deep fervour a strip of the coat of many colours once worn by the excellent Joseph. But the most extraordinary relic among them all was the skin of a huge lizard beast, the like of which none in England had ever seen. This, the Pilgrims told their hosts, was no less a thing than a crocodile from the Nile, the renowned river of Moses. It had been pressed upon them, as they were departing from the City of Damascus, by a friend, a blameless chiropodist, whose name was Omar Khayyam. He it was who eked out a pious groat by tending the feet of all outward and inward bound pilgrims. Seated at the entrance of his humble booth, with the foot of some holy man in his lap, he would speak words of kindness and wisdom as he reduced the inflammation. One of his quaintest sayings was, “If the Pope has bid thee wear hair next thy bare skin, my son, why, clap a wig over thy shaven scalp.” So the monks in proper pity and kindness, when they had shut the great gates as night came down, made their pilgrim guests welcome to bide at Oyster-le-Main as long as they pleased. The solemn bell for retiring rolled forth in the darkness with a single deep clang, and the sound went far and wide over the neighbouring district. Those peasants who were still awake in their scattered cottages, crossed themselves as they thought, “The holy men at Oyster-le-Main are just now going to their rest.”

And thus the world outside grew still, and the thick walls of the Monastery loomed up against the stars.

Deep in the midnight, many a choking cry rang fearfully through the stony halls, but came not to the outer air; and the waning moon shone faintly down upon the enclosure of the garden, where worked a band of silent grave-diggers, clad in black armour, and with blood-red hands. The good country folk, who came at early morning with their presents of poultry and milk, little guessed what sheep’s clothing the gray cowls and gowns of Oyster-le-Main had become in a single night, nor what impious lips those were which now muttered blessings over their bent heads.

The following night, hideous sounds were heard in the fields, and those who dared to open their shutters to see what the matter was, beheld a huge lizard beast, with fiery breath and accompanied by rattling thunder, raging over the soil, which he hardly seemed to touch!

In this manner did the dreaded Dragon of Wantley make his appearance, and in this manner did Sir Francis Almoign, Knight of the Voracious Stomach, stand in the shoes of that Father Anselm whom he had put so comfortably out of the way under the flower-beds in the Monastery garden, – and never a soul in the world except his companions in orgy to know the difference. He even came to be welcome at Sir Godfrey’s table; for after the Dragon’s appearance, the Baron grew civil to all members of the Church. By day this versatile sinner, the Grand Marshal, would walk in the sight of the world with staid step, clothed in gray, his hood concealing his fierce, unchurchly eyes; by night, inside the crocodile skin, he visited what places he chose, unhindered by the terrified dwellers, and after him came his followers of the Guild to steal the plunder and bear it back inside the walls of Oyster-le-Main. Never in all their adventures had these superb miscreants been in better plight; but now the trouble had begun, as you are going to hear. We return to Hubert and the company.

“Hubert and all of you,” said Father Anselm, or rather Sir Francis, the Grand Marshal, as we know him to be, “they say that whom the gods desire to destroy, him do they first make drunk with wine.”

“The application! the application!” they shouted in hoarse and mirthful chorus, for they were certainly near that state favourable to destruction by the gods. One black fellow with a sliding gait ran into the closet and brought a sheet of thin iron, and a strange torch-like tube, which he lighted at the fire and blew into from the other end. A plume of spitting flame immediately shot far into the air.

“Before thy sermon proceeds, old Dragon,” he said, puffing unsteady but solemn breaths between his words, “wrap up in lightning and thunder that we may be – may be – lieve what you say.” Then he shook the iron till it gave forth a frightful shattering sound. The Grand Marshal said not a word. With three long steps he stood towering in front of the man and dealt him a side blow under the ear with his steel fist. He fell instantly, folding together like something boneless, and lay along the floor for a moment quite still, except that some piece in his armour made a light rattling as though there were muscles that quivered beneath it. Then he raised himself slowly to a bench where his brothers sat waiting, soberly enough. Only young Hubert grinned aside to his neighbour, who, perceiving it, kept his eyes fixed as far from that youth as possible.

“Thy turn next, if art not careful, Hubert,” said Sir Francis very quietly, as he seated himself.

“Wonder of saints!” Hubert thought secretly, not moving at all, “how could he have seen that?”

“’Tis no small piece of good fortune,” continued the Grand Marshal, “that some one among us can put aside his slavish appetites, and keep a clear eye on the watch against misadventure. Here is my news. That hotch-pot of lies we set going among the people has fallen foul of us. The daughter of Sir Godfrey has heard our legend, and last week told her sire that to-night she would follow it out to the letter, and meet the Dragon of Wantley alone in single combat.”

“Has she never loved any man?” asked one.

“She fulfils every condition.”

“Who told her?”

“That most consummate of fools, the Mistletoe,” said the Grand Marshal.

“What did Sir Godfrey do upon that?” inquired Hubert.

“He locked up his girl and chained the Governess to a rock, where she has remained in deadly terror ever since, but kept fat for me to devour her. Me!” and Sir Francis permitted himself to smile, though not very broadly.

“How if Sir Dragon had found the maid chained instead of the ancient widow?” Hubert said, venturing to tread a little nearer to familiarity on the strength of the amusement which played across the Grand Master’s face.

“Ah, Hubert boy,” he replied, “I see it is not in the Spring only, but in Autumn and Summer and Winter as well, that thy fancy turns to thoughts of love. Did the calendar year but contain a fifth season, in that also wouldst thou be making honey-dew faces at somebody.”

But young Hubert only grinned, and closed his flashing eyes a little, in satisfaction at the character which had been given him.

“Time presses,” Sir Francis said. “By noon we shall receive an important visit. There has been a great sensation at Wantley. The country folk are aroused; the farmers have discovered that the secret of our legend has been revealed to Miss Elaine. Not one of the clowns would have dared reveal it himself, but all rejoice in the bottom of their hearts that she knows it, and chooses to risk battle with the Dragon. Their honest Saxon minds perceive the thrift of such an arrangement. Therefore there is general anxiety and disturbance to know if Sir Godfrey will permit the conflict. The loss of his Malvoisie tried him sorely, – but he remains a father.”

“That’s kind in him,” said Hubert.

Sir Francis turned a cold eye on Hubert. “As befits a clean-blooded man,” he proceeded, “I have risen at the dawn and left you wine-pots in your thick sleep. From the wood’s edge over by Wantley I’ve watched the Baron come eagerly to an upper window in his white night-shift. And when he looks out on Mistletoe and sees she is not devoured, he bursts into a rage that can be plainly seen from a distance. These six mornings I laughed so loud at this spectacle, that I almost feared discovery. Next, the Baron visits his daughter, only to find her food untasted and herself silent. I fear she is less of a fool than the rest. But now his paternal heart smites him, and he has let her out. Also the Governess is free.”