The Caged Lion by Charlotte M. Yonge (readict .txt) 📖

speeches and pageants.

In the glow of a May evening the cavalcade passed the gates, and entered the city, where the streets were so narrow that it was often impossible to ride otherwise than two and two.  The foremost had emerged into an open space before a church and churchyard, when there was a sudden pause, a shock of surprise.  All across the space, blocking up the way, was an enormous line of figures, looking shadowy in the evening light, and bearing the insignia of every rank and dignity that earth presented.  Popes were there, with triple crown and keys, and fanned by peacock tails; scarlet-matted and caped cardinals, mitred and crosiered bishops, crowned and sceptred kings, ermined dukes, steel-clad knights, gowned lawyers, square-capped priests, cowled monks, and friars of every degree—nay, the mechanic with his tools, the peasant with his spade, even the beggar within his dish; old men, and children of every age; and women too of all grades—the tower-crowned queen, the beplumed dame, the lofty abbess, the veiled nun, the bourgeoise, the peasant, the beggar;—all were there, moving in a strange shadowy wild dance, sometimes slow, sometimes swift and mad with gaiety, to the music of an unseen band of clashing kettle-drums, cymbals, and other instruments, that played fast and furiously; while above all a knell in the church tower rang forth at intervals a slow, deep, lugubrious note; and all the time there glided in and out through the ring a grisly being—skull-headed, skeleton-boned, scythe in hand—Death himself; and ever and anon, when the dance was swiftest, would he dart into the midst, pounce on one or other, holding an hour-glass to the face, unheeding rank, sex, or age, and bear his victim to the charnel-house beside the church.  It was a sight as though some terrible sermon had taken life, as though the unseen had become visible, the veil were taken away; and the implicit unresisting obedience of the victims added to the sense of awful reality and fatality.

The advance of the victorious King Henry made no difference to the continuousness of the frightful dance; nay, it was plain that he was but in the presence of a monarch yet more victorious than himself, and the mazes wound on, the performers being evidently no phantoms, but as substantial as those who beheld them; nay, the grisly ring began to absorb the royal suite within itself, and an awe-stricken silence prevailed—at least, where Malcolm Stewart and Ralf Percy were riding together.

Neither lad durst ask the other what it meant.  They thought they knew too well.  Percy ceased not for one moment to cross himself, and mutter invocations to the saints; Malcolm’s memory and tongue alike seemed inert and paralyzed with horror—his brain was giddy, his eyes stretched open; and when Death suddenly turned and darted in his direction, one horrible gush of thought—‘Fallen, fallen!  Lost, lost!  No confession!’—came over him; he would have sobbed out an entreaty for mercy and for a priest, but it became a helpless shriek; and while Percy’s sword flashed before his eyes, he felt himself falling, death-stricken, to the earth, and knew no more.

‘There—he moved,’ said a voice above him.

‘How now, Glenuskie?’ cried Ralf Percy.  ‘Look up; I verily thought you were sped by Death in bodily shape; but ’twas all an abominable grisly pageant got up by some dismal caitiffs.’

‘It was the Danse Macabre,’ added the sweet tone that did indeed unclose Malcolm’s eyes, to see Esclairmonde bending over him, and holding wine to his lips.  Ralf raised him that he might swallow it, and looking round, he saw that he was in a small wainscoted chamber, with an old burgher woman, Ralf Percy, and Esclairmonde; certainly not in the other world.  He strove to ask ‘what it meant,’ and Esclairmonde spoke again:

‘It is the Danse Macabre; I have seen it in Holland.  It was invented as a warning to those of sinful life, and this good woman tells me it has become the custom to enact it every evening at this churchyard of the Holy Innocents.’

‘A custom I devoutly hope King Harry will break!’ exclaimed Ralf.  ‘If not, I’ll some day find the way between those painted ribs of Monseigneur de la Mort, I can tell him!  I had nearly given him a taste of my sword as it was, only some Gascon rogue caught my arm, and he was off ere I could get free.  So I jumped off, that your poor corpse should not be trodden by French heels; and I hardly know how it was, but the Lady Esclairmonde was by my side as I dragged you out, and caused these good folks to let me bring you in behind their shop.’

‘Lady, lady, I am for ever beholden,’ cried Malcolm, gathering himself up as if to fall at her feet, and his heart bounding high with joy, for this was from death to life indeed.

‘I saw there was some one hurt,’ said Esclairmonde in her repressive manner.  ‘Drink some more wine, eat this bread, and you will be able to ride to the Hôtel de St. Pol.’

‘Oh, lady, let me speak of my bliss!’ and he snatched at her hand, but was still so dizzy that he sank back, becoming aware that he was stiff and bruised from his fall.  Almost at the same moment a new step and voice were heard in the little open booth where the cutler displayed his wares, and King James was at once admitted.

‘How goes it, laddie?’ he asked.  ‘They told me grim Death had clutched you and borne you off to his charnel-house; but at least I see an angel has charge of you.’

Esclairmonde slightly coloured as she made answer:

‘I saw some one fall, and came to offer my poor skill, Sir; but as the Sieur de Glenuskie is fast recovering, if you will permit Sir Nigel Baird to attend me, Sir, I will at once return.’

‘I am ready—I am not hurt.  Oh, let us go together!’ panted Malcolm, leaping up.

‘Eh, gentlemen!’ exclaimed the hospitable cutler’s wife; ‘you will not away so fast!  This gallant knight will permit you to remain.  And the fair lady, she will do me the honour to drink a cup of wine to the recovery of her betrothed.’

‘Not so, good woman,’ said Esclairmonde, a little apart, ‘I am the betrothed of Heaven.  I only assisted because I feared the youth’s fall was more serious than it proves.’

The bourgeoise begged pardon, and made a curtsey; there was nothing unusual in the avowal the lady had made, when the convent was a thoroughly recognized profession; but Esclairmonde could not carry out her purpose of departing separately with old Sir Nigel Baird; Malcolm was on his feet, quite ready to mount, and there was no avoiding the being assisted to her saddle by any but the King, who was in truth quite as objectionable a companion, as far as appearances went, for a young solitary maiden, as was Malcolm himself.  Esclairmonde felt that her benevolence might have led her into a scrape.  When she had seen the fall, knowing that to the unprepared the ghastly pageant must seem reality, she had obeyed the impulse to hurry to the rescue, to console and aid in case of injury, and she had not even perceived that her female companions did not attempt to accompany her.  However, the mischance could best be counteracted by simplicity and unconsciousness; so, as she found herself obliged to ride by the King, she unconcernedly observed that these fantastic dances might perhaps arouse sinners, but that they were a horrible sight for the unprepared.

‘Very like a dream becoming flesh and blood,’ said James.  ‘We in advance were slow to perceive what it was, and then the King merely thought whether it would alarm the Queen.’

‘I trow it did not.’

‘No; the thing has not been found that will stir her placid face.  She merely said it was very lugubrious, and an ill turn in the Parisians thus to greet her, but they were always senseless bêtes; and he, being relieved of care for her, looked with all his eyes, with a strange mixture of drollery at the antics and the masques, yet of grave musing at the likeness to this present life.’

‘I think,’ said Esclairmonde, ‘that King Henry is one of the few men to whom the spectacle is a sermon.  He laughs even while he lays a thing to heart.’

These few sentences had brought them to the concourse around the gateway of the great Hôtel de St. Pol, in whose crowded courtyard Esclairmonde had to dismount; and, after being handed through the hall by King James, to make her way to the ladies’ apartments, and there find out, what she was most anxious about, how Alice, who had been riding at some distance from her with her father, had fared under the alarm.

Alice ran up to her eagerly.  ‘Ah, dear Clairette, and was he greatly hurt?’

‘Not much; he had only swooned for fright.’

‘Swooned! to be a prince, and not have the heart of a midge!’

‘And how was it with you, you very wyvern for courage?’

‘With me?  Oh, I was somewhat appalled at first, when my father took hold of my rein, and bade me never fear; for I saw his face grow amazed.  Sir Richard Nevil rode up on the other side, and said the hobgoblins should eat out his heart ere they hurt me; and I looked into his face as he said that, and liked it more than ever I thought to like any but yours, Clairette.  I think my father was going to leave me to him and see whether the King needed some one to back him; but up came a French lord, and said ’twas all a mere show, and my father said he was glad I was a stout-hearted wench that had never cried out for fear; and then I was so pleased, that I never heeded the ugly sight any more.  Ay, and when Sir Richard lifted me off my horse, he kissed my hand of his own accord.’

‘This is all he has ever said to you?’ said Esclairmonde, smiling.  ‘It is like an Englishman—to the purpose.’

‘Yea, is it not?  Oh! is it not better than all the fine speeches and compliments that Joan Beaufort gets from her Scottish king?’

‘They have truths in them too, child.’

‘Ay; but too fine-spun, too minstrel-like, for a plain English maid.  The hobgoblins should eat out his heart ere they touched me!’ she repeated to herself, as though the saying were the most poetical concert sung on minstrel lover’s lute.

Death’s Dance had certainly brought this affianced pair to a better understanding than all the gayest festivities of the Court.

Esclairmonde would have been happy if no one had noticed her benevolence to the young Scot save Alice Montagu; but she had to endure countless railleries from every lady, from Countess Jaqueline downwards, on the unmistakable evidence that her heart had spoken; and her grave dignity had less effect in silencing them than usual, so diverting was the alleged triumph over her propriety, well as they knew that she would have done the same for the youngest horse-boy, or the oldest man-at-arms.

CHAPTER X: THE WHITSUNTIDE FESTIVAL

‘Lady, fairest lady!  Ah, suffer your slave to fall at your feet with his thanks!’

‘No thanks are due, Sir.  I knew not who had fallen.’

‘Cruel coyness!  Take not away the joy that has fed a hungry heart.’

‘Lord Glenuskie’s heart was wont to hunger for better joys.’

‘Lady, I have ceased to be a foolish boy.’

‘Such foolishness was better than some men’s wisdom.’

‘Listen, belle demoiselle.  I have been forth into the world, and have learnt to see that monasteries have become mere haunts for the sluggard, who will not face the world; and that honour, glory, and all that is worth living for, lie beyond.  Ah, lady! those eyes first taught me what life could give.’

‘Hush, Sir!’ said Esclairmonde.  ‘I can believe that as a child you mistook your vocation, and the secular life may be blest to you; but with me it can never be so; and if any friendship were shown to you on my part, it was when I deemed that we were brother and sister in our vows.  If I unwittingly inspired any false hopes, I must do penance for the evil.’

‘Call it not evil, lady,’ entreated Malcolm.  ‘It cannot be evil to have wakened me to life and hope and glory.’

‘What should you call it in him who should endeavour to render Lady Joan Beaufort faithless to your king, Lord Malcolm?  What then must it be to tempt another to break troth-plight to the King of Heaven?’

‘Nay, madame,’ faltered Malcolm; ‘but if such troth were forbidden and impossible?’

‘None has the right or power to cancel mine,’ replied the lady.

‘Yet,’ he still entreated, ‘your kindred are mighty.’

‘But my Bridegroom is mightier,’ she said.

‘O lady, yet—Say, at least,’ cried Malcolm, eagerly, ‘that were you free in