Quentin Durward

“It were to be so hoped,” said the Prior, “and such are the prayers of the godly in the land, who would not that the blood of the citizens were poured forth like water, and that they should perish, even as utter castaways, ere they make their peace with Heaven. Also the good Bishop labours night and day to preserve peace, as well becometh a servant of the altar, for it is written in Holy Scripture, Beati pacifici. But” – Here the good Prior stopped, with a deep sigh.

Quentin modestly urged the great importance of which it was to the ladies whom he attended, to have some assured information respecting the internal state of the country, and what an act of Christian charity it would be, if the worthy and reverend Father would enlighten them upon that subject.

“It is one,” said the Prior, “on which no man speaks with willingness, for those who speak evil of the powerful, etiam in cubiculo [even in the bed chamber], may find that a winged thing shall carry the matter to his ears. Nevertheless, to render you, who seem an ingenuous youth, and your ladies, who are devout votaresses accomplishing a holy pilgrimage, the little service that is in my power, I will be plain with you.”

He then looked cautiously round and lowered his voice, as if afraid of being overheard.

“The people of Liege,” he said, “are privily instigated to their frequent mutinies by men of Belial [in the Bible this term is used as an appellative of Satan], who pretend, but, as I hope, falsely, to have commission to that effect from our most Christian King, whom, however, I hold to deserve that term better than were consistent with his thus disturbing the peace of a neighbouring state. Yet so it is, that his name is freely used by those who uphold and inflame the discontents at Liege. There is, moreover, in the land, a nobleman of good descent, and fame in warlike affairs, but otherwise, so to speak, Lapis offensionis et petra scandali – and a stumbling block of offence to the countries of Burgundy and Flanders. His name is William de la Marck.”

“Called William with the Beard,” said the young Scot, “or the Wild Boar of Ardennes?”

“And rightly so called, my son,” said the Prior, “because he is as the wild boar of the forest, which treadeth down with his hoofs and rendeth with his tusks. And he hath formed to himself a band of more than a thousand men, all, like himself, contemners of civil and ecclesiastical authority, and holds himself independent of the Duke of Burgundy, and maintains himself and his followers by rapine and wrong, wrought without distinction upon churchmen and laymen. Imposuit manus in Christos Domini – he hath stretched forth his hand upon the anointed of the Lord, regardless of what is written, ‘Touch not mine anointed, and do my prophets no wrong.’ – Even to our poor house did he send for sums of gold and sums of silver, as a ransom for our lives, and those of our brethren, to which we returned a Latin supplication, stating our inability to answer his demand, and exhorting him in the words of the preacher, Ne moliaris amico tuo malum, cum habet in te fiduciam [devise not evil against thy neighbour who dwelleth by thee in security]. Nevertheless, this Guilielmus Barbatus, this William de la Marck, as completely ignorant of humane letters as of humanity itself, replied, in his ridiculous jargon, Si non payatis, brulabo monasterium vestrum [if you do not pay, I will burn your monastery. A similar story is told of the Duke of Vendome, who answered in this sort of macaronic Latin the classical expostulations of a German convent against the imposition of a contribution. S.].”

“Of which rude Latin, however, you, my good father,” said the youth, “were at no loss to conceive the meaning?”

“Alas! my son,” said the Prior, “Fear and Necessity are shrewd interpreters, and we were obliged to melt down the silver vessels of our altar to satisfy the rapacity of this cruel chief. May Heaven requite it to him seven fold! Pereat improbus – Amen, amen, anathema esto! [let the wicked perish. Let him be anathema! ‘In pronouncing an anathema against a person, the church excludes him from her communion; and he must, if he continue obstinate, perish eternally.’ Cent. Dict.]”

“I marvel,” said Quentin, “that the Duke of Burgundy, who is so strong and powerful, doth not bait this boar to purpose, of whose ravages I have already heard so much.”

“Alas! my son,” said the Prior, “the Duke Charles is now at Peronne, assembling his captains of hundreds and his captains of thousands, to make war against France, and thus, while Heaven hath set discord between the hearts of those great princes, the country is misused by such subordinate oppressors. But it is in evil time that the Duke neglects the cure of these internal gangrenes, for this William de la Marck hath of late entertained open communication with Rouslaer and Pavillon, the chiefs of the discontented at Liege, and it is to be feared he will soon stir them up to some desperate enterprise.”

“But the Bishop of Liege,” said Quentin, “he hath still power enough to subdue this disquieted and turbulent spirit – hath he not, good father? Your answer to this question concerns me much.”

“The Bishop, my child,” replied the Prior, “hath the sword of Saint Peter, as well as the keys. He hath power as a secular prince, and he hath the protection of the mighty House of Burgundy, he hath also spiritual authority as a prelate, and he supports both with a reasonable force – of good soldiers and men at arms. This William de la Marck was bred in his household, and bound to him by many benefits. But he gave vent, even in the court of the Bishop, to his fierce and bloodthirsty temper, and was expelled thence for a homicide committed on one of the Bishop’s chief domestics. From thenceforward, being banished from the good Prelate’s presence, he hath been his constant and unrelenting foe, and now, I grieve to say, he hath girded his loins, and strengthened his horn against him.”

“You consider, then, the situation of the worthy Prelate as being dangerous?” said Quentin, very, anxiously.

“Alas! my son,” said the good Franciscan, “what or who is there in this weary wilderness, whom we may not hold as in danger? But Heaven forefend I should speak of the reverend Prelate as one whose peril is imminent. He has much treasure, true counsellors, and brave soldiers, and, moreover, a messenger who passed hither to the eastward yesterday saith that the Duke of Burgundy hath dispatched, upon the Bishop’s request, an hundred men at arms to his assistance. This reinforcement, with the retinue belonging to each lance, are enough to deal with William de la Marck, on whose name be sorrow! – Amen.”

At this crisis their conversation was interrupted by the Sacristan, who, in a voice almost inarticulate with anger, accused the Bohemian of having practised the most abominable arts of delusion among the younger brethren. He had added to their nightly meal cups of a heady and intoxicating cordial, of ten times the strength of the most powerful wine, under which several of the fraternity had succumbed, and indeed, although the Sacristan had been strong to resist its influence, they might yet see, from his inflamed countenance and thick speech, that even he, the accuser himself, was in some degree affected by this unhallowed potation. Moreover, the Bohemian had sung songs of worldly vanity and impure pleasures, he had derided the cord of Saint Francis, made jest of his miracles, and termed his votaries fools and lazy knaves. Lastly, he had practised palmistry, and foretold to the young Father Cherubin that he was helped by a beautiful lady, who should make him father to a thriving boy.

The Father Prior listened to these complaints for some time in silence, as struck with mute horror by their enormous atrocity. When the Sacristan had concluded, he rose up, descended to the court of the convent, and ordered the lay brethren, on pain of the worst consequences of spiritual disobedience, to beat Hayraddin out of the sacred precincts with their broom staves and cart whips.

This sentence was executed accordingly, in the presence of Quentin Durward, who, however vexed at the occurrence, easily saw that his interference would be of no avail.

The discipline inflicted upon the delinquent, notwithstanding the exhortations of the Superior, was more ludicrous than formidable. The Bohemian ran hither and thither through the court, amongst the clamour of voices, and noise of blows, some of which reached him not because purposely misaimed, others, sincerely designed for his person, were eluded by his activity, and the few that fell upon his back and shoulders he took without either complaint or reply. The noise and riot was the greater, that the inexperienced cudgel players, among whom Hayraddin ran the gauntlet, hit each other more frequently than they did him, till at length, desirous of ending a scene which was more scandalous than edifying, the Prior commanded the wicket to be flung open, and the Bohemian, darting through it with the speed of lightning, fled forth into the moonlight. During this scene, a suspicion which Durward had formerly entertained, recurred with additional strength. Hayraddin had, that very morning, promised to him more modest and discreet behaviour than he was wont to exhibit, when they rested in a convent on their journey, yet he had broken his engagement, and had been even more offensively obstreperous than usual. Something probably lurked under this, for whatever were the Bohemian’s deficiencies, he lacked neither sense, nor, when he pleased, self command, and might it not be probable that he wished to hold some communication, either with, his own horde or some one else, from which he was debarred in the course of the day by the vigilance with which he was watched by Quentin, and had recourse to this stratagem in order to get himself turned out of the convent?

No sooner did this suspicion dart once more through Quentin’s mind, than, alert as he always was in his motions, he resolved to follow his cudgelled guide, and observe (secretly if possible) how he disposed of himself. Accordingly, when the Bohemian fled, as already mentioned, out at the gate of the convent, Quentin, hastily explaining to the Prior the necessity of keeping sight of his guide, followed in pursuit of him.

CHAPTER XVII: THE ESPIED SPY

What, the rude ranger? and spied spy? – hands off —
You are for no such rustics.

    BEN JONSON’S TALE OF ROBIN HOOD

When Quentin sallied from the convent, he could mark the precipitate retreat of the Bohemian, whose dark figure was seen in the far moonlight flying with the speed of a flogged hound quite through the street of the little village, and across the level meadow that lay beyond.

“My friend runs fast,” said Quentin to himself, “but he must run faster yet, to escape the fleetest foot that ever pressed the heather of Glen Houlakin!”

Being fortunately without his cloak and armour, the Scottish mountaineer was at liberty to put forth a speed which was unrivalled in his own glens, and which, notwithstanding the rate at which the Bohemian ran, was likely soon to bring his pursuer up with him. This was not, however, Quentin’s object, for he considered it more essential to watch Hayraddin’s motions, than to interrupt them. He was the rather led to this by the steadiness with which the Bohemian directed his course, and which, continuing even after the impulse of the violent expulsion had subsided, seemed to indicate that his career had some more certain goal for its object than could have suggested itself to a person unexpectedly turned out of good quarters when midnight was approaching, to seek a new place of repose. He never even looked behind him, and consequently Durward was enabled to follow him unobserved. At length, the Bohemian having traversed the meadow and attained the side of a little stream, the banks of which were clothed with alders and willows, Quentin observed that he stood still, and blew a low note on his horn, which was answered by a whistle at some little distance.

“This is a rendezvous,” thought Quentin, “but how shall I come near enough to overhear the import of what passes? The sound of my steps, and the rustling of the boughs through which I must force my passage, will betray me, unless I am cautious – I will stalk them, by Saint Andrew, as if they were Glen Isla deer – they shall learn that I have not conned woodcraft for naught. Yonder they meet, the two shadows – and two of them there are – odds against me if I am discovered, and if their purpose be unfriendly, as is much to be doubted. And then the Countess Isabelle loses her poor friend – Well, and he were not worthy to be called such, if he were not ready to meet a dozen in her behalf. Have I not crossed swords with Dunois, the best knight in France, and shall I fear a tribe of yonder vagabonds? Pshaw! – God and Saint Andrew to friend, they will find me both stout and wary.”

Thus resolving, and with a degree of caution taught him by his silvan habits, our friend descended into the channel of the little stream, which varied in depth, sometimes scarce covering his shoes, sometimes coming up to his knees, and so crept along, his form concealed by the boughs overhanging the bank, and his steps unheard amid the ripple of the water. (We have ourselves, in the days of yore, thus approached the nest of the wakeful raven.) In this manner the Scot drew near unperceived, until he distinctly heard the voices of those who were the subject of his observation, though he could not distinguish the words. Being at this time under the drooping branches of a magnificent weeping willow, which almost swept the surface of the water, he caught hold of one of its boughs, by the assistance of which, exerting at once much agility, dexterity, and strength, he raised himself up into the body of the tree, and sat, secure from discovery, among the central branches.

From this situation he could discover that the person with whom Hayraddin was now conversing was one of his own tribe, and at the same time he perceived, to his great disappointment, that no approximation could enable him to comprehend their language, which was totally unknown to him. They laughed much, and as Hayraddin made a sign of skipping about, and ended by rubbing his shoulder with his hand, Durward had no doubt that he was relating the story of the bastinading which he had sustained previous to his escape from the convent.

On a sudden, a whistle was again heard in the distance, which was once more answered by a low tone or two of Hayraddin’s horn. Presently afterwards, a tall, stout, soldierly looking man, a strong contrast in point of thews and sinews to the small and slender limbed Bohemians, made his appearance. He had a broad baldric over his shoulder, which sustained a sword that hung almost across his person, his hose were much slashed, through which slashes was drawn silk, or tiffany, of various colours, they were tied by at least five hundred points or strings, made of ribbon, to the tight buff jacket which he wore, the right sleeve of which displayed a silver boar’s head, the crest of his Captain. A very small hat sat jauntily on one side of his head, from which descended a quantity of curled hair, which fell on each side of a broad face, and mingled with as broad a beard, about four inches long. He held a long lance in his hand, and his whole equipment was that of one of the German adventurers, who were known by the name of lanzknechts, in English, spearmen, who constituted a formidable part of the infantry of the period. These mercenaries were, of course, a fierce and rapacious soldiery, and having an idle tale current among themselves, that a lanzknecht was refused admittance into heaven on account of his vices, and into hell on the score of his tumultuous, mutinous, and insubordinate disposition, they manfully acted as if they neither sought the one nor eschewed the other.

“Donner and blitz! [thunder and lightning!]” was his first salutation, in a sort of German French, which we can only imperfectly imitate, “Why have you kept me dancing in attendance dis dree nights?”

“I could not see you sooner, Meinherr,” said Hayraddin, very submissively, “there is a young Scot, with as quick an eye as the wildcat, who watches my least motions. He suspects me already, and, should he find his suspicion confirmed, I were a dead man on the spot, and he would carry back the women into France again.”

“Was henker! [what the deuce!]” said the lanzknecht, “we are three – we will attack them tomorrow, and carry the women off without going farther. You said the two valets were cowards – you and your comrade may manage them, and the Teufel [the devil] shall hold me, but I match your Scots wildcat.”

“You will find that foolhardy,” said Hayraddin, “for besides that we ourselves count not much in fighting, this spark hath matched himself with the best knight in France, and come off with honour – I have seen those who saw him press Dunois hard enough.”

“Hagel and sturmwetter! [hail and stormy weather!] It is but your cowardice that speaks,” said the German soldier.

“I am no more a coward than yourself,” said Hayraddin “but my trade is not fighting. – If you keep the appointment where it was laid, it is well – if not, I guide them safely to the Bishop’s Palace, and William de la Marck may easily possess himself of them there, provided he is half as strong as he pretended a week since.”

“Poz tausend! [Zounds!]” said the soldier, “we are as strong and stronger, but we hear of a hundreds of the lances of Burgund, – das ist, see you, – five men to a lance do make five hundreds, and then hold me the devil, they will be fainer to seek for us, than we to seek for them, for der Bischoff hath a goot force on footing – ay, indeed!”

“You must then hold to the ambuscade at the Cross of the Three Kings, or give up the adventure,” said the Bohemian.

“Geb up – geb up the adventure of the rich bride for our noble hauptman [leader or captain] – Teufel! I will charge through hell first. – Mein soul, we will be all princes and hertzogs, whom they call dukes, and we will hab a snab at the wein kellar [wine cellar], and at the mouldy French crowns, and it may be at the pretty garces too [meaning the countesses], when He with de beard is weary on them.”

“The ambuscade at the Cross of the Three Kings then still holds?” said the Bohemian.

“Mein Gob ay, – you will swear to bring them there, and when they are on their knees before the cross, and down from off their horses, which all men do, except such black heathens as thou, we will make in on them and they are ours.”

“Ay, but I promised this piece of necessary villainy only on one condition,” said Hayraddin. – “I will not have a hair of the young man’s head touched. If you swear this to me, by your Three Dead Men of Cologne, I will swear to you, by the Seven Night Walkers, that I will serve you truly as to the rest. And if you break your oath, the Night Walkers shall wake you seven nights from your sleep, between night and morning, and, on the eighth, they shall strangle and devour you.”

“But donner and bagel, what need you be so curious about the life of this boy, who is neither your bloot nor kin?” said the German.

“No matter for that, honest Heinrick, some men have pleasure in cutting throats, some in keeping them whole. – So swear to me, that you will spare him life and limb, or by the bright star Aldebaran, this matter shall go no farther. – Swear, and by the Three Kings, as you call them, of Cologne – I know you care for no other oath.”

“Du bist ein comische man [thou art a droll fellow],” said the lanzknecht, “I swear.”

“Not yet,” said the Bohemian. “Face about, brave lanzknecht, and look to the east, else the Kings may not hear you.”

The soldier took the oath in the manner prescribed, and then declared that he would be in readiness, observing the place was quite convenient, being scarce five miles from their present leaguer.

“But were it not making sure work to have a fahnlein [a regiment or company] of riders on the other road, by the left side of the inn, which might trap them if they go that way?”

The Bohemian considered a moment, and then answered. “No – the appearance of their troops in that direction might alarm the garrison of Namur, and then they would have a doubtful fight, instead of assured success. Besides, they shall travel on the right bank of the Maes, for I can guide them which way I will, for sharp as this same Scottish mountaineer is, he hath never asked any one’s advice, save mine, upon the direction of their route. Undoubtedly, I was assigned to him by an assured friend, whose word no man mistrusts till they come to know him a little.”