Quentin Durward

Thus spoke Quentin, with a voice in which internal agony struggled with his desire to assume an indifferent tone, like that of the poor condemned criminal, when, affecting a firmness which he is far from feeling, he asks if the death warrant be arrived.

“No, Durward, no,” said the Lady Isabelle, sitting up erect in her saddle, “to that hated condition all Burgundy’s power shall not sink a daughter of the House of Croye. Burgundy may seize on my lands and fiefs, he may imprison my person in a convent, but that is the worst I have to expect, and worse than that I will endure ere I give my hand to Campobasso.”

“The worst?” said Quentin, “and what worse can there be than plunder and imprisonment? – Oh, think, while you have God’s free air around you, and one by your side who will hazard life to conduct you to England, to Germany, even to Scotland, in all of which you shall find generous protectors. – Oh, while this is the case, do not resolve so rashly to abandon the means of liberty, the best gift that Heaven gives! – Oh, well sang a poet of my own land —

“Ah, freedom is a noble thing —
Freedom makes men to have liking —
Freedom the zest to pleasure gives —
He lives at ease who freely lives.
Grief, sickness, poortith [poverty], want, are all
Summ’d up within the name of thrall.”

    [from Barbour’s Bruce]
She listened with a melancholy smile to her guide’s tirade in praise of liberty, and then answered, after a moment’s pause. “Freedom is for man alone – woman must ever seek a protector, since nature made her incapable to defend herself. And where am I to find one? – In that voluptuary Edward of England – in the inebriated Wenceslaus of Germany – in Scotland? – Ah, Durward, were I your sister, and could you promise me shelter in some of those mountain glens which you love to describe where, for charity, or for the few jewels I have preserved, I might lead an unharrassed life, and forget the lot I was born to – could you promise me the protection of some honoured matron of the land – of some baron whose heart was as true as his sword – that were indeed a prospect, for which it were worth the risk of farther censure to wander farther and wider.”

There was a faltering tenderness of voice with which the Countess Isabelle made this admission that at once filled Quentin with a sensation of joy, and cut him to the very heart. He hesitated a moment ere he made an answer, hastily reviewing in his mind the possibility there might be that he could procure her shelter in Scotland, but the melancholy truth rushed on him that it would be alike base and cruel to point out to her a course which he had not the most distant power or means to render safe.

“Lady,” he said at last, “I should act foully against my honour and oath of chivalry, did I suffer you to ground any plan upon the thoughts that I have the power in Scotland to afford you other protection than that of the poor arm which is now by your side. I scarce know that my blood flows in the veins of an individual who now lives in my native land. The Knight of Innerquharity stormed our Castle at midnight, and cut off all that belonged to my name. Were I again in Scotland, our feudal enemies are numerous and powerful, I single and weak, and even had the King a desire to do me justice, he dared not, for the sake of redressing the wrongs of a poor individual, provoke a chief who rides with five hundred horse.”

“Alas!” said the Countess, “there is then no corner of the world safe from oppression, since it rages as unrestrained amongst those wild hills which afford so few objects to covet as in our rich and abundant lowlands!”

“It is a sad truth, and I dare not deny it,” said the Scot, “that for little more than the pleasure of revenge, and the lust of bloodshed, our hostile clans do the work of executioners on each other, and Ogilvies and the like act the same scenes in Scotland as De la Marck and his robbers do in this country.”

“No more of Scotland, then,” said Isabelle, with a tone of indifference, either real or affected – “no more of Scotland, – which indeed I mentioned but in jest, to see if you really dared to recommend to me, as a place of rest, the most distracted kingdom in Europe. It was but a trial of your sincerity, which I rejoice to see may be relied on, even when your partialities are most strongly excited. So, once more, I will think of no other protection than can be afforded by the first honourable baron holding of Duke Charles, to whom I am determined to render myself.”

“And why not rather betake yourself to your own estates, and to your own strong castle, as you designed when at Tours?” said Quentin. “Why not call around you the vassals of your father, and make treaty with Burgundy, rather than surrender yourself to him? Surely there must be many a bold heart that would fight in your cause, and I know at least of one who would willingly lay down his life to give example.”

“Alas,” said the Countess, “that scheme, the suggestion of the crafty Louis, and, like all which he ever suggested, designed more for his advantage than for mine, has become practicable, since it was betrayed to Burgundy by the double traitor Zamet Hayraddin. My kinsman was then imprisoned, and my houses garrisoned. Any attempt of mine would but expose my dependents to the vengeance of Duke Charles, and why should I occasion more bloodshed than has already taken place on so worthless an account? No. I will submit myself to my Sovereign as a dutiful vassal, in all which shall leave my personal freedom of choice uninfringed, the rather that I trust my kinswoman, the Countess Hameline, who first counselled, and indeed urged my flight, has already taken this wise and honourable step.”

“Your kinswoman!” repeated Quentin, awakened to recollections to which the young Countess was a stranger, and which the rapid succession of perilous and stirring events had, as matters of nearer concern, in fact banished from his memory.

“Ay – my aunt – the Countess Hameline of Croye – know you aught of her?” said the Countess Isabelle. “I trust she is now under the protection of the Burgundian banner. You are silent. Know you aught of her?”

The last question, urged in a tone of the most anxious inquiry, obliged Quentin to give some account of what he knew of the Countess’s fate. He mentioned that he had been summoned to attend her in a flight from Liege, which he had no doubt the Lady Isabelle would be partaker in – he mentioned the discovery that had been made after they had gained the forest – and finally, he told his own return to the castle, and the circumstances in which he found it. But he said nothing of the views with which it was plain the Lady Hameline had left the Castle of Schonwaldt, and as little about the floating report of her having fallen into the hands of William de la Marck. Delicacy prevented his even hinting at the one, and regard for the feelings of his companion at a moment when strength and exertion were most demanded of her, prevented him from alluding to the latter, which had, besides, only reached him as a mere rumour.

This tale, though abridged of those important particulars, made a strong impression on the Countess Isabelle, who, after riding some time in silence, said at last, with a tone of cold displeasure, “And so you abandoned my unfortunate relative in a wild forest, at the mercy of a vile Bohemian and a traitorous waiting woman? – Poor kinswoman, thou wert wont to praise this youth’s good faith!”

“Had I not done so, madam.” said Quentin, not unreasonably offended at the turn thus given to his gallantry, “what had been the fate of one to whose service I was far more devotedly bound? Had I not left the Countess Hameline of Croye to the charge of those whom she had herself selected as counsellors and advisers, the Countess Isabelle had been ere now the bride of William de la Marck, the Wild Boar of Ardennes.”

“You are right,” said the Countess Isabelle, in her usual manner, “and I, who have the advantage of your unhesitating devotion, have done you foul and ungrateful wrong. But oh, my unhappy kinswoman! and the wretch Marthon, who enjoyed so much of her confidence, and deserved it so little – it was she that introduced to my kinswoman the wretched Zamet and Hayraddin Maugrabin, who, by their pretended knowledge of soothsaying and astrology, obtained a great ascendancy over her mind, it was she who, strengthening their predictions, encouraged her in – I know not what to call them – delusions concerning matches and lovers, which my kinswoman’s age rendered ungraceful and improbable. I doubt not that, from the beginning, we had been surrounded by these snares by Louis of France, in order to determine us to take refuge at his Court, or rather to put ourselves into his power, after which rash act on our part, how unkingly, unknightly, ignobly, ungentlemanlike, he hath conducted himself towards us, you, Quentin Durward, can bear witness. But, alas! my kinswoman – what think you will be her fate?”

Endeavouring to inspire hopes which he scarce felt, Durward answered that the avarice of these people was stronger than any other passion, that Marthon, even when he left them, seemed to act rather as the Lady Hameline’s protectress, and in fine, that it was difficult to conceive any object these wretches could accomplish by the ill usage or murder of the Countess, whereas they might be gainers by treating her well, and putting her to ransom.

To lead the Countess Isabelle’s thoughts from this melancholy subject, Quentin frankly told her the treachery of the Maugrabin, which he had discovered in the night quarter near Namur, and which appeared the result of an agreement betwixt the King and William de la Marck. Isabelle shuddered with horror, and then recovering herself said, “I am ashamed, and I have sinned in permitting myself so far to doubt of the saints’ protection, as for an instant to have deemed possible the accomplishment of a scheme so utterly cruel, base, and dishonourable, while there are pitying eyes in Heaven to look down on human miseries. It is not a thing to be thought of with fear or abhorrence, but to be rejected as such a piece of incredible treachery and villainy, as it were atheism to believe could ever be successful. But I now see plainly why that hypocritical Marthon often seemed to foster every seed of petty jealousy or discontent betwixt my poor kinswoman and myself, whilst she always mixed with flattery, addressed to the individual who was present, whatever could prejudice her against her absent kinswoman. Yet never did I dream she could have proceeded so far as to have caused my once affectionate kinswoman to have left me behind in the perils of Schonwaldt, while she made her own escape.”

“Did the Lady Hameline not mention to you, then,” said Quentin, “her intended flight?”

“No,” replied the Countess, “but she alluded to some communication which Marthon was to make to me. To say truth, my poor kinswoman’s head was so turned by the mysterious jargon of the miserable Hayraddin, whom that day she had admitted to a long and secret conference, and she threw out so many strange hints that – that – in short, I cared not to press on her, when in that humour, for any explanation. Yet it was cruel to leave me behind her.”

“I will excuse the Lady Hameline from intending such unkindness,” said Quentin, “for such was the agitation of the moment, and the darkness of the hour, that I believe the Lady Hameline as certainly conceived herself accompanied by her niece, as I at the same time, deceived by Marthon’s dress and demeanour, supposed I was in the company of both the Ladies of Croye: and of her especially,” he added, with a low but determined voice, “without whom the wealth of worlds would not have tempted me to leave.”

Isabelle stooped her head forward, and seemed scarce to hear the emphasis with which Quentin had spoken. But she turned her face to him again when he began to speak of the policy of Louis, and, it was not difficult for them, by mutual communication, to ascertain that the Bohemian brothers, with their accomplice Marthon, had been the agents of that crafty monarch, although Zamet, the elder of them, with a perfidy peculiar to his race, had attempted to play a double game, and had been punished accordingly. In the same humour of mutual confidence, and forgetting the singularity of their own situation, as well as the perils of the road, the travellers pursued their journey for several hours, only stopping to refresh their horses at a retired dorff, or hamlet, to which they were conducted by Hans Glover, who, in all other respects, as well as in leaving them much to their own freedom in conversation, conducted himself like a person of reflection and discretion.

Meantime, the artificial distinction which divided the two lovers (for such we may now term them) seemed dissolved, or removed, by the circumstances in which they were placed, for if the Countess boasted the higher rank, and was by birth entitled to a fortune incalculably larger than that of the youth, whose revenue lay in his sword, it was to be considered that, for the present, she was as poor as he, and for her safety, honour, and life, exclusively indebted to his presence of mind, valour, and devotion. They spoke not indeed of love, for though the young lady, her heart full of gratitude and confidence, might have pardoned such a declaration, yet Quentin, on whose tongue there was laid a check, both by natural timidity and by the sentiments of chivalry, would have held it an unworthy abuse of her situation had he said anything which could have the appearance of taking undue advantage of the opportunities which it afforded them. They spoke not then of love, but the thoughts of it were on both sides unavoidable, and thus they were placed in that relation to each other, in which sentiments of mutual regard are rather understood than announced, and which, with the freedoms which it permits, and the uncertainties that attend it, often forms the most delightful hours of human existence, and as frequently leads to those which are darkened by disappointment, fickleness, and all the pains of blighted hope and unrequited attachment.

It was two hours after noon, when the travellers were alarmed by the report of the guide, who, with paleness and horror in his countenance, said that they were pursued by a party of De la Marck’s Schwarzreiters. These soldiers, or rather banditti, were bands levied in the Lower Circles of Germany, and resembled the lanzknechts in every particular, except that the former acted as light cavalry. To maintain the name of Black Troopers, and to strike additional terror into their enemies, they usually rode on black chargers, and smeared with black ointment their arms and accoutrements, in which operation their hands and faces often had their share. In morals and in ferocity these Schwarzreiters emulated their pedestrian brethren the Lanzknechts.

[“To make their horses and boots shine, they make themselves as black as colliers. These horsemen wear black clothes, and poor though they be, spend no small time in brushing them. The most of them have black horses… and delight to have their boots and shoes shine with blacking stuff, their hands and faces become black, and thereof they have their foresaid name.”… Fynes Morrison’s Itinerary. – S.]

On looking back, and discovering along the long level road which they had traversed a cloud of dust advancing, with one or two of the headmost troopers riding furiously in front of it, Quentin addressed his companion: “Dearest Isabelle, I have no weapon left save my sword, but since I cannot fight for you, I will fly with you. Could we gain yonder wood that is before us ere they come up, we may easily find means to escape.”

“So be it, my only friend,” said Isabelle, pressing her horse to the gallop, “and thou, good fellow,” she added, addressing Hans Glover, “get thee off to another road, and do not stay to partake our misfortune and danger.”

The honest Fleming shook his head, and answered her generous exhortation, with Nein, nein! das geht nicht [no, no! that must not be], and continued to attend them, all three riding toward the shelter of the wood as fast as their jaded horses could go, pursued, at the same time, by the Schwarzreiters, who increased their pace when they saw them fly. But notwithstanding the fatigue of the horses, still the fugitives being unarmed, and riding lighter in consequence, had considerably the advantage of the pursuers, and were within about a quarter of a mile of the wood, when a body of men at arms, under a knight’s pennon, was discovered advancing from the cover, so as to intercept their flight.

“They have bright armour,” said Isabelle, “they must be Burgundians. Be they who they will, we must yield to them, rather than to the lawless miscreants who pursue us.”

A moment after, she exclaimed, looking on the pennon, “I know the cloven heart which it displays! It is the banner of the Count of Crevecoeur, a noble Burgundian – to him I will surrender myself.”

Quentin Durward sighed, but what other alternative remained, and how happy would he have been but an instant before, to have been certain of the escape of Isabelle, even under worse terms? They soon joined the band of Crevecoeur, and the Countess demanded to speak to the leader, who had halted his party till he should reconnoitre the Black Troopers, and as he gazed on her with doubt and uncertainty, she said, “Noble Count – Isabelle of Croye, the daughter of your old companion in arms, Count Reinold of Croye, renders herself, and asks protection from your valour for her and hers.”

“Thou shalt have it, fair kinswoman, were it against a host – always excepting my liege lord, of Burgundy. But there is little time to talk of it. These filthy looking fiends have made a halt, as if they intended to dispute the matter. – By Saint George of Burgundy, they have the insolence to advance against the banner of Crevecoeur! What! will not the knaves be ruled? Damian, my lance! – Advance banner! – Lay your spears in the rest! – Crevecoeur to the Rescue!”

Crying his war cry, and followed by his men at arms, he galloped rapidly forward to charge the Schwarzreiters.

CHAPTER XXIV: THE SURRENDER

Rescue or none, Sir Knight, I am your captive:
Deal with me what your nobleness suggests —
Thinking the chance of war may one day place you
Where I must now be reckon’d – I’ the roll
Of melancholy prisoners.

    ANONYMOUS

The skirmish betwixt the Schwarzreiters and the Burgundian men at arms lasted scarcely five minutes, so soon were the former put to the rout by the superiority of the latter in armour, weight of horse, and military spirit. In less than the space we have mentioned, the Count of Crevecoeur, wiping his bloody sword upon his horse’s mane ere he sheathed it, came back to the verge of the forest, where Isabelle had remained a spectator of the combat. One part of his people followed him, while the other continued to pursue the flying enemy for a little space along the causeway.

“It is shame,” said the Count, “that the weapons of knights and gentlemen should be soiled by the blood of those brutal swine.”

So saying, he returned his weapon to the sheath and added, “This is a rough welcome to your home, my pretty cousin, but wandering princesses must expect such adventures. And well I came up in time, for, let me assure you, the Black Troopers respect a countess’s coronet as little as a country wench’s coif, and I think your retinue is not qualified for much resistance.”

“My Lord Count,” said the Lady Isabelle, “without farther preface, let me know if I am a prisoner, and where you are to conduct me.”

“You know, you silly child,” answered the Count, “how I would answer that question, did it rest on my own will. But you, and your foolish match making, marriage hunting aunt, have made such wild use of your wings of late, that I fear you must be contented to fold them up in a cage for a little while. For my part, my duty, and it is a sad one, will be ended when I have conducted you to the Court of the Duke, at Peronne for which purpose I hold it necessary to deliver the command of this reconnoitring party to my nephew, Count Stephen, while I return with you thither, as I think you may need an intercessor. – And I hope the young giddy pate will discharge his duty wisely.”

“So please you, fair uncle,” said Count Stephen, “if you doubt my capacity to conduct the men at arms, even remain with them yourself, and I will be the servant and guard of the Countess Isabelle of Croye.”

“No doubt, fair nephew,” answered his uncle, “this were a goodly improvement on my scheme, but methinks I like it as well in the way I planned it. Please you, therefore, to take notice, that your business here is not to hunt after and stick these black hogs, for which you seemed but now to have felt an especial vocation, but to collect and bring to me true tidings of what is going forward in the country of Liege, concerning which we hear such wild rumours. Let some half score of lances follow me and the rest remain with my banner under your guidance.”