Maid Marian

  Produced by Charles Keller

  MAID MARIAN

  by Thomas Love Peacock

  MAID MARIAN

  CHAPTER I

  Now come ye for peace here, or come ye for war? --SCOTT.

  "The abbot, in his alb arrayed," stood at the altar in the abbey-chapelof Rubygill, with all his plump, sleek, rosy friars, in goodly linesdisposed, to solemnise the nuptials of the beautiful Matilda Fitzwater,daughter of the Baron of Arlingford, with the noble Robert Fitz-Ooth,Earl of Locksley and Huntingdon. The abbey of Rubygill stood in apicturesque valley, at a little distance from the western boundary ofSherwood Forest, in a spot which seemed adapted by nature to bethe retreat of monastic mortification, being on the banks of a finetrout-stream, and in the midst of woodland coverts, abounding withexcellent game. The bride, with her father and attendant maidens,entered the chapel; but the earl had not arrived. The baron was amazed,and the bridemaidens were disconcerted. Matilda feared that some evilhad befallen her lover, but felt no diminution of her confidence in hishonour and love. Through the open gates of the chapel she looked downthe narrow road that wound along the side of the hill; and her ear wasthe first that heard the distant trampling of horses, and her eye wasthe first that caught the glitter of snowy plumes, and the light ofpolished spears. "It is strange," thought the baron, "that the earlshould come in this martial array to his wedding;" but he had not longto meditate on the phenomenon, for the foaming steeds swept up to thegate like a whirlwind, and the earl, breathless with speed, and followedby a few of his yeomen, advanced to his smiling bride. It was thenno time to ask questions, for the organ was in full peal, and thechoristers were in full voice.

  The abbot began to intone the ceremony in a style of modulationimpressively exalted, his voice issuing most canonically from the roofof his mouth, through the medium of a very musical nose newly tuned forthe occasion. But he had not proceeded far enough to exhibit all thevariety and compass of this melodious instrument, when a noise was heardat the gate, and a party of armed men entered the chapel. The song ofthe choristers died away in a shake of demisemiquavers, contrary to allthe rules of psalmody. The organ-blower, who was working his musicalair-pump with one hand, and with two fingers and a thumb of the otherinsinuating a peeping-place through the curtain of the organ-gallery,was struck motionless by the double operation of curiosity and fear;while the organist, intent only on his performance, and spreading allhis fingers to strike a swell of magnificent chords, felt his harmonicspirit ready to desert his body on being answered by the ghastly rattleof empty keys, and in the consequent agitato furioso of the internalmovements of his feelings, was preparing to restore harmony by the seguesubito of an appoggiatura con foco with the corner of a book of anthemson the head of his neglectful assistant, when his hand and his attentiontogether were arrested by the scene below. The voice of the abbotsubsided into silence through a descending scale of long-drawn melody,like the sound of the ebbing sea to the explorers of a cave. In a fewmoments all was silence, interrupted only by the iron tread of the armedintruders, as it rang on the marble floor and echoed from the vaultedaisles.

  The leader strode up to the altar; and placing himself opposite to theabbot, and between the earl and Matilda, in such a manner that the fourtogether seemed to stand on the four points of a diamond, exclaimed, "Inthe name of King Henry, I forbid the ceremony, and attach Robert Earl ofHuntingdon as a traitor!" and at the same time he held his drawn swordbetween the lovers, as if to emblem that royal authority which laid itstemporal ban upon their contract. The earl drew his own sword instantly,and struck down the interposing weapon; then clasped his left arm roundMatilda, who sprang into his embrace, and held his sword before her withhis right hand. His yeomen ranged themselves at his side, and stood withtheir swords drawn, still and prepared, like men determined to die inhis defence. The soldiers, confident in superiority of numbers,paused. The abbot took advantage of the pause to introduce a word ofexhortation. "My children," said he, "if you are going to cut eachother's throats, I entreat you, in the name of peace and charity, to doit out of the chapel."

  "Sweet Matilda," said the earl, "did you give your love to the Earlof Huntingdon, whose lands touch the Ouse and the Trent, or to RobertFitz-Ooth, the son of his mother?"

  "Neither to the earl nor his earldom," answered Matilda firmly, "but toRobert Fitz-Ooth and his love."

  "That I well knew," said the earl; "and though the ceremony beincomplete, we are not the less married in the eye of my only saint, ourLady, who will yet bring us together. Lord Fitzwater, to your care, forthe present, I commit your daughter.--Nay, sweet Matilda, part we mustfor a while; but we will soon meet under brighter skies, and be this theseal of our faith."

  He kissed Matilda's lips, and consigned her to the baron, who gloweredabout him with an expression of countenance that showed he was mortallywroth with somebody; but whatever he thought or felt he kept to himself.The earl, with a sign to his followers, made a sudden charge on thesoldiers, with the intention of cutting his way through. The soldierswere prepared for such an occurrence, and a desperate skirmishsucceeded. Some of the women screamed, but none of them fainted; forfainting was not so much the fashion in those days, when the ladiesbreakfasted on brawn and ale at sunrise, as in our more refined age ofgreen tea and muffins at noon. Matilda seemed disposed to fly again toher lover, but the baron forced her from the chapel. The earl's bowmenat the door sent in among the assailants a volley of arrows, one ofwhich whizzed past the ear of the abbot, who, in mortal fear of beingsuddenly translated from a ghostly friar into a friarly ghost, beganto roll out of the chapel as fast as his bulk and his holy robes wouldpermit, roaring "Sacrilege!" with all his monks at his heels, who were,like himself, more intent to go at once than to stand upon the order oftheir going. The abbot, thus pressed from behind, and stumbling overhis own drapery before, fell suddenly prostrate in the door-way thatconnected the chapel with the abbey, and was instantaneously buriedunder a pyramid of ghostly carcasses, that fell over him and each other,and lay a rolling chaos of animated rotundities, sprawling and bawlingin unseemly disarray, and sending forth the names of all the saintsin and out of heaven, amidst the clashing of swords, the ringing ofbucklers, the clattering of helmets, the twanging of bow-strings, thewhizzing of arrows, the screams of women, the shouts of the warriors,and the vociferations of the peasantry, who had been assembled to theintended nuptials, and who, seeing a fair set-to, contrived to pick aquarrel among themselves on the occasion, and proceeded, with staff andcudgel, to crack each other's skulls for the good of the king and theearl. One tall friar alone was untouched by the panic of his brethren,and stood steadfastly watching the combat with his arms a-kembo, thecolossal emblem of an unarmed neutrality.

  At length, through the midst of the internal confusion, the earl, by thehelp of his good sword, the staunch valour of his men, and the blessingof the Virgin, fought his way to the chapel-gate--his bowmen closed himin--he vaulted into his saddle, clapped spurs to his horse, rallied hismen on the first eminence, and exchanged his sword for a bow and arrow,with which he did old execution among the pursuers, who at last thoughtit most expedient to desist from offensive warfare, and to retreat intothe abbey, where, in the king's name, they broached a pipe of the bestwine, and attached all the venison in the larder, having first carefullyunpacked the tuft of friars, and set the fallen abbot on his legs.

  The friars, it may be well supposed, and such of the king's men asescaped unhurt from the affray, found their spirits a cup too low,and kept the flask moving from noon till night. The peaceful brethren,unused to the tumult of war, had undergone, from fear and discomposure,an exhaustion of animal spirits that required extraordinary refection.During the repast, they interrogated Sir Ralph Montfaucon, the leader ofthe soldiers, respecting the natu
re of the earl's offence.

  "A complication of offences," replied Sir Ralph, "superinduced on theoriginal basis of forest-treason. He began with hunting the king's deer,in despite of all remonstrance; followed it up by contempt of the king'smandates, and by armed resistance to his power, in defiance of allauthority; and combined with it the resolute withholding of payment ofcertain moneys to the abbot of Doncaster, in denial of all law; and hasthus made himself the declared enemy of church and state, and all forbeing too fond of venison." And the knight helped himself to half apasty.

  "A heinous offender," said a little round oily friar, appropriating theportion of pasty which Sir Ralph had left.

  "The earl is a worthy peer," said the tall friar whom we have alreadymentioned in the chapel scene, "and the best marksman in England."

  "Why this is flat treason, brother Michael," said the little roundfriar, "to call an attainted traitor a worthy peer."

  "I pledge you," said brother Michael. The little friar smiled and filledhis cup. "He will draw the long bow," pursued brother Michael, "with anybold yeoman among them all."

  "Don't talk of the long bow," said the abbot, who had the sound of thearrow still whizzing in his ear: "what have we pillars of the faith todo with the long bow?"

  "Be that as it may," said Sir Ralph, "he is an outlaw from this moment."

  "So much the worse for the law then," said brother Michael. "The lawwill have a heavier miss of him than he will have of the law. He willstrike as much venison as ever, and more of other game. I know what Isay: but basta: Let us drink."

  "What other game?" said the little friar. "I hope he won't poach amongour partridges."

  "Poach! not he," said brother Michael: "if he wants your partridges,he will strike them under your nose (here's to you), and drag yourtrout-stream for you on a Thursday evening."

  "Monstrous! and starve us on fast-day," said the little friar.

  "But that is not the game I mean," said brother Michael.

  "Surely, son Michael," said the abbot, "you do not mean to insinuatethat the noble earl will turn freebooter?"

  "A man must live," said brother Michael, "earl or no. If the law takeshis rents and beeves without his consent, he must take beeves and rentswhere he can get them without the consent of the law. This is the lextalionis."

  "Truly," said Sir Ralph, "I am sorry for the damsel: she seems fond ofthis wild runagate."

  "A mad girl, a mad girl," said the little friar.

  "How a mad girl?" said brother Michael. "Has she not beauty, grace, wit,sense, discretion, dexterity, learning, and valour?"

  "Learning!" exclaimed the little friar; "what has a woman to do withlearning? And valour! who ever heard a woman commended for valour?Meekness and mildness, and softness, and gentleness, and tenderness, andhumility, and obedience to her husband, and faith in her confessor,and domesticity, or, as learned doctors call it, the faculty ofstayathomeitiveness, and embroidery, and music, and pickling, andpreserving, and the whole complex and multiplex detail of the noblescience of dinner, as well in preparation for the table, as inarrangement over it, and in distribution around it to knights, andsquires, and ghostly friars,--these are female virtues: but valour--whywho ever heard----?"

  "She is the all in all," said brother Michael, "gentle as a ring-dove,yet high-soaring as a falcon: humble below her deserving, yet deservingbeyond the estimate of panegyric: an exact economist in all superfluity,yet a most bountiful dispenser in all liberality: the chief regulator ofher household, the fairest pillar of her hall, and the sweetest blossomof her bower: having, in all opposite proposings, sense to understand,judgment to weigh, discretion to choose, firmness to undertake,diligence to conduct, perseverance to accomplish, and resolution tomaintain. For obedience to her husband, that is not to be tried tillshe has one: for faith in her confessor, she has as much as the lawprescribes: for embroidery an Arachne: for music a Siren: and forpickling and preserving, did not one of her jars of sugared apricotsgive you your last surfeit at Arlingford Castle?"

  "Call you that preserving?" said the little friar; "I call itdestroying. Call you it pickling? Truly it pickled me. My life was savedby miracle."

  "By canary," said brother Michael. "Canary is the only life preserver,the true aurum potabile, the universal panacea for all diseases, thirst,and short life. Your life was saved by canary."

  "Indeed, reverend father," said Sir Ralph, "if the young lady be halfwhat you describe, she must be a paragon: but your commending her forvalour does somewhat amaze me."

  "She can fence," said the little friar, "and draw the long bow, and playat singlestick and quarter-staff."

  "Yet mark you," said brother Michael, "not like a virago or a hoyden,or one that would crack a serving-man's head for spilling gravy on herruff, but with such womanly grace and temperate self-command as ifthose manly exercises belonged to her only, and were become for her sakefeminine."

  "You incite me," said Sir Ralph, "to view her more nearly. That madcapearl found me other employment than to remark her in the chapel."

  "The earl is a worthy peer," said brother Michael; "he is worth anyfourteen earls on this side Trent, and any seven on the other." (Thereader will please to remember that Rubygill Abbey was north of Trent.)

  "His mettle will be tried," said Sir Ralph. "There is many a courtierwill swear to King Henry to bring him in dead or alive."

  "They must look to the brambles then," said brother Michael.

  "The bramble, the bramble, the bonny forest bramble, Doth make a jest Of silken vest, That will through greenwood scramble: The bramble, the bramble, the bonny forest bramble."

  "Plague on your lungs, son Michael," said the abbot; "this is your oldcoil: always roaring in your cups."

  "I know what I say," said brother Michael; "there is often more sense inan old song than in a new homily.

  The courtly pad doth amble, When his gay lord would ramble: But both may catch An awkward scratch, If they ride among the bramble: The bramble, the bramble, the bonny forest bramble."

  "Tall friar," said Sir Ralph, "either you shoot the shafts of yourmerriment at random, or you know more of the earl's designs than beseemsyour frock."

  "Let my frock," said brother Michael, "answer for its own sins. It isworn past covering mine. It is too weak for a shield, too transparentfor a screen, too thin for a shelter, too light for gravity, and toothreadbare for a jest. The wearer would be naught indeed who shouldmisbeseem such a wedding garment.

  But wherefore does the sheep wear wool? That he in season sheared may be, And the shepherd be warm though his flock be cool: So I'll have a new cloak about me."