That baron he to his castle fled,
To Barnard Castle then fled he;
The uttermost walls were eathe to win,
The Earls have won them speedilie;-
The uttermost walls were stone and brick;
But though they won them soon anon,
Long ere they won the inmost walls,
For they were hewn in rock of stone.
PERCY’S RELICS OF ANCIENT POETRY.
The unhappy fate of the battle was soon evident to the anxious spectators upon the watch-towers of the Garde Doloureuse, which name the castle that day too well deserved. With difficulty the confessor mastered his own emotions to control those of the females on whom he attended, and who were now joined in their lamentation by many others — women, children, and infirm old men, the relatives of those whom they saw engaged in this unavailing contest. These helpless beings had been admitted to the castle for security’s sake, and they had now thronged to the battlements, from which Father Aldrovand found difficulty in making them descend, aware that the sight of them on the towers, that should have appeared lined with armed men, would be an additional encouragement to the exertions of the assailants. He urged the Lady Eveline to set an example to this group of helpless, yet intractable mourners.
Preserving, at least endeavouring to preserve, even in the extremity of grief, that composure which the manners of the times enjoined — for chivalry had its stoicism as well as philosophy — Eveline replied in a voice which she would fain have rendered firm, and which was tremulous in her despite —“Yes, father, you say well — here is no longer aught left for maidens to look upon. Warlike meed and honoured deed sunk when yonder white plume touched the bloody ground.— Come, maidens, there is no longer aught left us to see — To mass, to mass — the tourney is over!”
There was wildness in her tone, and when she rose, with the air of one who would lead out a procession, she staggered, and would have fallen, but for the support of the confessor. Hastily wrapping her head in her mantle, as if ashamed of the agony of grief which she could not restrain, and of which her sobs and the low moaning sounds that issued from under the folds enveloping her face, declared the excess, she suffered Father Aldrovand to conduct her whither he would.
“Our gold,” he said, “has changed to brass, our silver to dross, our wisdom, to folly — it is His will, who confounds the counsels of the wise, and shortens the arm of the mighty. To the chapel — to the chapel, Lady Eveline; and instead of vain repining, let us pray to God and the saints to turn away their displeasure, and to save the feeble remnant from the jaws of the devouring wolf.”
Thus speaking, he half led, half supported Eveline, who was at the moment almost incapable of thought and action, to the castle-chapel, where, sinking before the altar, she assumed the attitude at least of devotion, though her thoughts, despite the pious words which her tongue faltered out mechanically, were upon the field of battle, beside the body of her slaughtered parent. The rest of the mourners imitated their young lady in her devotional posture, and in the absence of her thoughts. The consciousness that so many of the garrison had been cut off in Raymond’s incautious sally, added to their sorrows the sense of personal insecurity, which was exaggerated by the cruelties which were too often exercised by the enemy, who, in the heat of victory, were accustomed to spare neither sex nor age.
The monk, however, assumed among them the tone of authority which his character warranted, rebuked their wailing and ineffectual complaints, and having, as he thought, brought them to such a state of mind as better became their condition, he left them to their private devotions to indulge his own anxious curiosity by inquiring into the defences of the castle. Upon the outward walls he found Wilkin Flammock, who, having done the office of a good and skilful captain in the mode of managing his artillery, and beating back, as we have already seen, the advanced guard of the enemy, was now with his own hand measuring out to his little garrison no stinted allowance of wine.
“Have a care, good Wilkin,” said the father, “that thou dost not exceed in this matter. Wine is, thou knowest, like fire and water, an excellent servant, but a very bad master.”
“It will be long ere it overflow the deep and solid skulls of my countrymen,” said Wilkin Flammock. “Our Flemish courage is like our Flanders horses — the one needs the spur, and the other must have a taste of the winepot; but, credit me, father, they are of an enduring generation, and will not shrink in the washing.— But indeed, if I were to give the knaves a cup more than enough, it were not altogether amiss, since they are like to have a platter the less.”
“How do you mean!” cried the monk, starting; “I trust in the saints the provisions have been cared for?”
“Not so well as in your convent, good father,” replied Wilkin, with the same immoveable stolidity of countenance. “We had kept, as you know, too jolly a Christmas to have a very fat Easter. Yon Welsh hounds, who helped to eat up our victuals, are now like to get into our hold for the lack of them.”
“Thou talkest mere folly,” answered the monk; “orders were last evening given by our lord (whose soul God assoilzie!) to fetch in the necessary supplies from the country around!
“Ay, but the Welsh were too sharp set to permit us to do that at our ease this morning, which should have been done weeks and months since. Our lord deceased, if deceased he be, was one of those who trusted to the edge of the sword, and even so hath come of it. Commend me to a crossbow and a well-victualled castle, if I must needs fight at all.— You look pale, my good father, a cup of wine will revive you.”
The monk motioned away from him the untasted cup, which Wilkin pressed him to with clownish civility. “We have now, indeed,” he said, “no refuge, save in prayer!”
“Most true, good father;” again replied the impassible Fleming; “pray therefore as much as you will. I will content myself with fasting, which will come whether I will or no.”— At this moment a horn was heard before the gate.—“Look to the portcullis and the gate, ye knaves!— What news, Neil Hansen?”
“A messenger from the Welsh tarries at the Mill-hill, just within shot of the cross-bows; he has a white flag, and demands admittance.”
“Admit him not, upon thy life, till we be prepared for him,” said Wilkin. “Bend the bonny mangonel upon the place, and shoot him if he dare to stir from the spot where he stands till we get all prepared to receive him,” said Flammock in his native language. “And, Neil, thou houndsfoot, bestir thyself — let every pike, lance, and pole in the castle be ranged along the battlements, and pointed through the shot-holes — cut up some tapestry into the shape of banners, and show them from the highest towers.— Be ready when I give a signal, to strike naker , [Footnote: Naker ,— Drum. ] and blow trumpets, if we have any; if not, some cow-horns — anything for a noise. And hark ye, Neil Hansen, do you, and four or five of your fellows, go to the armoury and slip on coats-of-mail; our Netherlandish corslets do not appal them so much. Then let the Welsh thief be blindfolded and brought in amongst us — Do you hold up your heads and keep silence — leave me to deal with him — only have a care there be no English among us.”
The monk, who in his travels had acquired some slight knowledge of the Flemish language, had well-nigh started when he heard the last article in Wilkin’s instructions to his countryman, but commanded himself, although a little surprised, both at this suspicious circumstance, and at the readiness and dexterity with which the rough-hewn Fleming seemed to adapt his preparations to the rules of war and of sound policy.
Wilkin, on his part, was not very certain whether the monk had not heard and understood more of what he said to his countryman, than what he had intended. As if to lull asleep any suspicion which Father Aldrovand might entertain, he repeated to him in English most of the directions which he had given, adding, “Well, good father, what think you of it?”
“Excellent well,” answered the father, “and done as if you had practised war from the cradle, instead of weaving broad-cloth.”
“Nay, spare not your jibes, father,” answered Wilkin.—“I know full well that you English think that Flemings have nought in their brainpan but sodden beef and cabbage; yet you see there goes wisdom to weaving of webs.”
“Right, Master Wilkin Flammock,” answered the father; “but, good Fleming, wilt thou tell me what answer thou wilt make to the Welsh Prince’s summons?”
“Reverend father, first tell me what the summons will be,” replied the Fleming.
“To surrender this castle upon the instant,” answered the monk. “What will be your reply?”
“My answer will be, Nay — unless upon good composition.”
“How, Sir Fleming! dare you mention composition and the castle of the Garde Doloureuse in one sentence?” said the monk.
“Not if I may do better,” answered the Fleming. “But would your reverence have me dally until the question amongst the garrison be, whether a plump priest or a fat Fleming will be the better flesh to furnish their shambles?”
“Pshaw!” replied Father Aldrovand, “thou canst not mean such folly. Relief must arrive within twenty-four hours at farthest. Raymond Berenger expected it for certain within such a space.”
“Raymond Berenger has been deceived this morning in more matters than one,” answered the Fleming.
“Hark thee, Flanderkin,” answered the monk, whose retreat from the world had not altogether quenched his military habits and propensities, “I counsel thee to deal uprightly in this matter, as thou dost regard thine own life; for here are as many English left alive, notwithstanding the slaughter of today, as may well suffice to fling the Flemish bull-frogs into the castle-ditch, should they have cause to think thou meanest falsely, in the keeping of this castle, and the defence of the Lady Eveline.”
“Let not your reverence be moved with unnecessary and idle fears,” replied Wilkin Flammock —“I am castellane in this house, by command of its lord, and what I hold for the advantage of mine service, that will I do.”
“But I,” said the angry monk, “I am the servant of the Pope — the chaplain of this castle, with power to bind and unloose. I fear me thou art no true Christian, Wilkin Flammock, but dost lean to the heresy of the mountaineers. Thou hast refused to take the blessed cross — thou hast breakfasted, and drunk both ale and wine, ere thou hast heard mass. Thou art not to be trusted, man, and I will not trust thee — I demand to be present at the conference betwixt thee and the Welshman.”
“It may not be, good father,” said Wilkin, with the same smiling, heavy countenance, which he maintained on all occasions of life, however urgent. “It is true, as thou sayest, good father, that I have mine own reasons for not marching quite so far as the gates of Jericho at present; and lucky I have such reasons, since I had not else been here to defend the gate of the Garde Doloureuse. It is also true that I may have been sometimes obliged to visit my mills earlier than the chaplain was called by his zeal to the altar, and that my stomach brooks not working ere I break my fast. But for this, father, I have paid a mulet even to your worshipful reverence, and methinks since you are pleased to remember the confession so exactly, you should not forget the penance and the absolution.”
The monk, in alluding to the secrets of the confessional, had gone a step beyond what the rules of his order and of the church permitted. He was baffled by the Fleming’s reply, and finding him unmoved by the charge of heresy, he could only answer, in some confusion, “You refuse, then, to admit me to the conference with the Welshman?”
“Reverend father,” said Wilkin, “it altogether respecteth secular matters. If aught of religious tenor should intervene, you shall be summoned without delay.”
“I will be there in spite of thee, thou Flemish ox,” muttered the monk to himself, but in a tone not to be heard by the by-standers; and so speaking he left the battlements.
Wilkin Flammock, a few minutes afterwards, having first seen that all was arranged on the battlements, so as to give an imposing idea of a strength which did not exist, descended to a small guard-room, betwixt the outer and inner gate, where he was attended by half-a-dozen of his own people, disguised in the Norman armour which they had found in the armoury of the castle,— their strong, tall, and bulky forms, and motionless postures, causing them to look rather like trophies of some past age, than living and existing soldiers. Surrounded by these huge and inanimate figures, in a little vaulted room which almost excluded daylight, Flammock received the Welsh envoy, who was led in blindfolded betwixt two Flemings, yet not so carefully watched but that they permitted him to have a glimpse of the preparations on the battlements, which had, in fact, been made chiefly for the purpose of imposing on him. For the same purpose an occasional clatter of arms was made without; voices were heard as if officers were going their rounds; and other sounds of active preparation seemed to announce that a numerous and regular garrison was preparing to receive an attack.
When the bandage was removed from Jorworth’s eyes,— for the same individual who had formerly brought Gwenwyn’s offer of alliance, now bare his summons of surrender,— he looked haughtily around him and demanded to whom he was to deliver the commands of his master, the Gwenwyn, son of Cyvelioc, Prince of Powys.
“His highness,” answered Flammock, with his usual smiling indifference of manner, “must be contented to treat with Wilkin Flammock of the Fulling-mills, deputed governor of the Garde Doloureuse.”
“Thou deputed governor!” exclaimed Jorworth; “thou?— a Low-country weaver!— it is impossible. Low as they are, the English Crogan [Footnote: This is a somewhat contumelious epithet applied by the Welsh to the English.] cannot have sunk to a point so low, as to be commanded by thee! — these men seem English, to them I will deliver my message.”
“You may if you will,” replied Wilkin, “but if they return you any answer save by signs, you shall call me schelm .”
“Is this true?” said the Welsh envoy, looking towards the men-at-arms, as they seemed, by whom Flammock was attended; “are you really come to this pass? I thought that the mere having been born on British earth, though the children of spoilers and invaders, had inspired you with too much pride to brook the yoke of a base mechanic. Or, if you are not courageous, should you not be cautious?— Well speaks the proverb, Wo to him that will trust a stranger! Still mute — still silent?— answer me by word or sign — Do you really call and acknowledge him as your leader?”
The men in armour with one accord nodded their casques in reply to Jorworth’s question, and then remained motionless as before.
The Welshman, with the acute genius of his country, suspected there was something in this which he could not entirely comprehend, but, preparing himself to be upon his guard, he proceeded as follows: “Be it as it may, I care not who hears the message of my sovereign, since it brings pardon and mercy to the inhabitants of this Castell an Carrig, [Footnote: Castle of the Craig.] which you have called the Garde Doloureuse, to cover the usurpation of the territory by the change of the name. Upon surrender of the same to the Prince of Powys, with its dependencies, and with the arms which it contains, and with the maiden Eveline Berenger, all within the castle shall depart unmolested, and have safe-conduct wheresoever they will, to go beyond the marches of the Cymry.”
“And how, if we obey not this summons?” said the imperturbable Wilkin Flammock.
“Then shall your portion be with Raymond Berenger, your late leader,” replied Jorworth, his eyes, while he was speaking, glancing with the vindictive ferocity which dictated his answer. “So many strangers as be here amongst ye, so many bodies to the ravens, so many heads to the gibbet!— It is long since the kites have had such a banquet of lurdane Flemings and false Saxons.”
“Friend Jorworth,” said Wilkin, “if such be thy only message, bear mine answer back to thy master, That wise men trust not to the words of others that safety, which they can secure by their own deeds. We have walls high and strong enough, deep moats, and plenty of munition, both longbow and arblast. We will keep the castle, trusting the castle will keep us, till God shall send us succour.”
“Do not peril your lives on such an issue,” said the Welsh emissary, changing his language to the Flemish, which, from occasional communication with those of that nation in Pembrokeshire, he spoke fluently, and which he now adopted, as if to conceal the purport of his discourse from the supposed English in the apartment. “Hark thee hither,” he proceeded, “good Fleming. Knowest thou not that he in whom is your trust, the Constable De Lacy, hath bound himself by his vow to engage in no quarrel till he crosses the sea, and cannot come to your aid without perjury? He and the other Lords Marchers have drawn their forces far northward to join the host of Crusaders. What will it avail you to put us to the toil and trouble of a long siege, when you can hope no rescue?”
“And what will it avail me more,” said Wilkin, answering in his native language and looking at the Welshman fixedly, yet with a countenance from which all expression seemed studiously banished, and which exhibited, upon features otherwise tolerable, a remarkable compound of dulness and simplicity, “what will it avail me whether your trouble be great or small?”
“Come, friend Flammock,” said the Welshman, “frame not thyself more unapprehensive than nature hath formed thee. The glen is dark, but a sunbeam can light the side of it. Thy utmost efforts cannot prevent the fall of this castle; but thou mayst hasten it, and the doing so shall avail thee much.” Thus speaking, he drew close up to Wilkin, and sunk his voice to an insinuating whisper, as he said, “Never did the withdrawing of a bar, or the raising of a portcullis, bring such vantage to Fleming as they may to thee, if thou wilt.”
“I only know,” said Wilkin, “that the drawing the one, and the dropping the other, have cost me my whole worldly subsistence.”
“Fleming, it shall be compensated to thee with an overflowing measure. The liberality of Gwenwyn is as the summer rain.”
“My whole mills and buildings have been this morning burnt to the earth —”
“Thou shalt have a thousand marks of silver, man, in the place of thy goods,” said the Welshman; but the Fleming continued, without seeming to hear him, to number up his losses.
“My lands are forayed, twenty kine driven off, and —”
“Threescore shall replace them,” interrupted Jorworth, “chosen from the most bright-skinned of the spoil.”
“But my daughter — but the Lady Eveline”— said the Fleming, with some slight change in his monotonous voice, which seemed to express doubt and perplexity —“You are cruel conquerors, and —”
“To those who resist us we are fearful,” said Jorworth, “but not to such as shall deserve clemency by surrender. Gwenwyn will forget the contumelies of Raymond, and raise his daughter to high honour among the daughters of the Cymry. For thine own child, form but a wish for her advantage, and it shall be fulfilled to the uttermost. Now, Fleming, we understand each other.”
“I understand thee, at least,” said Flammock.
“And I thee, I trust?” said Jorworth, bending his keen, wild blue eye on the stolid and unexpressive face of the Netherlander, like an eager student who seeks to discover some hidden and mysterious meaning in a passage of a classic author, the direct import of which seems trite and trivial.
“You believe that you understand me,” said Wilkin; “but here lies the difficulty,— which of us shall trust the other?”
“Darest thou ask?” answered Jorworth. “Is it for thee, or such as thee, to express doubt of the purposes of the Prince of Powys?”
“I know them not, good Jorworth, but through thee; and well I wot thou art not one who will let thy traffic miscarry for want of aid from the breath of thy mouth.”
“As I am a Christian man,” said Jorworth, hurrying asseveration on asseveration —“by the soul of my father — by the faith of my mother — by the black rood of —”
“Stop, good Jorworth — thou heapest thine oaths too thickly on each other, for me to value them to the right estimate,” said Flammock; “that which is so lightly pledged, is sometimes not thought worth redeeming. Some part of the promised guerdon in hand the whilst, were worth an hundred oaths.”
“Thou suspicious churl, darest thou doubt my word?”
“No — by no means,” answered Wilkin;—“nevertheless, I will believe thy deed more readily.”
“To the point, Fleming,” said Jorworth —“What wouldst thou have of me?”
“Let me have some present sight of the money thou didst promise, and I will think of the rest of thy proposal.”
“Base silver-broker!” answered Jorworth, “thinkest thou the Prince of Powys has as many money-bags, as the merchants of thy land of sale and barter? He gathers treasures by his conquests, as the waterspout sucks up water by its strength, but it is to disperse them among his followers, as the cloudy column restores its contents to earth and ocean. The silver that I promise thee has yet to be gathered out of the Saxon chests — nay, the casket of Berenger himself must be ransacked to make up the tale.”
“Methinks I could do that myself, (having full power in the castle,) and so save you a labour,” said the Fleming.
“True,” answered Jorworth, “but it would be at the expense of a cord and a noose, whether the Welsh took the place or the Normans relieved it — the one would expect their booty entire — the other their countryman’s treasures to be delivered undiminished.”
“I may not gainsay that,” said the Fleming. “Well, say I were content to trust you thus far, why not return my cattle, which are in your own hands, and at your disposal? If you do not pleasure me in something beforehand, what can I expect of you afterwards?”
“I would pleasure you in a greater matter,” answered the equally suspicious Welshman. “But what would it avail thee to have thy cattle within the fortress? They can be better cared for on the plain beneath.”
“In faith,” replied the Fleming, “thou sayst truth — they will be but a trouble to us here, where we have so many already provided for the use of the garrison.— And yet, when I consider it more closely, we have enough of forage to maintain all we have, and more. Now, my cattle are of a peculiar stock, brought from the rich pastures of Flanders, and I desire to have them restored ere your axes and Welsh hooks be busy with their hides.”
“You shall have them this night, hide and horn,” said Jorworth; “it is but a small earnest of a great boon.”
“Thanks to your munificence,” said the Fleming; “I am a simple-minded man, and bound my wishes to the recovery of my own property.”
“Thou wilt be ready, then, to deliver the castle?” said Jorworth.
“Of that we will talk farther tomorrow,” said Wilkin Flammock; “if these English and Normans should suspect such a purpose, we should have wild work — they must be fully dispersed ere I can hold farther communication on the subject. Meanwhile, I pray thee, depart suddenly, and as if offended with the tenor of our discourse.”
“Yet would I fain know something more fixed and absolute,” said Jorworth.
“Impossible — impossible,” said the Fleming: “see you not yonder tall fellow begins already to handle his dagger — Go hence in haste, and angrily — and forget not the cattle.”
“I will not forget them,” said Jorworth; “but if thou keep not faith with us —”
So speaking, he left the apartment with a gesture of menace, partly really directed to Wilkin himself, partly assumed in consequence of his advice. Flammock replied in English, as if that all around might understand, what he said,
“Do thy worst, Sir Welshman! I am a true man; I defy the proposals of rendition, and will hold out this castle to thy shame and thy master’s!— Here — let him be blindfolded once more, and returned in safety to his attendants without; the next Welshman who appears before the gate of the Garde Doloureuse, shall be more sharply received.”
The Welshman was blindfolded and withdrawn, when, as Wilkin Flammock himself left the guardroom, one of the seeming men-at-arms, who had been present at this interview, said in his ear, in English, “Thou art a false traitor, Flammock, and shalt die a traitor’s death!”
Startled at this, the Fleming would have questioned the man farther, but he had disappeared so soon as the words were uttered. Flammock was disconcerted by this circumstance, which showed him that his interview with Jorworth had been observed, and its purpose known or conjectured, by some one who was a stranger to his confidence, and might thwart his intentions; and he quickly after learned that this was the case.