Oh, sadly shines the morning sun
On leaguer’d castle wall,
When bastion, tower, and battlement,
Seemed nodding to their fall.
OLD BALLAD.
True to his resolution, and telling his beads as he went, that he might lose no time, Father Aldrovand began his rounds in the castle so soon as daylight had touched the top of the eastern horizon. A natural instinct led him first to those stalls which, had the fortress been properly victualled for a siege, ought to have been tenanted by cattle; and great was his delight to see more than a score of fat kine and bullocks in the place which had last night been empty! One of them had already been carried to the shambles, and a Fleming or two, who played butchers on the occasion, were dividing the carcass for the cook’s use. The good father had well-nigh cried out, a miracle; but, not to be too precipitate, he limited his transport to a private exclamation in honour of Our Lady of the Garde Doloureuse.
“Who talks of lack of provender?— who speaks of surrender now?” he said. “Here is enough to maintain us till Hugo de Lacy arrives, were he to sail back from Cyprus to our relief. I did purpose to have fasted this morning, as well to save victuals as on a religious score; but the blessings of the saints must not be slighted.— Sir Cook, let me have half a yard or so of broiled beef presently; bid the pantler send me a manchet, and the butler a cup of wine. I will take a running breakfast on the western battlements.” [Footnote: Old Henry Jenkins, in his Recollections of the Abbacies before their dissolution, has preserved the fact that roast-beef was delivered out to the guests not by weight, but by measure.]
At this place, which was rather the weakest point of the Garde Doloureuse, the good father found Wilkin Flammock anxiously superintending the necessary measures of defence. He greeted him courteously, congratulated him on the stock of provisions with which the castle had been supplied during the night, and was inquiring how they had been so happily introduced through the Welsh besiegers, when Wilkin took the first occasion to interrupt him.
“Of all this another time, good father; but I wish at present, and before other discourse, to consult thee on a matter which presses my conscience, and moreover deeply concerns my worldly estate.”
“Speak on, my excellent son,” said the father, conceiving that he should thus gain the key to Wilkin’s real intentions. “Oh, a tender conscience is a jewel! and he that will not listen when it saith, ‘Pour out thy doubts into the ear of the priest,’ shall one day have his own dolorous outcries choked with fire and brimstone. Thou wert ever of a tender conscience, son Wilkin, though thou hast but a rough and borrel bearing.”
“Well, then,” said Wilkin, “you are to know, good father, that I have had some dealings with my neighbour, Jan Vanwelt, concerning my daughter Rose, and that he has paid me certain gilders on condition I will match her to him.”
“Pshaw, pshaw! my good son,” said the disappointed confessor, “this gear can lie over — this is no time for marrying or giving in marriage, when we are all like to be murdered.”
“Nay, but hear me, good father,” said the Fleming, “for this point of conscience concerns the present case more nearly than you wot of.— You must know I have no will to bestow Rose on this same Jan Vanwelt, who is old, and of ill conditions; and I would know of you whether I may, in conscience, refuse him my consent?”
“Truly,” said Father Aldrovand, “Rose is a pretty lass, though somewhat hasty; and I think you may honestly withdraw your consent, always on paying back the gilders you have received.”
“But there lies the pinch, good father,” said the Fleming —“the refunding this money will reduce me to utter poverty. The Welsh have destroyed my substance; and this handful of money is all, God help me! on which I must begin the world again.”
“Nevertheless, son Wilkin,” said Aldrovand, “thou must keep thy word, or pay the forfeit; for what saith the text? Quis habitabit in tabernaculo, quis requiescet in monte sancta? — Who shall ascend to the tabernacle, and dwell in the holy mountain? Is it not answered again, Qui jurat proximo et non decipit? — Go to, my son — break not thy plighted word for a little filthy lucre — better is an empty stomach and an hungry heart with a clear conscience, than a fatted ox with iniquity and wordbreaking.— Sawest thou not our late noble lord, who (may his soul be happy!) chose rather to die in unequal battle, like a true knight, than live a perjured man, though he had but spoken a rash word to a Welshman over a wine flask?”
“Alas! then,” said the Fleming, “this is even what I feared! We must e’en render up the castle, or restore to the Welshman, Jorworth, the cattle, by means of which I had schemed to victual and defend it.”
“How — wherefore — what dost thou mean?” said the monk, in astonishment. “I speak to thee of Rose Flammock, and Jan Van-devil, or whatever you call him, and you reply with talk about cattle and castles, and I wot not what!”
“So please you, holy father, I did but speak in parables. This castle was the daughter I had promised to deliver over — the Welshman is Jan Vanwelt, and the gilders were the cattle he has sent in, as a part-payment beforehand of my guerdon.”
“Parables!” said the monk, colouring with anger at the trick put on him; “what has a boor like thee to do with parables?— But I forgive thee — I forgive thee.”
“I am therefore to yield the castle to the Welshman, or restore him his cattle?” said the impenetrable Dutchman.
“Sooner yield thy soul to Satan!” replied the monk.
“I fear it must be the alternative,” said the Fleming; “for the example of thy honourable lord —”
“The example of an honourable fool”— answered the monk; then presently subjoined, “Our Lady be with her servant!— This Belgic-brained boor makes me forget what I would say.”
