The Prose Marmion

Lord Marmion ill concealed his rising anger, yet he made a calm reply.

"The lad was too frail to endure the northern climate, and I have left him at Lindisfarne. May I ask, Lord Heron, why the lady of the castle disdains to grace the hall to-day? Is it because Marmion of Fontenaye is present?"

The Knight replied:

"Norham Castle is a grim, dull cage for a bird so beautiful as the lady of Heron, and with my consent she sits with the noble and fair Queen Margaret, the bride of royal James."

"Ah!" replied the Heron's noble guest, "if this be so, I will gladly bear to her your tender messages. I am now, by the request of our good English King, on my way to the court of Scotland, to learn why James is gathering troops, why making warlike preparations, and, if it be possible, I am to persuade him to maintain the peace. From your great goodness, I make bold to ask for myself and for my train a trusty guide. I have not ridden in Scotland since James backed Richard, Duke of York, in his pretensions to the throne of England. Then, as you remember, I marched with Surrey's forces, and razed to the ground the tower of Aytoun."

"For such need, my lord, trust old Norham gray. Here are guides who have spurred far on Scottish ground, who have tasted the ale of St. Bothan, driven off the beeves of Lauderdale, and fired homes that the inmates might have light by which to dress themselves."

"In good sooth," replied Lord Marmion, "were I bent on war, a better guard I could not wish, but I go in form of peace, a friendly messenger to a foreign King. A plundering border spear might arouse suspicious fears, and the deadly feud, the thirst for blood, break out in unseemly broil. More fitting as guide, would be a friar, a pardoner, traveling priest, or strolling pilgrim."

Sir Hugh musingly passed his hand over his brow, and then replied: "Fain would I find the guide you need, but, though a bishop built this castle, few holy brethren resort here. If the priest of Shoreswood were here, he could rein your wildest horse, but no spearsman in the hall will sooner strike or join in fray. Friar John of Tilmouth is the very man! He is a blithesome brother, a welcome guest in hall and hut. He knows each castle, town and tower in which the ale and wine are good. He now seldom leaves these walls, but, perchance, in your guard he will go."

In the pause that followed, young Selby, nephew of the Earl of Norham, respectfully said, "Kind uncle, unhappy we, if harm came to Friar John. When time hangs heavy in the hall, and the snow lies deep at Christmas tide, when we can neither hunt nor joust, who will sing the carols, and sweep away the stake at bowls? Who will lead the games and gambols? Let Friar John in safety fill his chimney corner, roast hissing crabs, or empty the flagons. Last night, there came to Norham Castle a fitter guide for Lord Marmion."

"Nephew," said Sir Hugh, "well hast thou spoke. Say on."

"There came here, direct from Rome, one who hath visited the blessed tomb, and worshipped in each holy spot of Arabia and Palestine. He hath been on the hills where rested Noah's Ark; he hath walked by the Red Sea; in Sinai's Wilderness, he saw the mount where Moses received the law. He knows the passes of the North, and is on his way to distant shrines beyond the Forth. Little he eats, and drinks only of stream or lake. He is a fit guide for moor and fell."

"Gramercy!" exclaimed Lord Marmion. "Loth would I be to take Friar John, if this Palmer will lead us as far as Holy-Rood. I'll pay him not in beads and cockle shells, but in 'angels' fair and good. I love such holy ramblers. They know how to charm each weary hill with song or romance.

"'Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest,
They bring to cheer the way.'"

"Ah! sire," said young Selby, as he laid his finger on his lip in token of silence, "this man knows more than he has ever learned from holy lore. Last night, we listened at his cell, and strange things we heard. He muttered on till dawn. No conscience clear and void of evil intent remains so long awake to pray."

"Let it pass," cried Marmion. "This man and he only shall guide me on my way, though he and the arch fiend were sworn friends. So, please you, gentle youth, call this Palmer to the castle hall."

Little did Marmion dream that the Palmer was Ralph de Wilton, his deadliest foe, in disguise – Ralph de Wilton, his rival in love, whom Marmion had accused of treason, had caused to be sent into exile, and whom he supposed dead.

A moment later the Palmer appeared, clad in a black mantle and cowl, and wearing on his shoulders the keys of St. Peter cut in cloth of red. His cap, bordered with scallop shells, fitted close to his head, and over all was drawn the cowl. His sandals were travel-worn. In his hands he bore a staff and palm branch, emblems of the pilgrim from the holy land. No lord or knight was there in the hall who had a more stately step, none who looked more proud. He waited not for salutation, but strode across the hall of state, and fronted Marmion, as peer meets peer. Beneath the cowl was a face so wan, so worn, a cheek so sunken, and an eye so wild, that the mother would not have known her child, much less Marmion, his rival.

Danger, travel, want, and woe soon change the form. Deadly fear can outstrip time; toil quenches the fire of youth; and despair traces wrinkles deeper than old age.

"Happy whom none of these befall;
But this poor Palmer knew them all."

Lord Marmion made known his request, and the Palmer took upon himself the task of guide, on condition that they set out without delay, saying:

"'But I have solemn vows to pay
And may not linger by the way;
Saint Mary grant that cave or spring
May back to peace my bosom bring,
Or bid it throb no more!'"

Then the page, on bended knee, presented to each guest in turn the massive silver bowl of wassail, "the midnight draught of sleep," rich with wine and spices. Lord Marmion drank, "Sound sleep to all"; the earl pledged his noble guest; all drained it merrily except the Palmer. He alone refused, although Selby urged him most courteously. The feast was over, the sound of minstrel hushed. Nought was heard in the castle but the slow footsteps of the guard.

At dawn the chapel doors unclosed, and after a hasty mass from Friar John, a rich repast was served to knight and squire.

"Lord Marmion's bugles blew to horse:
Then came the stirrup-cup in course;
Between the Baron and his host
No point of courtesy was lost;
Till, filing from the gate, had passed
That noble train, their Lord the last.
Then loudly rang the trumpet call;
Thundered the cannon from the wall,
And shook the Scottish shore;
Around the castle eddied slow,
Volumes of smoke as white as snow,
And hid its turrets hoar;
Till they rolled forth upon the air,
And met the river breezes there."

CHAPTER II

The breeze which swept away the rolling smoke from Norham, curled not the Tweed alone. Far upon Northumbrian waters, it blew fresh and strong, bearing on its wings a barque from the Abbey of Whitby on the coast of Yorkshire, sailing to St. Cuthbert's at Lindisfarne, on Holy Isle.

"The merry seamen laugh'd to see
Their gallant ship so lustily
Furrow the green sea-foam.
Much joy'd they in their honor'd freight;
For, on the deck, in chair of state,
The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed,
With five fair nuns, the galley graced.

"'T was sweet to see these holy maids,
Like birds escaped to green-wood shades,
Their first flight from the cage;
How timid, and how curious, too,
For all to them was strange and new,
And all the common sights they view,
Their wonderment engage."

Light-hearted were they all, except the Abbess and the novice Clare. Fair, kind, and noble, the Abbess had early taken the veil. Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were bounded by the cloister walls; her highest ambition being to raise St. Hilda's fame. For this she gave her ample fortune – to build its bowers, to adorn its chapels with rare and quaint carvings, and to deck the relic shrine with ivory and costly gems. The poor and the pilgrim blessed her bounty and shelter.

Her pale cheek and spare form were made more striking by the black Benedictine garb. Vigils and penitence had dimmed the luster of her eyes. Though proud of her religious sway and its severity, she loved her maidens and was loved by them in return.

The purpose of the present voyage was most unhappy, and to the Abbess most painful. She came to Lindisfarne upon the summons of St. Cuthbert's Abbot, to hold with him and the Prioress of Tynemouth an inquisition on two apostates from the faith, if need were, to condemn them to death.

On the galley's prow sat the unhappy sister Clare, young and beautiful, lovely and guileless, as yet a nun unprofessed. She had been betrothed to Ralph de Wilton, whom she supposed now dead, or worse, a dishonored fugitive. After the disgrace brought upon her lover, Clare had been commanded by her guardians to give her hand to Lord Marmion, who loved her for her lands alone. Heartbroken at the fate of her true-love, and to escape this hateful marriage, she was about to take the vestal vow, and in the gloom of St. Hilda hide her blasted hopes, her youth and beauty.

As the vessel glided over the waters, she gazed into their depths, seeing only a sun-scorched desert, waste and bare, where no wave murmured, no breeze sighed. Again she saw a loved form on the burning sands: the dear dead, denied even the simplest rites of burial.

Now the vessel skirted the coast of mountainous Northumberland. Towns, towers, and halls, successive rose before the delighted group of maidens. Tynemouth's Priory appeared, and as they passed, the fair nuns told their beads. At length the Holy Island was reached. The tide was at its flood. Twice each day, pilgrims dry-shod might find their way to the island; and twice each day the waves beat high between the island and the shore, effacing all marks of pilgrim's staff and sandalled foot.

As the galley flew to the port, higher and higher, the castle and its battled towers rose to view, a huge, solemn, dark-red pile. In Saxon strength the massive arches broad and round, row on row, supported by short, ponderous columns, frowned upon the approaching visitor. It stood at the very water's edge, and had been built long before the birth of Gothic architecture. On its walls the tempestuous sea and heathen Dane alike had vainly poured their impious rage. For more than a thousand years, wind, wave, and warrior had been held at bay. The deep walls of the old abbey still stood worn but unsubdued.