There was indeed another objection, which in later times would
have been of considerable weight--Gwenwyn was already married. But
Brengwain was a childless bride; sovereigns (and among sovereigns
the Welsh prince ranked himself) marry for lineage, and the Pope
was not likely to be scrupulous, where the question was to oblige
a prince who had assumed the Cross with such ready zeal, even
although, in fact, his thoughts had been much more on the Garde
Doloureuse than on Jerusalem. In the meanwhile, if Raymond
Berenger (as was suspected) was not liberal enough in his opinions
to permit Eveline to hold the temporary rank of concubine, which
the manners of Wales warranted Gwenwyn to offer as an interim,
arrangement, he had only to wait for a few months, and sue for a
divorce through the Bishop of Saint David's, or some other
intercessor at the Court of Rome.

Agitating these thoughts in his mind, Gwenwyn prolonged his
residence at the Castle of Berenger, from Christmas till
Twelfthday; and endured the presence of the Norman cavaliers who
resorted to Raymond's festal halls, although, regarding
themselves, in virtue of their rank of knighthood, equal to the
most potent sovereigns, they made small account of the long
descent of the Welsh prince, who, in their eyes, was but the chief
of a semibarbarous province; while he, on his part, considered
them little better than a sort of privileged robbers, and with the
utmost difficulty restrained himself from manifesting his open
hatred, when he beheld them careering in the exercises of
chivalry, the habitual use of which rendered them such formidable
enemies to his country. At length, the term of feasting was ended,
and knight and squire departed from the castle, which once more
assumed the aspect of a solitary and guarded frontier fort.

But the Prince of Powys-Land, while pursuing his sports on his own
mountains and valleys, found that even the abundance of the game,
as well as his release from the society of the Norman chivalry,
who affected to treat him as an equal, profited him nothing so
long as the light and beautiful form of Eveline, on her white
palfrey, was banished from the train of sportsmen. In short, he
hesitated no longer, but took into his confidence his chaplain, an
able and sagacious man, whose pride was flattered by his patron's
communication, and who, besides, saw in the proposed scheme some
contingent advantages for himself and his order. By his counsel,
the proceedings for Gwenwyn's divorce were prosecuted under
favourable auspices, and the unfortunate Brengwain was removed to
a nunnery, which perhaps she found a more cheerful habitation than
the lonely retreat in which she had led a neglected life, ever
since Gwenwyn had despaired of her bed being blessed with issue.
Father Einion also dealt with the chiefs and elders of the land,
and represented to them the advantage which in future wars they
were certain to obtain by the possession of the Garde Doloureuse,
which had for more than a century covered and protected a
considerable tract of country, rendered their advance difficult,
and their retreat perilous, and, in a word, prevented their
carrying their incursions as far as the gates of Shrewsbury. As
for the union with the Saxon damsel, the fetters which it was to
form might not (the good father hinted) be found more permanent
than those which had bound Gwenwyn to her predecessor, Brengwain.

These arguments, mingled with others adapted to the views and
wishes of different individuals, were so prevailing, that the
chaplain in the course of a few weeks was able to report to his
princely patron, that this proposed match would meet with no
opposition from the elders and nobles of his dominions. A golden
bracelet, six ounces in weight, was the instant reward of the
priest's dexterity in negotiation, and he was appointed by Gwenwyn
to commit to paper those proposals, which he doubted not were to
throw the Castle of Garde Doloureuse, notwithstanding its
melancholy name, into an ecstasy of joy. With some difficulty the
chaplain prevailed on his patron to say nothing in this letter
upon his temporary plan of concubinage, which he wisely judged
might be considered as an affront both by Eveline and her father.
The matter of the divorce he represented as almost entirely
settled, and wound up his letter with a moral application, in
which were many allusions to Vashti, Esther, and Ahasuerus.

Having despatched this letter by a swift and trusty messenger, the
British prince opened in all solemnity the feast of Easter, which
had come round during the course of these external and internal
negotiations.

Upon the approaching Holy-tide, to propitiate the minds of his
subjects and vassals, they were invited in large numbers to
partake of a princely festivity at Castell-Coch, or the Red-
Castle, as it was then called, since better known by the name of
Powys-Castle, and in latter times the princely seat of the Duke of
Beaufort. The architectural magnificence of this noble residence
is of a much later period than that of Gwenwyn, whose palace, at
the time we speak of, was a low, long-roofed edifice of red stone,
whence the castle derived its name; while a ditch and palisade
were, in addition to the commanding situation, its most important
defences.




CHAPTER THE SECOND


    In Madoc's tent the clarion sounds,
    With rapid clangor hurried far;
    Each hill and dale the note rebounds,
    But when return the sons of war?
    Thou, born of stern Necessity,
    Dull Peace! the valley yields to thee,
    And owns thy melancholy sway.
     WELSH POEM.


The feasts of the ancient British princes usually exhibited all
the rude splendour and liberal indulgence of mountain hospitality,
and Gwenwyn was, on the present occasion, anxious to purchase
popularity by even an unusual display of profusion; for he was
sensible that the alliance which he meditated might indeed be
tolerated, but could not be approved, by his subjects and
followers.

The following incident, trifling in itself, confirmed his
apprehensions. Passing one evening, when it was become nearly
dark, by the open window of a guard-room, usually occupied by some
few of his most celebrated soldiers, who relieved each other in
watching his palace, he heard Morgan, a man distinguished for
strength, courage, and ferocity, say to the companion with whom he
was sitting by the watch-fire, "Gwenwyn is turned to a priest, or
a woman! When was it before these last months, that a follower of
his was obliged to gnaw the meat from the bone so closely, as I am
now peeling the morsel which I hold in my hand?" [Footnote: It is
said in Highland tradition, that one of the Macdonalds of the
Isles, who had suffered his broadsword to remain sheathed for some
months after his marriage with a beautiful woman, was stirred to a
sudden and furious expedition against the mainland by hearing
conversation to the above purpose among his bodyguard.]

"Wait but awhile," replied his comrade, "till the Norman match be
accomplished; and so small will be the prey we shall then drive
from the Saxon churls, that we may be glad to swallow, like hungry
dogs, the very bones themselves."

Gwenwyn heard no more of their conversation; but this was enough
to alarm his pride as a soldier, and his jealousy as a prince. He
was sensible, that the people over whom he ruled were at once
fickle in their disposition, impatient of long repose, and full of
hatred against their neighbours; and he almost dreaded the
consequences of the inactivity to which a long truce might reduce
them. The risk was now incurred, however; and to display even more
than his wonted splendour and liberality, seemed the best way of
reconciling the wavering affections of his subjects.

A Norman would have despised the barbarous magnificence of an
entertainment, consisting of kine and sheep roasted whole, of
goat's flesh and deer's flesh seethed in the skins of the animals
themselves; for the Normans piqued themselves on the quality
rather than the quantity of their food, and, eating rather
delicately than largely, ridiculed the coarser taste of the
Britons, although the last were in their banquets much more
moderate than were the Saxons; nor would the oceans of _Crw_
and hydromel, which overwhelmed the guests like a deluge, have
made up, in their opinion, for the absence of the more elegant and
costly beverage which they had learnt to love in the south of
Europe. Milk, prepared in various ways, was another material of
the British entertainment, which would not have received their
approbation, although a nutriment which, on ordinary occasions,
often supplied the Avant of all others among the ancient
inhabitants, whose country was rich in flocks and herds, but poor
in agricultural produce.

The banquet was spread in a long low hall, built of rough wood
lined with shingles, having a fire at each end, the smoke of
which, unable to find its way through the imperfect chimneys in
the roof, rolled in cloudy billows above the heads of the
revellers, who sat on low seats, purposely to avoid its stifling
fumes. [Footnote: The Welsh houses, like those of the cognate
tribes in Ireland and in the Highlands of Scotland, were very
imperfectly supplied with chimneys. Hence, in the History of the
Gwydir Family, the striking expression of a Welsh chieftain who,
the house being assaulted and set on fire by his enemies, exhorted
his friends to stand to their defence, saying he had seen as much
smoke in the hall upon a Christmas even.] The mien and appearance
of the company assembled was wild, and, even in their social
hours, almost terrific. Their prince himself had the gigantic port
and fiery eye fitted to sway an unruly people, whose delight was
in the field of battle; and the long mustaches which he and most
of his champions wore, added to the formidable dignity of his
presence. Like most of those present, Gwenwyn was clad in a simple
tunic of white linen cloth, a remnant of the dress which the
Romans had introduced into provincial Britain; and he was
distinguished by the Eudorchawg, or chain of twisted gold links,
with which the Celtic tribes always decorated their chiefs. The
collar, indeed, representing in form the species of links made by
children out of rushes, was common to chieftains of inferior rank,
many of whom bore it in virtue of their birth, or had won it by
military exploits; but a ring of gold, bent around the head,
intermingled with Gwenwyn's hair--for he claimed the rank of one
of three diademed princes of Wales, and his armlets and anklets,
of the same metal, were peculiar to the Prince of Powys, as an
independent sovereign. Two squires of his body, who dedicated
their whole attention to his service, stood at the Prince's back;
and at his feet sat a page, whose duty it was to keep them warm by
chafing and by wrapping them in his mantle. The same right of
sovereignty, which assigned to Gwenwyn his golden crownlet, gave
him a title to the attendance of the foot-bearer, or youth, who
lay on the rushes, and whose duty it was to cherish the Prince's
feet in his lap or bosom. [Footnote: See Madoc for this literal
_foot page's_ office and duties. Mr. Southey's notes inform
us: "The foot-bearer shall hold the feet of the King in his lap,
from the time he reclines at the board till he goes to rest, and
he shall chafe them with a towel; and during all that time shall
watch that no harm befalls the King. He shall eat of the shame
dish from which the King takes his food; he shall light the first
candle before the King." Such are the instructions given for this
part of royal ceremonial in the laws of Howell Dha. It may be
added, that probably upon this Celtic custom was founded one of
those absurd and incredible representations which were propagated
at the time of the French revolution, to stir up the peasants
against their feudal superiors. It was pretended that some feudal
seigneurs asserted their right to kill and disembowel a peasant,
in order to put their own feet within the expiring body, and so
recover them from the chill.]

Notwithstanding the military disposition of the guests, and the
danger arising from the feuds into which they were divided, few of
the feasters wore any defensive armour, except the light goat-skin
buckler, which hung behind each man's seat. On the other hand,
they were well provided with offensive weapons; for the broad,
sharp, short, two-edged sword was another legacy of the Romans.
Most added a wood-knife or poniard; and there were store of
javelins, darts, bows, and arrows, pikes, halberds, Danish axes,
and Welsh hooks and bills; so, in case of ill-blood arising during
the banquet, there was no lack of weapons to work mischief.

But although the form of the feast was somewhat disorderly, and
that the revellers were unrestrained by the stricter rules of
good-breeding which the laws of chivalry imposed, the Easter
banquet of Gwenwyn possessed, in the attendance of twelve eminent
bards, one source of the most exalted pleasure, in a much higher
degree than the proud Normans could themselves boast. The latter,
it is true, had their minstrels, a race of men trained to the
profession of poetry, song, and music; but although those arts
were highly honoured, and the individual professors, when they
attained to eminence, were often richly rewarded, and treated with
distinction, the order of minstrels, as such, was held in low
esteem, being composed chiefly of worthless and dissolute
strollers, by whom the art was assumed, in order to escape from
the necessity of labour, and to have the means of pursuing a
wandering and dissipated course of life. Such, in all times, has
been the censure upon the calling of those who dedicate themselves
to the public amusement; among whom those distinguished by
individual excellence are sometimes raised high in the social
circle, while far the more numerous professors, who only reach
mediocrity, are sunk into the lower scale. But such was not the
case with the order of bards in Wales, who, succeeding to the
dignity of the Druids, under whom they had originally formed a
subordinate fraternity, had many immunities, were held in the
highest reverence and esteem, and exercised much influence with
their countrymen. Their power over the public mind even rivalled
that of the priests themselves, to whom indeed they bore some
resemblance; for they never wore arms, were initiated into their
order by secret and mystic solemnities, and homage was rendered to
their _Awen_, or flow of poetic inspiration, as if it had
been indeed marked with a divine character. Thus possessed of
power and consequence, the bards were not unwilling to exercise
their privileges, and sometimes, in doing so, their manners
frequently savoured of caprice.

This was perhaps the case with Cadwallon, the chief bard of
Gwenwyn, and who, as such, was expected to have poured forth the
tide of song in the banqueting-hall of his prince. But neither the
anxious and breathless expectation of the assembled chiefs and
champions--neither the dead silence which stilled the roaring
hall, when his harp was reverently placed before him by his
attendant--nor even the commands or entreaties of the Prince
himself--could extract from Cadwallon more than a short and
interrupted prelude upon the instrument, the notes of which
arranged themselves into an air inexpressibly mournful, and died
away in silence. The Prince frowned darkly on the bard, who was
himself far too deeply lost in gloomy thought, to offer any
apology, or even to observe his displeasure. Again he touched a
few wild notes, and, raising his looks upward, seemed to be on the
very point of bursting forth into a tide of song similar to those
with which this master of his art was wont to enchant his hearers.
But the effort was in vain--he declared that his right hand was
withered, and pushed the instrument from him.

A murmur went round the company, and Gwenwyn read in their aspects
that they received the unusual silence of Cadwallon on this high
occasion as a bad omen. He called hastily on a young and ambitious
bard, named Caradoc of Menwygent, whose rising fame was likely
soon to vie with the established reputation of Cadwallon, and
summoned him to sing something which might command the applause of
his sovereign and the gratitude of the company. The young man was
ambitious, and understood the arts of a courtier. He commenced a
poem, in which, although under a feigned name, he drew such a
poetic picture of Eveline Berenger, that Gwenwyn was enraptured;
and while all who had seen the beautiful original at once
recognized the resemblance, the eyes of the Prince confessed at
once his passion for the subject, and his admiration of the poet.
The figures of Celtic poetry, in themselves highly imaginative,
were scarce sufficient for the enthusiasm of the ambitious bard,
rising in his tone as he perceived the feelings which he was
exciting. The praises of the Prince mingled with those of the
Norman beauty; and "as a lion," said the poet, "can only be led by
the hand of a chaste and beautiful maiden, so a chief can only
acknowledge the empire of the most virtuous, the most lovely of
her sex. Who asks of the noonday sun, in what quarter of the world
he was born? and who shall ask of such charms as hers, to what
country they owe their birth?"

Enthusiasts in pleasure as in war, and possessed of imaginations
which answered readily to the summons of their poets, the Welsh
chiefs and leaders united in acclamations of applause; and the
song of the bard went farther to render popular the intended
alliance of the Prince, than had all the graver arguments of his
priestly precursor in the same topic.

Gwenwyn himself, in a transport of delight, tore off the golden
bracelets which he wore, to bestow them upon a bard whose song had
produced an effect so desirable; and said, as he looked at the
silent and sullen Cadwallon, "The silent harp was never strung
with golden wires."

"Prince," answered the bard, whose pride was at least equal to
that of Gwenwyn himself, "you pervert the proverb of Taliessin--it
is the flattering harp which never lacked golden strings."

Gwenwyn, turning sternly towards him, was about to make an angry
answer, when the sudden appearance of Jorworth, the messenger whom
he had despatched to Raymond Berenger, arrested his purpose. This
rude envoy entered the hall bare-legged, excepting the sandals of
goat-skin which he wore, and having on his shoulder a cloak of the
same, and a short javelin in his hand. The dust on his garments,
and the flush on his brow, showed with what hasty zeal his errand
had been executed. Gwenwyn demanded of him eagerly, "What news
from Garde Doloureuse, Jorworth ap Jevan?"

"I bear them in my bosom," said the son of Jevan; and, with much
reverence, he delivered to the Prince a packet, bound with silk,
and sealed with the impression of a swan, the ancient cognizance
of the House of Berenger. Himself ignorant of writing or reading,
Gwenwyn, in anxious haste, delivered the letter to Cadwallon, who
usually acted as secretary when the chaplain was not in presence,
as chanced then to be the case. Cadwallon, looking at the letter,
said briefly, "I read no Latin. Ill betide the Norman, who writes
to a Prince of Powys in other language than that of Britain! and
well was the hour, when that noble tongue alone was spoken from
Tintadgel to Cairleoil!"

Gwenwyn only replied to him with an angry glance.

"Where is Father Einion?" said the impatient Prince.

"He assists in the church," replied one of his attendants, "for it
is the feast of Saint--"

"Were it the feast of Saint David," said Gwenwyn, "and were the
pyx between his hands, he must come hither to me instantly!"

One of the chief henchmen sprung off, to command his attendance,
and, in the meantime, Gwenwyn eyed the letter containing the
secret of his fate, but which it required an interpreter to read,
with such eagerness and anxiety, that Caradoc, elated by his
former success, threw in a few notes to divert, if possible, the
tenor of his patron's thoughts during the interval. A light and
lively air, touched by a hand which seemed to hesitate, like the
submissive voice of an inferior, fearing to interrupt his master's
meditations, introduced a stanza or two applicable to the subject.

"And what though thou, O scroll," he said, apostrophizing the
letter, which lay on the table before his master, "dost speak with
the tongue of the stranger? Hath not the cuckoo a harsh note, and
yet she tells us of green buds and springing flowers? What if thy
language be that of the stoled priest, is it not the same which
binds hearts and hands together at the altar? And what though thou
delayest to render up thy treasures, are not all pleasures most
sweet, when enhanced by expectation? What were the chase, if the
deer dropped at our feet the instant he started from the cover--or
what value were there in the love of the maiden, were it yielded
without coy delay?"

The song of the bard was here broken short by the entrance of the
priest, who, hasty in obeying the summons of his impatient master,
had not tarried to lay aside even the stole, which he had worn in
the holy service; and many of the elders thought it was no good
omen, that, so habited, a priest should appear in a festive
assembly, and amid profane minstrelsy.

The priest opened the letter of the Norman Baron, and, struck with
surprise at the contents, lifted his eyes in silence.

"Read it!" exclaimed the fierce Gwenwyn.

"So please you," replied the more prudent chaplain, "a smaller
company were a fitter audience."

"Read it aloud!" repeated the Prince, in a still higher tone;
"there sit none here who respect not the honour of their prince,
or who deserve not his confidence. Read it, I say, aloud! and by
Saint David, if Raymond the Norman hath dared--"

He stopped short, and, reclining on his seat, composed himself to
an attitude of attention; but it was easy for his followers to
fill up the breach in his exclamation which prudence had
recommended.

The voice of the chaplain was low and ill-assured as he read the
following epistle:--

   "Raymond Berenger, the noble Norman Knight, Seneschal
   of the Garde Doloureuse, to Gwenwyn, Prince of Powys,
   (may peace be between them!) sendeth health.

"Your letter, craving the hand of our daughter Eveline Berenger,
was safely delivered to us by your servant, Jorworth ap Jevan, and
we thank you heartily for the good meaning therein expressed to us
and to ours. But, considering within ourselves the difference of
blood and lineage, with the impediments and causes of offence
which have often arisen in like cases, we hold it fitter to match
our daughter among our own people; and this by no case in
disparagement of you, but solely for the weal of you, of
ourselves, and of our mutual dependants, who will be the more safe
from the risk of quarrel betwixt us, that we essay not to draw the
bonds of our intimacy more close than beseemeth. The sheep and the
goats feed together in peace on the same pastures, but they mingle
not in blood, or race, the one with the other. Moreover, our
daughter Eveline hath been sought in marriage by a noble and
potent Lord of the Marches, Hugo de Lacy, the Constable of
Chester, to which most honourable suit we have returned a
favourable answer. It is therefore impossible that we should in
this matter grant to you the boon you seek; nevertheless, you
shall at all times find us, in other matters, willing to pleasure
you; and hereunto we call God, and Our Lady, and Saint Mary
Magdalene of Quatford, to witness; to whose keeping we heartily
recommend you.

"Written by our command, at our Castle of Garde Doloureuse, within
the Marches of Wales, by a reverend priest, Father Aldrovand, a
black monk of the house of Wenlock; and to which we have appended
our seal, upon the eve of the blessed martyr Saint Alphegius, to
whom be honour and glory!"

The voice of Father Einion faltered, and the scroll which he held
in his hand trembled in his grasp, as he arrived at the conclusion
of this epistle; for well he knew that insults more slight than
Gwenwyn would hold the least word it contained, were sure to put
every drop of his British blood into the most vehement commotion.
Nor did it fail to do so. The Prince had gradually drawn himself
up from the posture of repose in which he had prepared to listen
to the epistle; and when it concluded, he sprung on his feet like
a startled lion, spurning from him as he rose the foot-bearer, who
rolled at some distance on the floor. "Priest," he said, "hast
thou read that accursed scroll fairly? for if thou hast added, or
diminished, one word, or one letter, I will have thine eyes so
handled, that thou shalt never read letter more!"

The monk replied, trembling, (for he was well aware that the
sacerdotal character was not uniformly respected among the
irascible Welshmen,) "By the oath of my order, mighty prince, I
have read word for word, and letter for letter."

There was a momentary pause, while the fury of Gwenwyn, at this
unexpected affront, offered to him in the presence of all his
Uckelwyr, (_i.e._ noble chiefs, literally men of high
stature,) seemed too big for utterance, when the silence was
broken by a few notes from the hitherto mute harp of Cadwallon.
The Prince looked round at first with displeasure at the
interruption, for he was himself about to speak; but when he
beheld the bard bending over his harp with an air of inspiration,
and blending together, with unexampled skill, the wildest and most
exalted tones of his art, he himself became an auditor instead of
a speaker, and Cadwallon, not the Prince, seemed to become the
central point of the assembly, on whom all eyes were bent, and to
whom each ear was turned with breathless eagerness, as if his
strains were the responses of an oracle.

"We wed not with the stranger,"--thus burst the song from the lips
of the poet. "Vortigern wedded with the stranger; thence came the
first wo upon Britain, and a sword upon her nobles, and a
thunderbolt upon her palace. We wed not with the enslaved Saxon--
the free and princely stag seeks not for his bride the heifer
whose neck the yoke hath worn. We wed not with the rapacious
Norman--the noble hound scorns to seek a mate from the herd of
ravening wolves. When was it heard that the Cymry, the descendants
of Brute, the true children of the soil of fair Britain, were
plundered, oppressed, bereft of their birthright, and insulted
even in their last retreats?--when, but since they stretched their
hand in friendship to the stranger, and clasped to their bosoms
the daughter of the Saxon? Which of the two is feared?--the empty
water-course of summer, or the channel of the headlong winter
torrent?--A maiden smiles at the summer-shrunk brook while she
crosses it, but a barbed horse and his rider will fear to stem the
wintry flood. Men of Mathravel and Powys, be the dreaded flood of
winter--Gwenwyn, son of Cyverliock!--may thy plume be the topmost
of its waves!"

All thoughts of peace, thoughts which, in themselves, were foreign
to the hearts of the warlike British, passed before the song of
Cadwallon like dust before the whirlwind, and the unanimous shout
of the assembly declared for instant war. The Prince himself spoke
not, but, looking proudly around him, flung abroad his arm, as one
who cheers his followers to the attack.

The priest, had he dared, might have reminded Gwenwyn, that the
Cross which he had assumed on his shoulder, had consecrated his
arm to the Holy War, and precluded his engaging in any civil
strife. But the task was too dangerous for Father Einion's
courage, and he shrunk from the hall to the seclusion of his own
convent. Caradoc, whose brief hour of popularity was past, also
retired, with humbled and dejected looks, and not without a glance
of indignation at his triumphant rival, who had so judiciously
reserved his display of art for the theme of war, that was ever
most popular with the audience.

The chiefs resumed their seats no longer for the purpose of
festivity, but to fix, in the hasty manner customary among these
prompt warriors, where they were to assemble their forces, which,
upon such occasions, comprehended almost all the able-bodied males
of the country,--for all, excepting the priests and the bards,
were soldiers,--and to settle the order of their descent upon the
devoted marches, where they proposed to signalize, by general
ravage, their sense of the insult which their Prince had received,
by the rejection of his suit.




CHAPTER THE THIRD


  The sands are number'd, that make up my life;
  Here must I stay, and here my life must end.
     HENRY VI. ACT. I. SCENE IV.


When Raymond Berenger had despatched his mission to the Prince of
Powys, he was not unsuspicious, though altogether fearless, of the
result. He sent messengers to the several dependants who held
their fiefs by the tenure of _cornage_, and warned them to be
on the alert, that he might receive instant notice of the approach
of the enemy. These vassals, as is well known, occupied the
numerous towers, which, like so many falcon-nests, had been built
on the points most convenient to defend the frontiers, and were
bound to give signal of any incursion of the Welsh, by blowing
their horns; which sounds, answered from tower to tower, and from
station to station, gave the alarm for general defence. But
although Raymond considered these precautions as necessary, from
the fickle and precarious temper of his neighbours, and for
maintaining his own credit as a soldier, he was far from believing
the danger to be imminent; for the preparations of the Welsh;
though on a much more extensive scale than had lately been usual,
were as secret, as their resolution of war had been suddenly
adopted.

It was upon the second morning after the memorable festival of
Castell-Coch, that the tempest broke on the Norman frontier. At
first a single, long, and keen bugle-blast, announced the approach
of the enemy; presently the signals of alarm were echoed from
every castle and tower on the borders of Shropshire, where every
place of habitation was then a fortress. Beacons were lighted upon
crags and eminences, the bells were rung backward in the churches
and towns, while the general and earnest summons to arms announced
an extremity of danger which even the inhabitants of that
unsettled country had not hitherto experienced.

Amid this general alarm, Raymond Berenger, having busied himself
in arranging his few but gallant followers and adherents, and
taken such modes of procuring intelligence of the enemy's strength
and motions as were in his power, at length ascended the watch-
tower of the castle, to observe in person the country around,
already obscured in several places by the clouds of smoke, which
announced the progress and the ravages of the invaders. He was
speedily joined by his favourite squire, to whom the unusual
heaviness of his master's looks was cause of much surprise, for
till now they had ever been blithest at the hour of battle. The
squire held in his hand his master's helmet, for Sir Raymond was
all armed, saving the head.

"Dennis Morolt," said the veteran soldier, "are our vassals and
liegemen all mustered?"

"All, noble sir, but the Flemings, who are not yet come in."

"The lazy hounds, why tarry they?" said Raymond. "Ill policy it is
to plant such sluggish natures in our borders. They are like their
own steers, fitter to tug a plough than for aught that requires
mettle."

"With your favour," said Dennis, "the knaves can do good service
notwithstanding. That Wilkin Flammock of the Green can strike like
the hammers of his own fulling-mill."

"He will fight, I believe, when he cannot help it," said Raymond;
"but he has no stomach for such exercise, and is as slow and as
stubborn as a mule."

"And therefore are his countrymen rightly matched against the
Welsh," replied Dennis Morolt, "that their solid and unyielding
temper may be a fit foil to the fiery and headlong dispositions of
our dangerous neighbours, just as restless waves are best opposed
by steadfast rocks.--Hark, sir, I hear Wilkin Flammock's step
ascending the turret-stair, as deliberately as ever monk mounted
to matins."

Step by step the heavy sound approached, until the form of the
huge and substantial Fleming at length issued from the turret-door
to the platform where they "were conversing. Wilkin Flammock was
cased in bright armour, of unusual weight and thickness, and
cleaned with exceeding care, which marked the neatness of his
nation; but, contrary to the custom of the Normans, entirely
plain, and void of carving, gilding, or any sort of ornament. The
basenet, or steel-cap, had no visor, and left exposed a broad
countenance, with heavy and unpliable features, which announced
the character of his temper and understanding. He carried in his
hand a heavy mace.

"So, Sir Fleming," said the Castellane, "you are in no hurry,
methinks, to repair to the rendezvous."

"So please you," answered the Fleming, "we were compelled to
tarry, that we might load our wains with our bales of cloth and
other property."

"Ha! wains?--how many wains have you brought with you?"

"Six, noble sir," replied Wilkin.

"And how many men?" demanded Raymond Berenger.

"Twelve, valiant sir," answered Flammock.

"Only two men to each baggage-wain? I wonder you would thus
encumber yourself," said Berenger.

"Under your favour, sir, once more," replied Wilkin, "it is only
the value which I and my comrades set upon our goods, that
inclines us to defend them with our bodies; and, had we been
obliged to leave our cloth to the plundering clutches of yonder
vagabonds, I should have seen small policy in stopping here to
give them the opportunity of adding murder to robbery. Gloucester
should have been my first halting-place."

The Norman knight gazed on the Flemish artisan, for such was
Wilkin Flammock, with such a mixture of surprise and contempt, as
excluded indignation. "I have heard much," he said, "but this is
the first time that I have heard one with a beard on his lip
avouch himself a coward."

"Nor do you hear it now," answered Flammock, with the utmost
composure--"I am always ready to fight for life and property; and
my coming to this country, where they are both in constant danger,
shows that I care not much how often I do so. But a sound skin is
better than a slashed one, for all that."

"Well," said Raymond Berenger, "fight after thine own fashion, so
thou wilt but fight stoutly with that long body of thine. We are
like to have need for all that we can do.--Saw you aught of these
rascaille Welsh?--have they Gwenwyn's banner amongst them?"

"I saw it with the white dragon displayed," replied Wilkin; "I
could not but know it, since it was broidered in my own loom."

Raymond looked so grave upon this intelligence, that Dennis
Morolt, unwilling the Fleming should mark it, thought it necessary
to withdraw his attention. "I can tell thee," he said to
Flammock, "that when the Constable of Chester joins us with his
lances, you shall see your handiwork, the dragon, fly faster
homeward than ever flew the shuttle which wove it."

"It must fly before the Constable comes up, Dennis Morolt," said
Berenger, "else it will fly triumphant over all our bodies."

"In the name of God and the Holy Virgin!" said Dennis, "what may
you mean, Sir Knight?--not that we should fight with the Welsh
before the Constable joins us?"--He paused, and then, well
understanding the firm, yet melancholy glance, with which his
master answered the question, he proceeded, with yet more vehement
earnestness--"You cannot mean it--you cannot intend that we shall
quit this castle, which we have so often made good against them,
and contend in the field with two hundred men against thousands?--
Think better of it, my beloved master, and let not the rashness of
your old age blemish that character for wisdom and warlike skill,
which your former life has so nobly won."

"I am not angry with you for blaming my purpose, Dennis," answered
the Norman, "for I know you do it in love to me and mine. But,
Dennis Morolt, this thing must be--we must fight the Welshmen
within these three hours, or the name of Raymond Berenger must be
blotted from the genealogy of his house."

"And so we will--we will fight them, my noble master," said the
esquire; "fear not cold counsel from Dennis Morolt, where battle
is the theme. But we will fight them under the walls of the
castle, with honest Wilkin Flammock and his crossbows on the wall
to protect our flanks, and afford us some balance against the
numerous odds."

"Not so, Dennis," answered his master--"In the open field we must
fight them, or thy master must rank but as a mansworn knight.
Know, that when I feasted yonder wily savage in my halls at
Christmas, and when the wine was flowing fastest around, Gwenwyn
threw out some praises of the fastness and strength of my castle,
in a manner which intimated it was these advantages alone that had
secured me in former wars from defeat and captivity. I spoke in
answer, when I had far better been silent; for what availed my
idle boast, but as a fetter to bind me to a deed next to madness?
If, I said, a prince of the Cymry shall come in hostile fashion
before the Garde Doloureuse, let him pitch his standard down in
yonder plain by the bridge, and, by the word of a good knight, and
the faith of a Christian man, Raymond Berenger will meet him as
willingly, be he many or be he few, as ever Welshman was met
withal."

Dennis was struck speechless when he heard of a promise so rash,
so fatal; but his was not the casuistry which could release his
master from the fetters with which his unwary confidence had bound
him. It was otherwise with Wilkin Flammock. He stared--he almost
laughed, notwithstanding the reverence due to the Castellane, and
his own insensibility to risible emotions. "And is this all?" he
said. "If your honour had pledged yourself to pay one hundred
florins to a Jew or to a Lombard, no doubt you must have kept the
day, or forfeited your pledge; but surely one day is as good as
another to keep a promise for fighting, and that day is best in
which the promiser is strongest. But indeed, after all, what
signifies any promise over a wine flagon?"

"It signifies as much as a promise can do that is given elsewhere.
The promiser," said Berenger, "escapes not the sin of a word-
breaker, because he hath been a drunken braggart."

"For the sin," said Dennis, "sure I am, that rather than you
should do such a deed of dole, the Abbot of Glastonbury would
absolve you for a florin."

"But what shall wipe out the shame?" demanded Berenger--"how shall
I dare to show myself again among press of knights, who have
broken my word of battle pledged, for fear of a Welshman and his
naked savages? No! Dennis Morolt, speak on it no more. Be it for
weal or wo, we fight them to-day, and upon yonder fair field."

"It may be," said Flammock, "that Gwenwyn may have forgotten the
promise, and so fail to appear to claim it in the appointed space;
for, as we heard, your wines of France flooded his Welsh brains
deeply."

"He again alluded to it on the morning after it was made," said
the Castellane--"trust me, he will not forget what will give him
such a chance of removing me from his path for ever."

As he spoke, they observed that large clouds of dust, which had
been seen at different points of the landscape, were drawing down
towards the opposite side of the river, over which an ancient
bridge extended itself to the appointed place of combat. They were
at no loss to conjecture the cause. It was evident that Gwenwyn,
recalling the parties who had been engaged in partial devastation,
was bending with his whole forces towards the bridge and the plain
beyond it.

"Let us rush down and secure the pass," said Dennis Morolt; "we
may debate with them with some equality by the advantage of
defending the bridge. Your word bound you to the plain as to a
field of battle, but it did not oblige you to forego such
advantages as the passage of the bridge would afford. Our men, our
horses, are ready--let our bowmen secure the banks, and my life on
the issue."

"When I promised to meet him in yonder field, I meant," replied
Raymond Berenger, "to give the Welshman the full advantage of
equality of ground. I so meant it--he so understood it; and what
avails keeping my word in the letter, if I break it in the sense?
We move not till the last Welshman has crossed the bridge; and
then--"

"And then," said Dennis, "we move to our death!--May God forgive
our sins!--But--"

"But what?" said Berenger; "something sticks in thy mind that
should have vent."

"My young lady, your daughter the Lady Eveline--"

"I have told her what is to be. She shall remain in the castle,
where I will leave a few chosen veterans, with you, Dennis, to
command them. In twenty-four hours the siege will be relieved, and
we have defended it longer with a slighter garrison. Then to her
aunt, the Abbess of the Benedictine sisters--thou, Dennis, wilt
see her placed there in honour and safety, and my sister will care
for her future provision as her wisdom shall determine." "_I_
leave you at this pinch!" said Dennis Morolt, bursting into tears
--"_I_ shut myself up within walls, when my master rides to
his last of battles!--_I_ become esquire to a lady, even
though it be to the Lady Eveline, when he lies dead under his
shield!--Raymond Berenger, is it for this that I have buckled thy
armour so often?"

The tears gushed from the old warrior's eyes as fast as from those
of a girl who weeps for her lover; and Raymond, taking him kindly
by the hand, said, in a soothing tone, "Do not think, my good old
servant, that, were honour to be won, I would drive thee from my
side. But this is a wild and an inconsiderate deed, to which my
fate or my folly has bound me. I die to save my name from
dishonour; but, alas! I must leave on my memory the charge of
imprudence."

"Let me share your imprudence, my dearest master," said Dennis
Morolt, earnestly--"the poor esquire has no business to be thought
wiser than his master. In many a battle my valour derived some
little fame from partaking in thee deeds which won your renown--
deny me not the right to share in that blame which your temerity
may incur; let them not say, that so rash was his action, even his
old esquire was not permitted to partake in it! I am part of
yourself--it is murder to every man whom you take with you, if you
leave me behind."

"Dennis," said Berenger, "you make me feel yet more bitterly the
folly I have yielded to. I. would grant you the boon you ask, sad
as it is--But my daughter--"

"Sir Knight," said the Fleming, who had listened to this dialogue
with somewhat less than his usual apathy, "it is not my purpose
this day to leave this castle; now, if you could trust my troth to
do what a plain man may for the protection of my Lady Eveline--"

"How, sirrah!" said Raymond; "you do not propose to leave the
castle? Who gives you right to propose or dispose in the case,
until my pleasure is known?"

"I shall be sorry to have words with you, Sir Castellane," said
the imperturbable Fleming;--"but I hold here, in this township,
certain mills, tenements, cloth-yards, and so forth, for which I
am to pay man-service in defending this Castle of the Garde
Doloureuse, and in this I am ready. But if you call on me to march
from hence, leaving the same castle defenceless, and to offer up
my life in a battle which you acknowledge to be desperate, I must
needs say my tenure binds me not to obey thee."

"Base mechanic!" said Morolt, laying his hand on his dagger, and
menacing the Fleming.

But Raymond Berenger interfered with voice and hand--"Harm him
not, Morolt, and blame him not. He hath a sense of duty, though
not after our manner; and he and his knaves will fight best behind
stone walls. They are taught also, these Flemings, by the practice
of their own country, the attack and defence of walled cities and
fortresses, and are especially skilful in working of mangonels and
military engines. There are several of his countrymen in the
castle, besides his own followers. These I propose to leave
behind; and I think they will obey him more readily than any but
thyself--how think'st thou? Thou wouldst not, I know, from a
miscontrued point of honour, or a blind love to me, leave this
important place, and the safety of Eveline, in doubtful hands?"

"Wilkin Flammock is but a Flemish clown, noble sir," answered
Dennis, as much overjoyed as if he had obtained some important
advantage; "but I must needs say he is as stout and true as any
whom you might trust; and, besides, his own shrewdness will teach
him there is more to be gained by defending such a castle as this,
than by yielding it to strangers, who may not be likely to keep
the terms of surrender, however fairly they may offer them."

"It is fixed then," said Raymond Berenger. "Then, Dennis, thou
shalt go with me, and he shall remain behind.--Wilkin Flammock,"
he said, addressing the Fleming solemnly, "I speak not to thee the
language of chivalry, of which thou knowest nothing; but, as thou
art an honest man, and a true Christian, I conjure thee to stand
to the defence of this castle. Let no promise of the enemy draw
thee to any base composition--no threat to any surrender. Relief
must speedily arrive, if you fulfil your trust to me and to my
daughter, Hugo de Lacy will reward you richly--if you fail, he
will punish you severely."

"Sir Knight," said Flammock, "I am pleased you have put your trust
so far in a plain handicraftsman. For the Welsh, I am come from a
land for which we were compelled--yearly compelled--to struggle
with the sea; and they who can deal with the waves in a tempest,
need not fear an undisciplined people in their fury. Your daughter
shall be as dear to me as mine own; and in that faith you may
prick forth--if, indeed, you will not still, like a wiser man,
shut gate, down portcullis, up drawbridge, and let your archers
and my crossbows man the wall, and tell the knaves you are not the
fool that they take you for."

"Good fellow, that must not be," said the Knight. "I hear my
daughter's voice," he added hastily; "I would not again meet her,
again to part from her. To Heaven's keeping I commit thee, honest
Fleming.--Follow me, Dennis Morolt."

The old Castellane descended the stair of the southern tower
hastily, just as his daughter Eveline ascended that of the eastern
turret, to throw herself at his feet once more. She was followed
by the Father Aldrovand, chaplain of her father; by an old and
almost invalid huntsman, whose more active services in the field
and the chase had been for some time chiefly limited to the
superintendence of the Knight's kennels, and the charge especially
of his more favourite hounds; and by Rose Flammock, the daughter
of Wilkin, a blue-eyed Flemish maiden, round, plump, and shy as a
partridge, who had been for some time permitted to keep company
with the high-born Norman damsel, in a doubtful station, betwixt
that of an humble friend and a superior domestic. Eveline rushed
upon the battlements, her hair dishevelled, and her eyes drowned
in tears, and eagerly demanded of the Fleming where her father
was.

Flammock made a clumsy reverence, and attempted some answer; but
his voice seemed to fail him. He turned his back upon Eveline
without ceremony, and totally disregarding the anxious inquiries
of the huntsman and the chaplain, he said hastily to his daughter,
in his own language, "Mad work! mad work! look to the poor maiden,
Roschen--_Der alter Herr ist verruckt_." [Footnote: The old
lord is frantic.]

Without farther speech he descended the stairs, and never paused
till he reached the buttery. Here he called like a lion for the
controller of these regions, by the various names of Kammerer,
Keller-master, and so forth, to which the old Reinold, an ancient
Norman esquire, answered not, until the Netherlander fortunately
recollected his Anglo-Norman title of butler. This, his regular
name of office, was the key to the buttery-hatch, and the old man
instantly appeared, with his gray cassock and high rolled hose, a
ponderous bunch of keys suspended by a silver chain to his broad
leathern girdle, which, in consideration of the emergency of the
time, he had thought it right to balance on the left side with a
huge falchion, which seemed much too weighty for his old arm to
wield.

"What is your will," he said, "Master Flammock? or what are your
commands, since it is my lord's pleasure that they shall be laws
to me for a time?"

"Only a cup of wine, good Meister Keller-master--butler, I mean."

"I am glad you remember the name of mine office," said Reinold,
with some of the petty resentment of a spoiled domestic, who
thinks that a stranger has been irregularly put in command over
him.

"A flagon of Rhenish, if you love me," answered the Fleming, "for
my heart is low and poor within me, and I must needs drink of the
best."

"And drink you shall," said Reinold, "if drink will give you the
courage which perhaps you want."--He descended to the secret
crypts, of which he was the guardian, and returned with a silver
flagon, which might contain about a quart.--"Here is such wine,"
said Reinold, "as thou hast seldom tasted," and was about to pour
it out into a cup.

"Nay, the flagon--the flagon, friend Reinold; I love a deep and
solemn draught when the business is weighty," said Wilkin. He
seized on the flagon accordingly, and drinking a preparatory
mouthful, paused as if to estimate the strength and flavour of the
generous liquor. Apparently he was pleased with both, for he
nodded in approbation to the butler; and, raising the flagon to
his mouth once more, he slowly and gradually brought the bottom of
the vessel parallel with the roof of the apartment, without
suffering one drop of the contents to escape him.

"That hath savour, Herr Keller-master," said he, while he was
recovering his breath by intervals, after so long a suspense of
respiration; "but, may Heaven forgive you for thinking it the best
I have ever tasted! You little know the cellars of Ghent and of
Ypres."