CHAPTER IV.
The Evening Meal at the Castle—The Minstrel and the Tourney of Noyon—Master Haggerstone Fenwick the Ancient.
Sir Patrick Hepborne was roused from the astonishment the sudden disappearance of the lady had thrown him into, by the voice of the Squire Usher, who now came to receive them.
“This way, Sirs Knights,” cried he, showing them forwards, and up a staircase that led them at once into a large vaulted hall, lighted by three brazen lamps, hanging by massive chains from the dark wainscot roof, and heated by one great projecting chimney. A long oaken table, covered with pewter and wooden [[40]]trenchers, with innumerable flagons and drinking vessels of the same materials, occupied the centre of the floor. About a third of its length, at the upper end, was covered with a piece of tapestry or carpet, and there the utensils were of silver. The upper portion of the table had massive high-backed carved chairs set around it, and these were furnished with cushions of red cloth, whilst long benches were set against it in other parts. The rest of the moveables in the hall consisted of various kinds of arms, such as helmets, burgonets, and bacinets—breastplates and back-pieces—pouldrons, vambraces, cuisses, and greaves—gauntlets, iron shoes, and spurs—cross-bows and long-bows, hanging in irregular profusion on the walls; whilst spears, pikes, battle-axes, truncheons, and maces, rested everywhere in numbers against them. The floor was strewed with clean rushes; and a dozen or twenty people, some of whom were warlike, and some clerical in their garb, were divided into conversational groups of two or three together.
Sir Walter de Selby, an elderly man, with a rosy countenance, and a person rather approaching to corpulency, clad in a vest and cloak of scarlet cloth, sat in tête-à-tête with a sedate and dignified person, whose dress at once declared him to be of the religious profession and episcopal rank.
“Welcome, brave knights,” said Sir Walter, rising to meet them as the Squire Usher announced them; “welcome, brave knights. But by St. George,” added he, with a jocular air, as he shook each of them cordially by the hand, “I should have weened that ye looked not to be welcomed here, seeing ye could prefer bestowing yourselves in the paltry hostelry of the village, rather than demanding from old Sir Walter de Selby that hospitality never refused by him to knights of good fame, such as thine. But ye do see I can welcome, ay, and welcome heartily too. My Lord Bishop of Durham, this is Sir Patrick Hepborne, and this, Sir John Assueton, Scottish knights of no mean degree or renown.” Sir Walter then made them acquainted with the chief personages of the company, some of whom were knights, and some churchmen of high rank.
After the usual compliments had passed, the Scottish knights were shown to apartments, where they unarmed, and were supplied with fitting robes and vestments. Sir Patrick Hepborne was happy in the expectation of being speedily introduced to the Lady Eleanore; but, on returning to the hall, he found that she had not yet appeared, and he was mortified to hear Sir Walter de Selby give immediate orders for the banquet.
“These gallant knights,” said he, “would, if I mistake not, [[41]]rather eat than talk, after a long day’s fast. We shall have enow of converse anon. Bring in—bring in, I say.” And, seating himself at the head of the table, he placed the Lord Bishop on his right hand, and the two stranger knights on his left, while the other personages took their places of themselves, according to their acknowledged rank. Immediately after them came a crowd of guests of lesser note, who filled up the table to the farther extremity.
The entertainment consisted of enormous joints of meat, and trenchers full of game and poultry, borne in by numerous lacqueys, who panted under the loads they carried; and the dishes were arranged by the sewer, whose office it was to do so.
When the solid part of the feast had been discussed, and the mutilated fragments removed, Sir Walter called for a mazer of Malvoisie. The wine was brought him in a silver cup of no despicable manufacture, and he drank a health to the stranger knights; which was passed round successively to the Bishop and others, who sat at the upper end, and echoed from the lower part of the table by those who drank it in deep draughts of ale. Numerous pledges succeeded, with hearty carouse.
“Sir Walter,” said Hepborne, taking advantage of a pause in the conversation, “the fame of thy peerless daughter, the Lady Eleanore de Selby, hath reached our ears: Shall our eyes not be blessed with the sight of so much beauty? May we not look to see thy board graced with her presence ere the night passeth away?”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” replied Sir Walter, his countenance undergoing a remarkable change from gay to grave, “my daughter appeareth not to-night. But why is not the minstrel here?” exclaimed he aloud, as if wishing to get rid of Hepborne’s farther questioning; “why is not Adam of Gordon introduced? Let him come in; I love the old man’s music too well to leave him neglected. Yea, and of a truth, he doth to-night merit a double share of our regard, seeing that it is to him we do owe the honour of these distinguished Scottish guests. A chair for the minstrel, I say.”
A chair was accordingly set in a conspicuous place near the end of the hall. Adam entered, with his harp hanging on his arm, and, making an obeisance to the company, advanced towards the top of the table.
“Ay, ay, come away, old man; no music without wine; generous wine will breed new inspiration in thee: Here, drink,” said Sir Walter, presenting him with the mantling cup.
The minstrel bowed, and, drinking health to the good company, [[42]]he quaffed it off. His tardy blood seemed quickened by the draught; he hastened to seat himself in the place appointed for him; and, striking two or three chords to ascertain the state of his instrument, he proceeded to play several airs of a martial character.
“Come, come, good Adam, that is very well,” said Sir Walter, as the harper paused to rest his fingers awhile—“so far thou hast done well; but my good wine must not ooze out at the points of thy fingers with unmeaning sounds. Come, we must have it mount to thy brain, and fill thee with inspiration. Allons! Come, drink again, and let the contents of this cup evaporate from thee in verse. Here, bear this brimming goblet to him: And then, dost thou hear, some tale of hardy dints of arms; ’tis that we look for. Nay, fear not for my Lord Bishop; I wot he hath worn the cuirass ere now.”
“Thou sayest truly, Sir Walter,” said the Bishop, rearing himself up to his full height, as if gratified by the remark; “on these our Eastern Marches there are few who have not tasted of war, however peaceful may have been their profession; and I cannot say but I have done my part, thanks be to Him who hath given me strength and courage.”
Adam quaffed off the contents of the cup that had been given him, and, seizing his harp again, he flourished a prelude, during which he kept his eyes thrown upwards, as if wrapt in consideration of his subject, and then dashed the chords from his fingers in a powerful accompaniment to the following verses:—